Little Jessie Mitteer and the Bear-Trap

      “Be sure and start for home early; you know I don't like to have Jessie out after dark, when there are so many wild animals about.  You remember it was only a night or so ago that we heard the wolves howl dreadfully over by the creek; and I heard to-day they killed some sheep of Job Jansen's.”
      Such was the parting injunction of  Mrs. Samuel Mitteer, as her husband and little daughter Jessie set out one afternoon on an errand to the house of a neighbor some three miles distant.  The husband bade her not to disturb herself on that account, assuring her that he would be home before nightfall; and the little girl, first kissing her mamma good-bye, took her father's hand and departed in high spirits.
     They reached their destination, but were obliged to wait a short time for the neighbor to return.  The business being arranged, the men engaged in a friendly chat, and the moments flew by unheeded.  The sun had already disappeared behind the wall of forest to the west when Samuel bethought himself of his promise to his wife.  Still, he did not dream of any more serious result than a little anxiety on the part of the good woman; and taking his daughter by the hand, set out on their homeward journey as fast as her little feet could carry her.
      Her merry voice rang through the woods, now growing dim and solemn with the gathering darkness; and they had already passed the Hemlock wamp, and were more than half way home, when their ears were greeted with a sound that made the father involuntarily clutch the arm of his little companion with an energy that could not fail to alarm her.  Again the sound came through the darkening forest aisles and echoed from hill to hill, and at last died away to a whisper.
     “What is it, Papa?” exclaimed the child, whose quick glance noted the strange demeanor of her father; “is it anything that will hurt us?  I do wish I was with Mamma!”  Without deigning a reply, Samuel caught the child in his arms, and ran in the direction of home with all his might.
     Reader, did you ever hear the howl of a wolf in the woods of a still night-when some old forester opens his jaws and sends forth a volume of sound so deep, so prolonged, so changeful, that, as it rolls through the forest and comes back in quavering echoes from the mountains, you are ready to declare that his single voice is an agglomerate of a dozen all blended into one?  Then as you wait for the sound to die away, perhaps, across the valley, another will open his mouth and answer with a howl as deep, and wild, and variable as the first; then a third and a fourth will join in the chorus until the woods will be full of howling and noise?  If you have heard this weird music of the forest, far from home, without means of protection, and with helpless beings in your charge, then you may realize the feelings of Samuel Mitteer as he fled along the path with the speed of a deer.
      Mr. Mitteer hoped he might reach home before the first wolf had time to call the others to its assistance, as he understood their habits sufficiently to know these animals seldom attack singly. He was within a mile of his house, and less than half that distance from the clearing.  So great was the effort he was making in his flight, encumbered by the weight of the child, that he began to show signs of exhaustion; he feared lest his strength should fail entirely before he reached a place of safety.
      To add to his terror he knew by the well-known sounds that the pack had collected, and that the hungry brutes were upon his track.  The disclosure added new energy to his frame.  He was a powerfully built man, and rock and tree flew by as he sped on in his flight. Yet his were the efforts of sheer despair, as he heard the din of snarling beasts, and knew they were rapidly gaining in the race.
       He thought of home; he wondered if his friends heard the howling of the pack, and knew that he was making a race for life.  He imagined what would be their feelings when they should find his fleshless bones in the woods next day; and even calmly conjectured as to what would be the sensation of being torn limb from limb by the fierce brutes.
     Nearer, ever nearer, came the howling and snarling of the pack.  He realized that his moments were numbered if he depended on the speed of his flight alone.  By abandoning his child be knew he could climb a tree beyond the reach of his pursuers; but he could not do so with her on his shoulders.  Rather than Leave her to her fate he would die with her-the little one whose arms were then encircling his neck, and whose breath came thick and fast against his cheek.  Ah, that death shriek, when at last her form would be crushed in the jaws of the bloodthirsty brutes--would it strike him dead?


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
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