Squib and His Friends

here to-mor

y with the goats. I like this plac

again, then,” said Squib

ou, litt

ve nobody to talk to? Were you writ

pencil and paper he had stowed away there when th

and Moor the best. See!” and with a few rapid touches, which showed that there was talent in those thin brown fingers, Seppi drew a 85picture of one of his own goats standing with a defiant expression on his queer, semi-huma

as he watched the qu

are! I wish I could draw

me a box of pencils when he was here last, and left me all his paper when he went away. It’s nearly done now. I

ack. But as he pursued his homeward way his face was

s world come as a matter of course. He himself had had every reasonable pleasure and enjoyment ever since he could remember, and although his nurses and parents had 86told him from t

did. He found them smiling and content. He knew that in sickness and trouble they were cared for; nothing in their condition aroused his pity or compassion. He used often to think he should like to have one of the cottages hi

ch had been Seppi’s dinner gave him a better idea of what life in the chalets was like than he had had before. He had shared his own dainties with the wondering Seppi, who had plainly never tasted anything approaching such luxuries before, 87and could hardly believe that the little Herr fed like that every day. As for Squib, h

things came as naturally as the food he ate or the clothes he wore. It would never have occurred to him that there could be any difficulty in getting pencils. Squib spoilt or lost a dozen p

he realized this, and he hurried home as fast as his

ut Squib always knew where to find what he wanted, though the object he was searching for now 88was hidden away almost at the bottom of the receptacle. He drew it forth at last, however, with a look of pride and del

awings of his goats, his dog, perhaps even the outlines of t

time or know how. I’ll get Seppi to give me one of his drawings for her, and when I tel

ad a way of doing, and this book was lying on the table. He asked its use, and was told that it was a sketch-book, and after they had talked a little more his aunt had said he mi

n him a box of coloured chalks with beautiful fine points to help him with his picture-making. But somehow, since his arrival at the chalet, other interests had come uppe

pretty—he felt a glow of pleasure in picturing the happiness they would give. It was just a little more difficu

ll; and Seppi has got almost nothing, and is lame, and can’t do anything but sit still all day and mind his goats. And you can’t draw a bit, hardly, and h

sketch-book and chalks safe in his grasp. He made them up into a neat 90parcel and

alley. The father went off to the mountains to act as a guide during the summer, and the mother stayed at home and cultivated their bit of land with the aid of one son and daughter, whilst little lame

hem. He would speak to mother about it sometime, when he knew Seppi better and had time to begin. He would like to carve above everything. He had already bought a good many

the scenes about him as he could not otherwise have done, and those two silent peaks, with their crowns of everlasting snow, looking down on the smiling valley and shutting it in (as it appeared to him) at either

satchel was quite heavy, what with the sketch-book and what with the dinner, but Squib was delighted at the weigh

e crest of the ridge. But this time Seppi was sitting with his face towards him, and as soon as he saw his compani

o talk to. The boys met with the frank fellowship which is

his satchel, 92and was wiping his hot face with his pocket-handkerchief. “Would you like to

eyes, as though such a thing as a gift wer

, “for your very own self. I hope

before (which seemed a long one to him) he never remembered receiving such a grand present as this square parcel done up in paper and string. He was

t to see what

the string and unfold the brown paper. With the same deliberate slowness and look of rapturous intentness on his face, he drew fort

it, lit

se pages are blank—you can put in just what you want; and when you have drawn anything you can colour it if you like with these chalks. See—” and Sq

could hardly believe his eyes or his ears; but that he understood the

his breath. “Oh, I can’t believe it; I can’t u

ith save to be looked at and caressed. But when the first stress of emotion had passed, Squib got the boy to make a picture of Moor and two of the goats upon the brown p

and by-and-by Squib drew from him the fact of his intense longing to put on paper those familiar 94and well-lov

ny writing paper; and when at their dinner hour Squib showed him that bread crumbs would rub out pencil marks from paper without leaving a trace behind, Seppi consented at las

raining, and had always been keenly observant, besides possessing a retentive memory. All his small store of knowledge and re

e intense. Seppi drew his breath hard as he worked, and Squib kept up a running commentary of advice, 95observation, and enthusiastic praise. Whatever the picture might have appeared to an outsider, to the vivid imaginations of the children

w like you! But never mind, if you can do it that is just the same. I’ll watch you, and some day you shall do me a picture to take to Aunt Adela—it

k in Squib’s history just at this tim

iving loving touches to his picture of the night before, trying effects and making little studies upon the bits of pape

learning to carve to Seppi, and Seppi, delighted to do anything for one to whom he felt he owed such a debt of gratitude, assured him

d bring him any number of little blocks of wood which had been rudely shaped by himself at home, and for which Squib insisted on pay

od, because I want you to have some money to get paper or chalks with when these are done and when I’ve gone away. My father and mo

, ever learning, ever finding fresh facilities in the use of his new materials; the other, equally engrossed with his knife and wood, appealing constantly

boy worked and t

ge

far afield, and when sitting beside Seppi in the shade of the pine woods, watching him draw, and ca

ess of a true son of the mountain. He had not the same power of expression that Squib could boast. He could describe what he had seen or heard, but found it less easy to put into words his own imaginings; but h

who dwelt in some mighty caverns within. When the echoes of the valley would be awakened by the fall of gre

the giant playing

tops of the ridge, or lay idly along the hollo

pipe to-day! You can see the

as not too busy, he would stroll down to the bed of the stream below, where a great flat stone rising high out of the water gave him a little island home of his own. A willow tree had sprouted out from a fissure in the stones, and hung ove

metimes brown and turbid, sometimes clear and sparkling, laughing, playing, foaming, and shouting as it raced onwards to the lake below. 99And Seppi would explain to Squib afterwards that that happened with a sudden fall of snow or ice into the stream above. It wou

d Squib would lean over his rock and watch the quick rise of the water,

ver see them if I were to be here in the long cold winter, when they fly about touching everything with their wands, and sending all the world to sleep till the sun comes to wake it. They must be very beautiful with their white ro

Seppi, though to be sure there was not much to

ome back again. Every year many brave men lost their lives on the mountains, and skill and strength were often of no avail against the reckless hardihood of inexperienced and rash travellers, who would not listen to advice, and who ris

sister, who helped at home, and was Seppi’s chief comrade and sympathiser, as Squ

and their valley with a love too strong for expression—a love which had grown with their growth 101and strengthened with their strength till it had become an essential part of their nature. Squib thought he could understand that feeling. He felt that if he had lived in this place he should never want to leave it. He remembered how Lisa used to cry when she told him of her mountain home, and how he had longed to see i

uestions of the day, but he was too observant and quick not to have caught

ou and learn to be like you. You don’t waste things, and you don’t grumble. You haven’t any workhouses and poor-laws; and you don’t seem to want them. You