Children of the lighthouse — A Reader’s Guide

d on the wall a tattered Mexican flag with its warlike eagle grasping a rattlesnake and standing on a cactus plant. “_Viva México!_” (Hurrah for Mexico!) Stumpy used to cry as he saluted it in the morning, and the children had learned to salute it, too, the moment they crossed the threshold.

The room had been partitioned off from the storehouse where the oil for the Light was kept and had only a rough floor and whitewashed walls, but Stumpy kept it beautifully clean, and on his small stove he cooked wonderful red beans in Mexican style and made chocolate for the children with foam on the cups an inch high.

His was a lonely life on the edge of the restless ocean, guarding the stores for the Lighthouse, and he was as glad to have a visit from Ronald and Lesley as they were glad to come. They were still admiring his treasures when clatter, clatter, went Jenny Lind’s hoofs again, and away rolled the car with its barrels of oil for the Light.

Another moment, and “_Viva México!_” sounded in the doorway and Stumpy appeared with an armful of driftwood for the evening fire.

“Stump-ery, bump-ery, Give him a thump-ery!”

shouted Ronald, running to meet him.

“I’m not going to thump him, I’m going to hug him,” cried Lesley and she did it, to the old sailor’s great delight.

“Now a story, Stumpy, a story!” cried both children, together, and Ronald added quickly, “The ‘White Slipper.’”

“‘White Slipper’? No, that too long. Your father say come home one hour. Mother have dinner ready.”

“Oh! oh!” with dismal groans. “We thought _you’d_ ask us to dinner.”

“I would ask, sure I would, but your father boss, you know. He my boss, your boss--Good sailor mind his boss, you bet.”

“Well, then, what _will_ you tell us?” asked Ronald, climbing on his knee. “I haven’t hardly heard a story since I lived in this country.”

Stumpy looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “Since you lived in this country, hey? But that not very long, you know. Well, I tell you a sea-story, one I know, me, one I see myself--one about a cat.”

“A cat!” exclaimed Lesley. “I thought they didn’t like water!”

“It is true,” said Stumpy; “if they did, there would be no story.”

“Tell-ery, tell-ery, Stump-ery, tell-ery!”

cried Ronald, impatiently.

“Well, it must be twenty year ago,” said Stumpy, reflectively, “I ship on cargo steamer to Scotland, your father’s and mother’s country, you hear them tell.”

“‘Bonnie Scotland!’ we know,” said Lesley, drawing nearer.

“We have good voyage Scotland, nothing much happen, all same every day. We land cargo place called Newhaven, all right, get new cargo take back--you not care about that--and when everything ready for leave, Captain say we go ashore, have good time. Some men they stay on board keep watch, but ten go ashore, and messroom boy--he funny fellow, I think he not right in head” (tapping his forehead)--“he say he take ship’s cat, give her good time, too; maybe catch Scotch mouse.

“We all laugh at him. I tell you he funny fellow, and we go uptown and leave him on beach with cat. Some men go get good dinner; some men get drunk, like always; I find other sailor like me, been all over world and we ‘swap yarn,’ you know.”

“We know,” nodding heads wisely, for old sailors often came to the island.

“We have orders get back twelve o’clock night,” continued Stumpy; “we know, anyway, got do that, and we all start along ’bout eleven, pretty dark, big wind, storm coming all right.

“We get to beach--some, they smoke, some whistle, some walk pretty crooked, and Johnny, that’s what mess-boy call himself, sing out to us, ‘Come on, boys, big storm ahead, cat get wet.’

“We all laugh some more and make fun, but we don’t see anything till we get to boat and there be Johnny with the cat--she was white one, thanks to God!”

“Why do you thank God because she was white?” asked Ronnie, curiously.

“Wait a moment, little son, and you will know,” answered Stumpy gravely. “We all get in boat, push off, and begin to row hard as we can, but the farther we get from land the blacker get the dark and the big wave come splash, crash, lift us ’way up, sink us ’way down, keep us tossing like ball in air. Every man do his best; I pray to saints, but no can see ship’s lights, no can see other men’s face, not know where we go. Of a sudden, maybe pretty near ship--we can’t tell--come wave like big mountain, knock every man flat, turn boat over, upside down, no light, no help anywhere.”

