The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1892-01-13
The Lost Boy.
BY LAURA BRIGHAM BoYCB.

bh LAURA bhiohAh oOiSh'
1t was cold winter evening, and old
Boreas whistled and whirled the snow
spitefully about the windows and doors
ard banged the loose shutters in a
savage way, as if angry that the group
of laughing boys and girls about the
blazing hearthstone should bid defiance
to his power. Father was reading and
nodding in his big armchair, in the
warmest corner of our snug nook
Mother was busy with the inevitable
knitting, while Uncle Paul leaned his
chin on his staff, and watched the
pranks of his grand-nephews and neces,
who clustered about his chair, with an
amused smile or quiet chuckle.
"Uncle Paul" was our mothers
uncle, and an old, old man. AS long
ago as l can remember, his face was
scanned and wrinkled from brow to
chin, his scanty locks were white as
snow, and he walked feebly by the aid
of two canes. He used to pay long
visits to our home, where he was re-
ceived with great cordially, for he loved
every chick and child of us, and we
knew it, aud he never tired of our
pranks or refused us the story we
clamored for, so it was little wonder
that we welcomed his frequent visits
with youthful enthusiasm.
The red.cheeked apples had nearly
disappeared from the dish, the butter
nuts had been cracked and eaten
"with sprinkling of salt, to aid diges-
tion," as our mother told us-and now
we were ready for some new diversion.
"Tell US a story, Uncle Paul." was
the universal entreaty.
"About the Indians going about and
soaring folks and scalping of 'em,"
added Joe.
"About Indians scalping folks and
burning their houses,' echoed Ned,
who was next in age to Joe, and had
gained the soubriquet of "Joe's sup
plement," as he always followed his
elder brothers lead and echoed his ser
timents.
After this we all agreed that an
Indian story would suit us best.
81 don't know" said Uncle Paul,
meditatively; sit seems to me l have
told you all the Indian stories | ever
knew. l might tell you how they burned
Royaltop, though"
Mother looked up from her knitting,
"Did you ever tell them about your
lost brother, Uncle?" she queried.
s. don't remember that | ever did:
may be you would like to hear about
that, though there was no scalping done
or house-burning that time" said Uncle,
looking at Joe and Ned meaningly.
go, we just want to hear about the
lost boy, and am delighted that there's
to be no scalping done," said Sarah,
who, be it known, was not so fond of
hair-raising stories as her brothers.
1t all happened great many years
ago, when l was baby" he began,
land we all thought it must indeed
have been very long time ago, for it
hardly seemed to us that dear old
wrinkled Uncle Paul had ever been a
baby. My father was a young man
when he emigrated to Vermont, and
he made little clearing in the forest
and built log cabin, to which he
carried my mother on their marriage.
There they lived happily until four
children were born to them. | had
one brother and two sisters older than
myself By this time the little opening
in the wood had increased to many
acres, and other settlers had come in
around them until there were many
other clearings within the radius of
FIVE miles, though the nearest neighbor
was mile from my fathers house.
One spring, when my brother Thomas
was six or seven years old, father was
at work in the sugar camp, boiling sap
for maple sugar. There had been
sharp freeze, followed by warm and
sunny days, and the maple sap flowed
abundantly, and father was very much
hurried TO boil it in fast enough to save
it. Being too busy TO come to the
cabin for his dinner, Mother packed 1t
carefully in a basket and sent little
Thomas to the sugar camp with it.
Some time passed and he did not re-
turn, but this gave my mother no un-
easiness for he knew the way perfectly,
and she supposed that Father had kept
him to watch the kettle, while he gath.
cred in the sap. She was so busy with
the flax wheel, spinning the linen
which was to furnish her little family