The Cassowary; What Chanced in the Cleft MountainsWaterloo, Stanley
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The Cassowary; What Chanced in the Cleft Mountains
Waterloo, Stanley
Love stories; Railroad travel -- Fiction; Storytelling -- Fiction
The plan of our shelter had already been designed by me, and we lost no
time in trivial debating over details, Chickum submitting without
question to each suggestion of the stronger mind. Under my direction we
cut down eight small willows as straight as we could find, and cut from
each a length of nearly six feet, four of which we sharpened at one end.
These, one of us standing upon a dead uprooted stump which we rolled
about, we drove into the earth at distances of six feet apart, the
stakes, rising some five feet, forming the four corners of a square. The
remaining four poles we tied firmly so that they extended from the top
of one stake to another, and upon the frame so constructed we stretched
one of the sheets, cutting holes close to the hems and through them
tying the sheet to the cross-pieces. Our dwelling was now roofed. The
four remaining sheets, similarly tied, made the four sides of the
structure, one being left partly unattached so that it might be lifted,
thus serving for a door. Upon the grassy floor of the house one of the
quilts was spread, and there was our Tented Home! Chickum was wild with
delight and capered about hilariously, but I reminded him that the time
for an exhibition of such exuberance of spirit had not arrived. Much yet
remained to be accomplished. Days passed before all our stores were,
with exercise of the greatest caution, safely bestowed within the tent.
It was six o'clock one pleasant evening, when we had just finished
dinner, that our parents again absented themselves to make a call upon a
neighbor. Our time had come. Quietly all of us, including Abyssinia and
the twins, slipped down through the kitchen garden, across the creek,
across a part of the Wooded Pasture and into the Willow Grove. There was
what I may call a certain tremulousness, but no faltering. We reached
our place of refuge. "Welcome to this sylvan grove!" shouted
Chickum--quoting, I firmly believe, something he had read in a story,
for Chickum's ordinary mode of expression was not such as I could in
many respects desire--and all entered the tent and made themselves at
home. Here were peace and happiness at last! We chatted and planned
until darkness fell, and then, digging a hole with my knife into a
potato, I inserted one of the candles we had brought and found the place
illuminated finely. But we did not remain long awake. It had been a
season of labor and excitement, and a sense of drowsiness soon overcame
us all.
* * * * *
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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