“Oh, poor Stumpy,” sighed Lesley, patting his sleeve, “how dreadful!”

“Every man start to swim best he know how, but where he swim when he see nothing? We half-dead already when we hear that Johnny sing out, ‘Look at cat! Look at cat! See where she go!’ Thanks to blessed saints, who let a little light down ’bout then, we could just see white spot on top of wave and follow it. Cat see in dark, you know, children, and she not like water, want to get out soon as she can.

“In one moment, we see lights, we see ship, we shout and shout, and men come help us aboard, wet like sponge, cold as ice, and frightened ’way to inside of bones.”

“Were all the men saved?” quavered Lesley, round-eyed with excitement.

“Alas, no! little daughter; two of them never seen again!”

A sigh and a little silence followed, and then Lesley’s voice was heard again, “And the cat?”

“Ah, the cat, thanks to God, that Johnny grab her just as he get to ship’s side and carry her up ladder. She ’most as good as Captain all way back to California, best food, warmest place sleep, every man take off cap to her when he meet, say, ‘Good-day to you, Lady Cat!’”

“Good-day, Lady Cat!” mimicked Lesley, laughingly, bowing to an imaginary pussy on the rug. “I wish you a pleasant morning and a fat rat for your dinner!”

“Dinner! Dinner!” cried Stumpy, jumping up from his comfortable chair.

“What your father say, children? Run quick, like rabbits! Go short way up steps! Run quick!”

THE LIGHT AND THE LIGHTHOUSE

To reach the Lighthouse from Stumpy’s dwelling, you might either follow Jenny Lind’s car-track a long way around, or scramble up a rocky path, broken here and there by a flight of whitewashed steps, till you arrived at the top of the mighty heap of rocks that formed the island. Should a high wind be blowing, you crushed your hat far down on your head, gripped the handrail hard when you reached the steps, and often sat down flat until some sudden gust had passed by. As this was Margaret McLean’s only fashionable promenade, you can imagine that she seldom ventured on it, preferring to stroll about the patch of green in front of the Lighthouse, or to walk up and down between the scanty rows of vegetables behind. She and her husband, however, were well accustomed to seeing the children scramble over the rocks like their own goats and were never anxious about Ronald, if Lesley were with him, for alone he was apt to venture too far and attempt heights which he might reach, but never be able to descend.

He had been only a tiny tot of two or three years, running about the kitchen, when, sitting on the floor in front of the sink one day, he had amused himself by slipping the various cooking-pots over his head and laughing out at Lesley with a “Peep bo!” from beneath them. His mother, hearing the clatter, was hurrying from another room to inquire into its cause when a series of loud cries and calls for help were heard. She found the baby completely extinguished by a large kettle which Lesley was trying to pull off his head, while the more he struggled and screamed, the tighter grew the kettle.

Mrs. McLean pulled, Lesley pulled, Ronnie beat his hands and kicked and roared until the mother was thoroughly frightened. “Get your father, quick!” she cried to Lesley, and the child climbed, panting, to the tower where Malcolm was trimming the Light. She was too breathless to speak when she reached him, but he saw that something was wrong below and half-leaped, half-tumbled down the stairs to the kitchen. He took the baby in his arms and succeeded with his big sailor voice in reaching the ears under the kettle.

“Be quiet, Ronnie!” he ordered. “Stop crying at once! Father’s here. Father’ll help you.”

The screams stopped, the beating hands grew quiet, and the Lightkeeper walked to and fro patting the small shoulders till they grew still enough to allow him to lay the child in his mother’s arms. Then, while Lesley watched him with astonished eyes he seized a lump of lard from the shelf, greased the inside of the kettle and Ronnie’s head as far as his hand could reach, saying all the time, “Quiet, sonny, quiet, sonny; Father’s here!” This done, with one swift jerk the kettle came off and the small boy was restored to the world.

Oh, what a wonderful father, Lesley thought; there was nothing that he couldn’t do and nothing that he didn’t know, and I believe that everybody on the island, including Jenny Lind, the rabbits, and the sea-birds, thought much the same thing.

