How Don Was Saved Page #2

"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

								

had tied around Don's neck Tuesday afternoon. He remembered how they
had laughed at the effect of that frivolous red collar and bow on
Don's massive body.

"I'm sure Don isn't guilty!" he cried passionately.

Mr. Locksley shook his head.

"I'm afraid he is, Curtis. The case looks very black against him, and
sheep-stealing is a serious offence."

"The dog must be shot," said old Paul decidedly. "I leave the matter
in your hands, Mr. Locksley. I've got enough proof to convict the dog
and, if you don't have him killed, I'll make you pay for the sheep he
worried."

As old Paul strode away, Curtis looked beseechingly at his uncle.

"Don mustn't be shot, Uncle!" he said desperately. "I'll chain him up
all the time."

"And have him howling night and day as if we had a brood of banshees
about the place?" said Mr. Locksley sarcastically. He was a stern man
with little sentiment in his nature and no understanding whatever of
Curtis's affection for Don. The Bayside people said that Arnold
Locksley had always been very severe with his nephew. "No, no, Curtis,
you must look at the matter sensibly. The dog is a nuisance and must
be shot. You can't keep him shut up forever, and, if he has once
learned the trick of sheep-worrying, he will never forget it. You can
get another dog if you must have one. I'll get Charles Pippey to come
and shoot Don tomorrow. No sulking now, Curtis. You are too big a boy
for that. Tie the dog up for the night and then go and put the calves
in. There is a storm coming. The wind is blowing hard from the
northeast now."

His uncle walked away, leaving the boy white and miserable in the
yard. He looked at Don, who sat on his haunches and returned his gaze
frankly and open-heartedly. He did not look like a guilty dog. Could
it be possible that he had really worried those sheep?

"I'll never believe it of you, old fellow!" Curtis said, as he led the
dog into a corner of the carriage house and tied him up there. Then he
flung himself down on a pile of sacks beside him and buried his face
in Don's curly black fur. The boy felt sullen, rebellious and
wretched.

He lay there until dark, thinking his own bitter thoughts and
listening to the rapidly increasing gale. Finally he got up and flung
off after the calves, with Don's melancholy howls at finding himself
deserted ringing in his ears.

He'll be quiet enough tomorrow night, thought Curtis wretchedly, as he
went upstairs to bed after housing the calves. For a long while he lay
awake, but finally dropped into a heavy slumber which lasted until
his aunt called him for milking.

The wind was blowing more furiously than ever. Up over the fields came
the roar and crash of the surges on the outside shore. The Harbour to
the east of Bayside was rough and stormy.

They were just rising from breakfast when Will Barrie burst into the
kitchen.

"The Amy Reade is ashore on Gleeson's rocks!" he shouted. "Struck
there at daylight this morning! Come on, Curt!"

Curtis sprang for his cap, his uncle following suit more deliberately.
As the two boys ran through the yard, Curtis heard Don howling.

"I'll take him with me!" he muttered. "Wait a minute, Will."

The Harbour road was thronged with people hurrying to the outside
shore, for the news of the Amy Readers disaster had spread rapidly.
As the boys, with the rejoicing Don at their heels, pelted along, Sam
Morrow overtook them in a cart and told them to jump in. Sam had
already been down to the shore and had gone back to tell his father.
As they jolted along, he screamed information at them over the shriek
of the gale.

"Bad business, this! She's pounding on a reef 'bout a quarter of a
mile out. They're sure she's going to break up--old tub, you
know--leaky--rotten. The sea's tremenjus high, and the surfs going
dean over her. There can't be no boat launched for hours yet--they'll
all be drowned. Old Paul's down there like a madman--offering
everything he's got to the man who'll save Oscar, but it can't be
done."

By this time they had reached the shore, which was black with excited
people. Out on Gleeson's Reef the ill-fated little schooner was
visible amid the flying spray. A grizzled old Harbour fisherman, to
whom Sam shouted a question, shook his head.

"No, can't do nothin'! No boat c'd live in that surf f'r a moment. The
schooner'll go to pieces mighty soon, I'm feared. It's turrible!
turrible! to stan' by an' watch yer neighbours drown like this!"

Curtis and Will elbowed their way down to the water's edge. The
relatives of the crew were all there in various stages of despair, but
old Paul Stockton seemed like a man demented. He ran up and down the
beach, crying and praying. His only son was on the Amy Reade, and he
could do nothing to save him!

"What are they doing?" asked Will of Martin Clark.

"Trying to get a line ashore by throwing out a small rope with a stick
tied to it," answered Martin. "It's young Stockton that's trying now.
But it isn't any use. The cross-currents on that reef are too
powerful."

"Why, Don will bring that line ashore!" exclaimed Curtis. "Here, Don!
Don, I say!"

The dog bounded back along the shore with a quick bark. Curtis grasped
him by the collar and pointed to the stick which young Stockton had
just hurled again into the water. Don, with another bark of
comprehension, dashed into the sea. The onlookers, grasping the
situation, gave a cheer and then relapsed into silence. Only the
shriek of the gale and the crash of the waves could be heard as they
watched the magnificent dog swimming out through the breakers, his big
black head now rising on the crest of a wave and now disappearing in
the hollow behind it. When Don finally reached the tossing stick,
grasped it in his mouth and turned shoreward, another great shout went
up from the beach. A woman behind Curtis, whose husband was on the
schooner, dropped on her knees on the pebbles, sobbing and thanking
God. Curtis himself felt the stinging tears start to his eyes.

When Don reached the shore he dropped the stick at Curtis's feet and
gave himself a tremendous shake. Curtis caught at the stick, while a
dozen men and women threw themselves bodily on Don, hugging him and
kissing his wet fur like distracted creatures. Old Paul Stockton was
among them. Over his shoulder Don's big black head looked up, his eyes
asking as plainly as speech what all this fuss was about.

Meanwhile some of the men had already pulled a big hawser ashore and
made it fast. In half an hour the crew of the Amy Reade were safe on
shore, chilled and dripping. Before they were hurried away to warmth
and shelter, old Paul Stockton caught Curtis's hand. The tears were
running freely down his hard, old face.

"Tell your uncle he is not to lay a finger on that dog!" he said. "He
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