een
that he had not seen a thousand times before. In a little while the
noise shaped itself into something almost like a voice, which seemed to
come directly up from the moccasins, saying:

"Are we not beautiful things for the feet, Sprigg? Oh, but we are! You
can't deny it! On with us, and away to grandpap's house!"

With startled eyes the boy looked all around him--not a living thing was
to be seen in the room. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The Indian
boy on the show bill was the nearest approach to a shape of life that
met his gaze. He clapped his hands to his ears to make sure they had not
played him a trick. His ears were all right; so was his coonskin cap,
the rim before, the tail behind. What seemed a voice began again, and,
for the life of him, Sprigg could not determine whether it came from the
moccasins or from his own heart.

"Who plies her loom, with shuttle and beam, and sings at her work with
so blithe a heart? Elster Whitney. And her shuttle shall fly, and her
beam shall bang, from hour to hour, till the day is well nigh done. Who
roams the forest, with dog and gun, and follows the chase with heart so
bold? Jervis Whitney. And his dog shall bound, and his gun shall bang,
from hour to hour, till the day is well nigh done. So, Sprigg, the day
is clear, and you have the half of a long, bright, summer day before
you. Make the most of it! There, near the fort, where grandpap lives,
lives young Ben Logan. Ben, when he sees you coming, all by your own
lone self, will shout: 'Hurrah! hurrah! what a brave boy is Sprigg!'
Yet, let him admire your bravery ever so much, he will be ready to die
of very envy, because of your beautiful moccasins. And there is little
Bertha Bryant, too, at the fort; blue-eyed little Bertha, laughing
little Bertha, dancing little Bertha! And Bertha will admire your
bravery even more than Ben, and love you to very distraction, because of
your beautiful moccasins. On with us, then, and away to grandpap's
house. We know the road; we can take you there safely enough. Let us
alone for that! and Sprigg is a brave boy! Who said our Sprigg was not a
brave boy? He-he-he!"

Sprigg thought he heard a low laugh; the queerest little laugh he had
ever heard. A laugh he did not exactly fancy, because it made the chills
come creeping up his back and set his flesh to creeping, and caused the
most peculiar sensations about the roots of the hair you can well
imagine. So, to keep up his spirits, h