The wonderful father was waiting in the doorway to-day as the children’s feet were heard on the rocky pathway, and after a little washing of grimy paws and smoothing of rough locks they all sat down at table. Six times a year the Lighthouse tender called at the island with stores for its inhabitants, so tea and sugar and coffee, flour and meal, spices and cereals were always on hand, but for the rest they depended on goats’ milk, fresh fish, eggs, chickens, rabbits, and such vegetables as they could raise on their wind-swept height, three hundred feet above the sea.

Margaret McLean boasted, when she could find any one to hear her boast, that she could prepare rabbit in fifteen different ways, but which one of the fifteen she followed that day will probably never be known. At all events, it seemed to please the children who jumped down from the table when grace had been said, quite refreshed and ready to dry the dishes and help to set the room in order.

The apartment in question--a large one, fortunately--might have been called one of general utility, for it was kitchen, dining-room, sitting-room, and study, according to the time of day. There was a grand parlor on the other side of the passage, into which the Lighthouse Inspector was ushered when he made his semi-annual calls, but the children never entered it except on cleaning-days when they were allowed to dust the haircloth sofa, the straight-backed chairs, and the round center-table with its big Bible and tall lamp, hung with tinkling glass prisms.

The bedrooms and the playroom were on the next story, and above that ran the flight of narrow steps that led to the tower, and then above them again the corkscrew stairs that wound about and about till they reached the Light.

In solitary splendor, like the Prince of Coolavin, lived the Light, and Father waited upon it like a slave, filling it with oil, trimming its wicks and polishing and re-polishing and re-re-polishing the speckless glass that sheltered it and through which its beams streamed far, far across the waters.

Every night, as they sang the “Mariner’s Hymn” together in the whitewashed sitting-room, with the ceaseless roar and dash of the breakers as their accompaniment, the children thought of the friendly Light in the tower and the gladness of the sailors when they saw it shine.

“Eternal Father! strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave; Who bidst the mighty ocean deep Its own appointed limits keep: O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea!”

So ran the words of the “Mariner’s Hymn,” and Ronald, who always wanted to know the reason of things, said thoughtfully one night when they had finished singing: “Why do we cry to God to help those in peril on the sea, Daddy? It’s the Light that helps them, isn’t it?”

“Hush! Ronnie, you’re not thinking,” cried his mother. “Who made the sea and the sailors? Who gave his brains to the man who thought of the Light and set it here? The Light is but a senseless thing and needs some one to tend it, as well you know your father does both night and day.”

“Oh--h!” murmured Ronald, “I see!”

“You’re a funny boy!” commented Lesley, as usual.

“Sleep-ery, head-ery, Better go to bed-ery!”

“Oh-ery, no-ery, Don’t want to go-ery,”

cried Ronald, at which his father lifted his head from the “Lighthouse Journal,” saying, “‘Gude bairnies cuddle doon at nicht’--you know the poetry your mother tells you.”

The children were often allowed to climb the corkscrew stairs with their parents to see the Light and even to open the little door in the masonry and go out on the iron-railed gallery that ran around the tower, holding tight to Father’s or Mother’s hand while they gazed at the blue waters of the Pacific and counted the white sails on the horizon.

The Light was not of the first order, although it seemed so wonderful to the children and required more attention than the newer and more expensive ones. It was lighted at dusk, filled again at midnight, and put out at dawn, Margaret McLean always taking the last duty and then hurrying down to kindle the kitchen fire, set the porridge on to heat, and milk the goats.

She was a busy wife and mother; so busy that she had the less time to be lonely, for not only did she wash and iron, sew and knit, scrub and cook, milk the goats, feed the hens, and weed the garden, but she gave the children their daily lessons, making these so pleasant that both could already read with ease and had some knowledge of figures, while Lesley could write a very respectable letter to Grandmother in “Bonnie Scotland.”

Mr. and Mrs. McLean knew very well that the children would never be likely to have any playmates, save each other, while they were growing up, for the work on the island was not more than enough for one man, with Stumpy’s assistance, and so there could be no other families in residence. They had done everything they could, therefore, to provide amusement and occupation for them, indoors as well as out. Outdoors was very simple, with Jenny Lind, “Jim Crow,” and a host of young animals as playmates, the beloved Stumpy as story-teller-in-chief and fishing, hunting sea-birds’ eggs, playing on the shore and gathering seaweed and shells as their games of never-ending delight.

