The Cliff Climbers<br />A Sequel to "The Plant Hunters", Mayne Reid [most interesting books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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This was something more than canine flesh and blood could bear; and Fritz determined not to submit to it any longer. Dropping the “quid” he had been chewing, he started up on all fours; wheeled suddenly towards the kite that had clawed him; and bounded aloft into the air with the design of clutching it.
But the wary bird had foreseen this action on the part of the quadruped; and, ere the latter could lay a fang upon it, had soared off—far beyond the highest leap that any four-footed creature might accomplish.
Fritz, with a disappointed growl, turned round again to betake himself to his piece of meat; but still more disappointed was his look, when he perceived that the latter was no longer within reach! Churk falcon number one had clawed him over the croup, but churk falcon number two had deprived him of his supper!
The last look Fritz ever had of that piece of ibex venison, was seeing it in the beak of the bird, high up in air, growing smaller by degrees and beautifully less—until it disappeared altogether in the dim distance.
This odd little episode, between the boar-hound and the churk falcons, had interrupted the conversation of the two brothers on the subject which Caspar had introduced. Nor was it resumed immediately, on the termination of the affair: for the look with which Fritz regarded the departure of the bird, that had so adroitly bilked him out of his bit of venison, was so supremely ludicrous, as to elicit long loud peals of laughter from the spectators.
Fritz’s “countenance” betrayed the presence of rare emotions. Profound surprise and chagrin—strongly blended with a feeling of concentrated rage—were visible not only in his eyes, but his attitude, and, for some time, he stood with head erect and muzzle high in air, his glances speaking unutterable vows of vengeance, as they followed the flight of the falcons.
Never in all his life—not even when the trunk of the elephant was trumpeting at his tail—had Fritz so sensibly felt the want of wings. Never had he so regretted the deficiency in his structure that left him without those useful appendages; and had he been gifted with the “wand of a fairy,” the use to which he would at that moment have applied it would have been to furnish himself with a pair, not of “beautiful wings”—for that was a secondary consideration—but of strong and long ones, such as would have enabled him to overhaul those churk falcons, and punish them for their unheard-of audacity.
For more than a minute Fritz preserved the attitude to which we have alluded: the demeanour of a dog that had been regularly duped and “sold” by a brace of beings, for whose strength and capacity he had exhibited supreme contempt; and it was this mingling of surprise and rage that imparted to him that serio-comic appearance that had set them all a-laughing. Nor was his countenance less ludicrous under the expression with which, on turning round, he regarded his trio of human companions. He saw that they were making merry at his expense; and his look of half-reproach half-appeal had no other effect than to redouble their mirth. Glancing from one to the other, he appeared to seek sympathy from each in turn—from Karl, Caspar, and Ossaroo.
It was an idle appeal. All three had equally surrendered themselves to hilarity—unsympathetic, as it was uncontrollable. Fritz had not a friend on the ground.
Full ten minutes must have elapsed before any of them could check his loud cachinnations; but long before that time, the butt of their ridicule had betaken himself out of sight—having moved away from the spot, where he had been robbed of his supper, and retired, with an offended and sneaking air, to the more friendly concealment of the hovel.
It was some time before our adventurers could recover their serious mood; but the subject of their mirth being now out of their sight, went gradually also out of their minds.
It might be wondered that, circumstanced as they were, they had thus given way to a fit of jollity. But, indeed, there was nothing wonderful about it. On the contrary, it was perfectly natural—perfectly true to the instincts of the human soul—to be thus stirred: joy and sorrow following each other in periodic succession—as certainly as day follows night, or fair weather succeeds to the storm.
Though we know not the why and the wherefore of this, we can easily believe that a wise Providence has ordered it so. A poet who has sung sweetly says, that:—
“Spring would be but gloomy weather,
If we had nothing else but Spring;”
and our own experience proclaims the truth conveyed in the distich.
He who has lived in the tropical lands of ever-spring—where the leaves never fall, and the flowers never fade—can well confirm the fact: that even spring itself may in time become tiresome! We long for the winter—its frost and snow, and cold bitter winds. Though ever so enamoured of the gay green forest, we like at intervals to behold it in its russet garb, with the sky in its coat of grey, sombre but picturesque. Strange as it may appear, it is true: the moral, like the natural atmosphere, stands in need of the storm.
As soon as their mirth had fairly subsided, Karl and Caspar resumed the conversation, which had been broken off so abruptly.
“And so, brother,” said Karl, who was the first to return to the subject, “you say there is a bird of the eagle genus, that might carry a rope over the cliff for us. Of what bird are you speaking?”
“Why, Karl, you are dull of comprehension this morning. Surely the presence of the two kites should have suggested what I mean.”
