How Don Was Saved

"How Don Was Saved" is a short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that follows the adventures of a young boy named Don, who finds himself in a perilous situation. Set in the picturesque backdrop of the author's beloved Prince Edward Island, the story explores themes of bravery, friendship, and the importance of community. Through the eyes of Don and his companions, Montgomery weaves a tale that highlights the innocence of childhood and the transformative power of love and support in overcoming challenges. It is a charming narrative that reflects the author's signature style and deep appreciation for nature and human connection.

• Short story

								
Will Barrie went whistling down the lane of the Locksley farm, took a
short cut over a field of clover aftermath and through a sloping
orchard where the trees were laden with apples, and emerged into the
farmhouse yard where Curtis Locksley was sitting on a pile of logs,
idly whittling at a stick.

"You look as if you had a corner in time, Curt," said Will. "I call
that luck, for I want you to go chestnutting up to Grier's Hill with
me. I met old Tom Grier on the road yesterday, and he told me I might
go any day. Nice old man, Tom Grier."

"Good!" said Curtis heartily, as he sprang up. "If I haven't exactly a
corner in time, I have a day off, at least. Uncle doesn't need me
today. Wait till I whistle for Don. May as well take him with us."

Curtis whistled accordingly, but Don, his handsome Newfoundland dog,
did not appear. After calling and whistling about the yard and barns
for several minutes, Curtis turned away disappointedly.

"He can't be anywhere around. It is very strange. Don never used to go
away from home without me, but lately he has been missing several
times, and twice last week he wasn't here in the morning and didn't
turn up until midday."

"I'd keep him shut up until I broke him of the habit of playing
truant, if I were you," said Will, as they turned into the lane.

"Don hates to be shut up, howls all the time so mournfully that I
can't stand it," responded Curtis.

"Well," said Will, hesitatingly, "maybe that would be better after all
than letting him stray away with other dogs who may teach him bad
habits. I saw Don myself one evening last week ambling down the
Harbour road with that big brown dog of Sam Ventnor's. Ventnor's dog
is beginning to have a bad reputation, you know. There have been
several sheep worried lately, and--"

"Don wouldn't touch a sheep!" interrupted Curtis hotly.

"I daresay not, not yet. But Ventnor's dog is under suspicion, and if
Don runs with him he'll learn the trick sure as preaching. The farmers
are growling a good bit already, and if they hear of Don and Ventnor's
dog going about in company, they'll put it on them both. Better keep
Don shut up awhile, let him howl as he likes."

"I believe I will," said Curtis soberly. "I don't want Don to fall
under suspicion of sheep-worrying, though I'm sure he would never do
it. Anyhow, I don't want him to run with Ventnor's dog. I'll chain him
up in the barn when I go home. I couldn't stand it if anything
happened to Don. After you, he's the only chum I've got--and he's a
good one."

Will agreed. He was almost as fond of Don as Curtis was. But he did
not feel so sure that the dog would not worry a sheep. Will knew that
Don was suspected already, but he did not like to tell Curtis so. And
of course there was as yet no positive proof--merely mutterings and
suggestions among the Bayside farmers who had lost sheep and were
anxious to locate their slayer. There were many other dogs in Bayside
and the surrounding districts who were just as likely to be the guilty
animals, and Will hoped that if Don were shut up for a time, suspicion
might be averted from him, especially if the worryings still went on.

He had felt a little doubtful about hinting the truth to Curtis, who
was a high-spirited lad and always resented any slur cast upon Don
much more bitterly than if it were meant for himself. But he knew that
Curtis would take it better from him than from the other Bayside boys,
one or the other of whom would be sure soon to cast something up to
Curtis about his dog. Will felt decidedly relieved to find that Curtis
took his advice in the spirit in which it was offered.

"Who have lost sheep lately?" queried Curtis, as they left the main
road and struck into a wood path through the ranks of beeches on Tom
Grier's land.

"Nearly everybody on the Hollow farms," answered Will. "Until last
week nobody on the Hill farms had lost any. But Tuesday night old Paul
Stockton had six fine sheep killed in his upland pasture behind the
fir woods. He is furious about it, I believe, and vows he'll find out
what dog did it and have him shot."

Curtis looked grave. Paul Stockton's farm was only about a quarter of
a mile from the Locksley homestead, and he knew that Paul had an old
family grudge against his Uncle Arnold, which included his nephew and
all belonging to him. Moreover, Curtis remembered with a sinking heart
that Wednesday morning had been one of the mornings upon which Don was
missing.

"But I don't care!" he thought miserably. "I know Don didn't kill
those sheep."

"Talking of old Paul," said Will, who thought it advisable to turn the
conversation, "reminds me that they are getting anxious at the Harbour
about George Finley's schooner, the Amy Reade. She was due three
days ago and there's no sign of her yet. And there have been two bad
gales since she left Morro. Oscar Stockton is on board of her, you
know, and his father is worried about him. There are five other men on
her, all from the Harbour, and their folks down there are pretty wild
about the schooner."

Nothing more was said about the sheep, and soon, in the pleasures of
chestnutting, Curtis forgot his anxiety. Old Tom Grier had called to
the boys as they passed his house to come back and have dinner there
when the time came. This they did, and it was late in the afternoon
when Curtis, with his bag of chestnuts over his shoulder, walked into
the Locksley yard.

His uncle was standing before the open barn doors, talking to an
elderly, grizzled man with a thin, shrewd face.

Curtis's heart sank as he recognized old Paul Stockton. What could
have brought him over?

"Curtis," called his uncle, "come here."

As Curtis crossed the yard, Don came bounding down the slope from the
house to meet him. He put his hand on the dog's big head and the two
of them walked slowly to the barn. Old Paul included them both in a
vindictive scowl.

"Curtis," said his uncle gravely, "here's a bad business. Mr.
Stockton tells me that your dog has been worrying his sheep."

"It's a--" began Curtis angrily. Then he checked himself and went on
more calmly.

"That can't be so, Mr. Stockton. My dog would not harm anything."

"He killed or helped to kill six of the finest sheep in my flock!"
retorted old Paul.

"What proof have you of it?" demanded Curtis, trying to keep his anger
within bounds.

"Abner Peck saw your dog and Ventnor's running together through my
sheep pasture at sundown on Tuesday evening," answered old Paul.
"Wednesday morning I found this in the corner of the pasture where the
sheep were worried. Your uncle admits that it was tied around your
dog's neck on Tuesday."

And old Paul held out triumphantly a faded red ribbon. Curtis
recognized it at a glance. It was the ribbon his little cousin, Lena,

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