Indoors a playroom had been fitted up the previous year, which was a continual source of pleasure and a blessing, too, to Mrs. McLean, who could always feel that her bairns were safe and happy when they were in “Humpty Dumpty Land,” as Lesley had christened it.

It was nothing more or less than the large attic which ran the whole length of the Lighthouse. It was not finished off, but the slanting sides and floor had been stained a pretty green, and numerous shelves had been fitted between the uprights for all the many collections--birds’ eggs, seashells, sea-moss, shining pebbles, bright beads, buttons, and those other treasures dear to children, which would have been greatly in the way downstairs.

In one corner was a sand-bin, with little tins and patty-pans for making cakes, and a dolls’ house occupied another corner where Lesley passed many hours. A rocking-horse, a stable, and a carpenters’ bench were Ronald’s possessions, and several small chairs and tables were among the other furnishings.

Tacked to the ceiling were a few gay Japanese parasols and lanterns, while straw mats, a contribution from Stumpy’s Indian collection, were scattered about the floor. Turkey-red curtains were at the windows, and altogether a more cheerful place could hardly be imagined, especially when both children were talking at once and “Jim Crow,” a privileged visitor, adding an occasional low croak to the conversation.

Jim Crow, the black, the glossy, the dapper, the wise, the solemn, was not a native of the Lighthouse island, which indeed was too barren a spot for birds fond of good things to eat. He was not a native, but an immigrant, for the Lighthouse Inspector had brought him to Lesley on one of his visits, saying that he had been found in the woods on the mainland--just a little bunch of fuzz with short dark feathers sticking out here and there--and that it was supposed that he had fallen out of the nest and been deserted by his parents.

The Inspector had cared for him until he was now a fine fellow with the glossiest of black feathers, and as he appeared to be of a good disposition and of winning ways there was no reason why he should not make an admirable pet. The children thought so, of course, and were never tired of watching his quaint actions and laughing at his solemn manner.

As soon as Jim Crow grew wonted to his new home, he began to choose his friends and seemed to love Lesley most of all. Next to her he appeared to fancy a large white hen, with a brood of nine little chicks, in a coop under the shade of a rock. Jim used to visit her many times a day, standing near the bars of her prison and talking with her in a low, croaking tone. Sometimes, between his stories, he would help himself to the food left by Mother Hen and her family; then begin croaking to her again, and Biddy would answer with an occasional cluck as if she understood all that he was telling her.

The old hen, while always watchful over her little ones, never seemed to fear that Jim would hurt any of them, and when the chicks became so large that they were let out of the coop and the family roamed about seeking for worms and insects, Jim still continued his association with them, following them about for hours each day. At nightfall, however, he always came back to his box, while Biddy and her family joined the other fowls in the hen-house.

Another of Jim’s chums was the tuneful Jenny Lind. For some portion of each day he used to follow her about, always keeping a few feet from her nose, as she grazed.

When he grew tired of walking, he would hop to her back, and, squatting upon her hips, where he could not be reached by the switching tail, he would keep up a constant croaking and chattering. This chattering was always in a low tone, but it went up and down just like the voice of a person who is telling some great secret, something not to be repeated to any one else, on any account.

Jim had his dislikes as well as his likes, and he evidently held but a poor opinion of Margaret McLean. She had often caught him snatching a morsel from the kitchen table or shelves and had on each occasion hastily swept him out with the broom. Nowadays he entered the kitchen with a wary eye fixed upon her, and if he did not go upstairs at once to Humpty Dumpty Land, would perch in some high place and scold and grumble to himself. You could always tell from the tone of his voice whether he was scolding or chattering, and Mrs. McLean said she really felt uncomfortable sometimes, when that low croaking voice went on and on behind her back, apparently saying, “Meanie! Meanie! Mean old thing! Drove me out! Drove me out! Wouldn’t give me any dinner! Meanie! Meanie!”