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gathered round, and with tears and glad gesticulations the mother told the tale, and pointed to the preserver of her child. She took Harty by the hand; she led him to her hut, and placed before him cakes and fruits. She spread a manycoloured rug, and signed that he should sit down and eat, planting herself as a guard before the entrance. But soon came a noisy detachment, headed by the other woman, widow also of a savage who had been slain. They demanded that the white captive should be given up to vengeance. This the mother refused, with angry cries and loud protestations. She fenced him round with

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her arms; she threatened with her wrath any attempt to touch her benefactor. As loudly, and with redoubled fury, the other claimed the victim. Now came the chief upon the scene. To him the mother of the babe appealed. She laid her child at his feet. She called upon him to protect her-the mother of the only infant of the tribe, whose life the white captive had saved. She pointed to the crushed snake; she depicted Harty's courageous rescue. She claimed his life, as a return for the life he had saved. She was forcible, urgent, pathetic. She knelt to the chief, and as she clasped his hands her child smiled up in the dusky warrior's face. He yielded-he bade her

take the white-faced captive to her own tent. Rejoicing, she obeyed. Harty's life was saved once more!

The vengeful fury, who saw herself thus baffled, gave vent to her rage in loud cries and shrieks of impotent wrath. She was carried away struggling, kicking, and fighting, to resume in solitude, let us hope, a spirit more befitting the funereal rites of her deceased savage lord.

As for the poor grateful mother, her joy knew no bounds. She carried off her young benefactor to her own hut, or wigwam, again, where he found appetite now to eat some of the singular food she set before him.

She tended on him; brought fresh water, and bathed his feet and hands, which were a good deal torn with the rough haste made in the journey of the day before.

His clothes were wetted through, and ragged. Before evening the grateful savage had woven a dress, like her own, of the softest reeds and palm-leaves, light as muslin, yet warm as thinnest flannel; more pleasant to wear, as Harty found, than his own coarse, dirty canvas suit had been. When he lay down to sleep at night, the eyes of the poor gentle native were watching him; when he awoke she was already afoot, preparing a meal for him. No mother of civilized life could have been more watchful and tender of his comfort than was this grateful islander. The child, too, as though conscious what Harty had done, clung to him, and became a most loving playmate. A hundred small devices Harty found to entertain the little fellow; and, as in their case, the want of language was no drawback, they got on famously. Soon the boy would not leave Harty's side. They slept together, and together rambled in the forest or basked in the sunshine, on the soft

grass of the settlement. Yokulmah-this was the name of the mother-taught the white boy to weave the bright mats and baskets, such as the tribe excel in making. He found they led a very simple, quiet life. They were not the wild, aggressive race that are often found on some shores. Their attack upon the sailors of the trading-vessel had been the result of a cruel onslaught made, not long before, by the crew of a Spanish vessel, and the Englishmen had been taken by the natives for their old enemy.

By the rules of their nation, Yokulmah, having lost her husband in warfare, was entitled to support from the rest; therefore a share of everything taken in the chase was always brought to her. There were fruits in the forest, and fish often from the beach. So they lived in plenty, and had the free air and the brilliant sunshine for their pleasures. A smaller hut had been made, by the side of his friend's, for Harty. Here his dusky playmate was most frequently to be found. At times Harty would carry the little fellow on his back, and they would all ramble away down to the sea-beach, where the boy would vainly strain his eyes in the hope of catching sight of some vessel which might chance, as his had done, to send a boat to the island. It was his only hope of escape!

After awhile the savage woman seemed to read his thoughts. She looked at him earnestly, and by signs made him understand that he must not leave them. The baby boy had grown so fond of him, Harty feared that she would prevent his leaving the island, even did a chance occur. Yet it was dreadful to think of being doomed to pass all the remainder of his life with savages, let them be kind as they might.

CHAPTER XIX.

DELIVERANCE.

As the days passed on, and no boat touched at the island, no ship appeared in sight, Harty lost hope. He began to think he was indeed doomed to end his days on the island. He remembered to have read of boys who had been left, as he was, and who had grown up to be men, and had forgotten their own language, and become almost like the savages with whom they had associated. Thoughts like these, recollections of his dear, lost home, would sometimes quite overwhelm the boy; and he would cast himself on the ground in his hut, when no one was by, and give way to grief. When Yokulmah found him thus, she would kneel beside him, and smooth his hair with her hands, and stroke his cheeks, making a plaintive, soothing sound, as she used to her baby. The little fellow, too, would lie down beside his white friend, and put his small, brown arms about his neck; and by a hundred tender endearments say as plain as words could have done, "Don't fret about other friends, you have us to love you!"

It was very touching to see the affection borne by these poor savages to the English boy. And with all his natural regrets, Harty could not be always grieving. There

were times when the influence of the glorious sunshine, and the balmy sea breeze, and the merry chatter of the natives (even though he knew not what they said), had such an effect on the boy, that he almost forgot his forlorn state, and would enter into the enjoyment of the things that surrounded him. He found out numberless things to amuse his little playfellow, and the poor mother too, who was little better than a child.

Some of the tribe had brought some bright, manycoloured feathers, of birds they had killed; these Harty stuck in a morsel of cork he found near the spring, and so constructed a shuttlecock. At first his shoe served him for a battledore; and the boy-savage laughed, and clapped his hand, and jumped for very joy, when he saw how Harty sent the feathered cork flying, and kept it up bounding, rebounding, twisting, and flashing in the sun.

Soon the bigger natives gathered round, to wonder and applaud; and ere long, a genuine battledore had been manufactured, from a piece of skin stretched across a sort of ladle, which was composed of half a small cocoa-nut shell, fixed firmly to a handle of peeled wood, hard and firm, and round as a polished cane. This sent the shuttlecock flying, with a bang and a musical twang; which was the signal for roars of laughter, in which even the grave voice of the chief was heard to join; though that of the baby-boy and his mother were loudest.

Surely it was a curious sight! this fair English boy, in his strange dress of palm leaves, making fun for a wild tribe of savages; far away from his own kith and kin, far from all the delights of civilization; around him the rude huts of native build, the grand trees of the forest, with the

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