“Ha! you mean a kite, then?”
“Yes, one with a very broad breast, a very thin body, and a very long tail: such as you and I used to make not so many years ago.”
“A paper kite,” said Karl, repeating the phrase mechanically, at the same time settling down, into a reflecting attitude. “True, brother,” he added, after a pause; “there might be something in what you have suggested. If we had a paper kite—that is, a very large one—it is possible it would carry a rope over the summit of the cliff; but, alas!—”
“You need not proceed further, Karl,” said Caspar, interrupting him. “I know what you are going to say: that we have no paper out of which to make the kite; and that, of course, puts an end to the matter. It’s no use our thinking any more about it: since we have not got the materials. The body and bones we could easily construct; and the tail too. But then the wings—ah, the wings. I only wish we had a file of old newspapers. But what’s the use of wishing? We haven’t.”
Karl, though silent, did not seem to hear, or at all events heed, what Caspar had been just saying. He appeared to be buried either in a reverie, or in some profound speculation.
It was the latter: as was very soon after made manifest by his speech.
“Perhaps,” said he, with a hopeful glance towards the wood, “we may not be so deficient in the material of which you have spoken.”
“Of paper, do you mean?”
“We are in the very region of the world where it grows,” continued Karl, without heeding the interrogation.
“What! where paper grows?”
“No,” replied Karl, “I do not mean that the paper itself grows here; but a ‘fabric’ out of which that useful article may be made.”
“What is that, brother?”
“It is a tree, or rather a shrub, belonging to the order of the Thymelaceae, or ‘Daphnads.’ The plants of this order are found in many countries; but chiefly in the cooler regions of India and South America. There are even representatives of the order in England: for the beautiful ‘spurge laurel’ of the woods and hedges—known as a remedy for the toothache—is a true daphnad. Perhaps the most curious of all the Thymelaceae is the celebrated Lagetta, or lace-bark tree of Jamaica; out of which the ladies of that island know how to manufacture cuffs, collars, and berthas, that, when cut into the proper shapes, and bleached to a perfect whiteness, have all the appearance of real lace! The Maroons, and other runaway negroes of Jamaica, before the abolition of slavery, used to make clothing out of the lagetta; which they found growing in plenty in the mountain forests of the island. Previous also to the same abolition of slavery, there was another, and less gentle, use made of the lace-bark, by the masters of these same negroes. The cruel tyrants used to spin its tough fibres into thongs for their slave-whips.”
“And you think that paper can be made out of these trees?” asked Caspar, impatient to know whether there might be any chance of procuring some for the covering of a kite.
“There are several species of daphnads,” replied the botanist, “whose bark can be converted into paper. Some are found at the Cape of Good Hope, and others in the island of Madagascar; but the best kinds for the purpose grow in these very mountains, and in China. There is the ‘Daphne Bholua,’ in Nepaul; from which the Nepaulese make a strong, tough, packing-paper; and I have reason to believe that it also grows in the Bhotan Himalayas—at no very great distance from our position here. Besides, in China and Japan, on the other side of these mountains, there are two or three distinct kinds of the same plant—out of which the Chinese make the yellowish-coloured paper, you may have seen in their books, and pasted upon their tea-chests. So then,” added the botanist, looking wistfully towards the woods, “since the paper-yielding daphne grows in China, to the east of us, and in Nepaul and Bhotan to the west, it is but reasonable to conclude that some species of it may be found in this valley—where the climate is just that which it affects. Its seed may have been transported hither by birds: since many species of birds are fond of its berries, and eat them without receiving any injury; though, strange to say, they are poisonous to all kinds of quadrupeds!”
“Do you think you would know the shrub, if you saw it, brother?”
“Well, to say the truth, I do not think I could recognise it by its general appearance; but if I had a flower of the daphne, I could no doubt tell it by its botanical characteristics. The leaves of the paper-yielding species are of a lanceolate form and purplish hue, glabrous and shining, like the leaves of laurels—to which genus the daphne is closely allied. Unfortunately, the shrub would not be in flower at this season; but if we can find one of the berries, and a leaf or two, I fancy I shall be able to identify it. Besides, the bark, which is very tough, would help to guide us. Indeed, I have some reason to think that we shall find it not far off; and that is why I speak with such confidence, in saying, that we might not be so deficient in the materials for paper-making.”
“What reason, brother Karl? Perhaps you have seen something like it?”
“I have. Some time ago, when I was strolling about, I passed through a thicket of low shrubs—the tops of which reached up to my breast. They were then in flower—the flowers being of a lilac colour, and growing at the tops of the branches in little cymes. They had no corolla—only a coloured calyx. Now these characters correspond with those of the daphne. Besides, the leaves were lanceolate, velvety on the surface,
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