Magyar Cserkész, 1929 (10. évfolyam, 14. szám)
1929-07-15 / 14. szám
No. 14. MAGYAR CSERKÉSZ 287 Our Scoutmaster told us . . . we go to camp against the lazy society life, against indifference and bad will . . . And we will conquer this world that has no soul and no heart ! — I, of course, I gave my consent for him to go. — And then, preparations had no end ! All their free time was spent in study, excursions, exercise ... — You don't want us to go inexperienced to a camp where the very best of the country’s scouts turn out! — so my little boy said. — Day by day, the boy got stronger and healthier, not only in body, but in mind, too. Sometimes I was struck myself by the readiness, decidedness and seriousness which appeared in his words and activities. — But now please let me speak of the sad accident. — On the fifteenth of March, the troop made an excursion into the Huta mountains. — They were playing gaily; Morse signs were flying from one to the other. All sorts of games were played the whole day long. My son Danny was in his element. He wanted to take part in all sorts of races ; he was more than courageous. Like some one who feels and fears no danger. — It was on his death bed that he told me the following : — The Scoutmaster sent him and two companions to the Huta valley with the order : ,,Go twenty minutes towards north-east; make little signs on the way and find your way back on the signs you have left." John Répás, (one of them), took notes of the signs they left. Danny, my son and the third scout, Louis, took care of the direction a compass at hand. They struggled through deep virgin wood. After quarter of an hour's difficult dragging forward, they heard shouting and screaming. My son Danny listened. — Boys ! somebody might be in danger. Follow me. John did not like it. — And what about our task? — Oh ; we might easily explain the matter to the Scoutmaster, said Danny. — Do you hear ? Someone shouts for help. The three boys ran in the direction of the sound. In the stiff side of the quarry, on a lonely and stiff block, a boy of ten or twelve was lying above the precipice. His bleeding forehead was hanging over the edge of the precipice. On the top of the precipice, a poor old woman sobbed. — They were gathering dry wood and her son fell down ! said John. — Let us try ; perhaps he is alive. They ran up to the woman. She was trembling ; wringing her hands she turned round to the scouts : — Oh, God bless you ! help ! help ! —My son Danny, he loosened the lariat from his waist and bound it up with the rope the woman had for fastening her clogs. — We make a hook-seat and you will try to let me down. Johnny got pale. — And if you, too, fail and drop ? — A Scout is helpful ! — was the decided answer. He bound the end of the rope to the next tree. He sat in the hook. — Go on boys ! Let me slowly down — quite slowly ! The two boys pressed their feet against the stones. Down he went, the precious weight: my little boy... The mother knelt down and prayed aloud. — Danny reached the fainted boy; got hold of him in the way he learned from the scout books in theory. — Now pull me up ! But carefully ! And then excited moments came. When Danny appeared at the upper end with the boy, the woman shouted loud : — Oh my son ! My dear, little son ! — On the top of the precipice a few inches from safe ground, Danny pushed the boy upwards. The woman got hold of the two arms of her own son and tore him from the arms of death. And then a terrible thing happened. — My boy, my little hero, my little scout slipped back. In his fall, he tightened the rope and this rope, being weak from the double weight before, tore off from under his grasp.-— And my little Danny fell straight down to the bottom. When Dick Field was so far in relating his story, remembrance tore the hardly healed wound of his heart. His tears began to flow and it took him quite a time before he could continue : — They lifted him from the depths of the quarry with broken limbs. They put him on the trek-cart and home they came, to our house, like a funeral march . . . — Three doctors I called ; three good doctors. They could not help. The bed we put him in this evening, was his deathbed. — The demons of fever decorated his face with red, red roses. His mother was with him night and day ; day and night. But even a mother’s love is not able to do wonders. —On the fourth day, the crisis came. — On the last evening, he caught me in his arms and with inutterable love and tenderness, he told me : — My dear good father; boys can put up a last will, can’t they ? — Oh, you will be allright again, Danny dear ... You see: you will be in Camp soon! — Never, father ... You listen, don’t you? Promise me that you will not be angry with the scouts only because I am dying for them. Do you promise ? The woman got hold of the two arms of her own son and tore him from the arms of death.
