11860	----	BLACK BEAUTY YOUNG FOLKS' EDITION 1902 [Illustration] BLACK BEAUTY CHAPTER I MY EARLY HOME The first place that I can well remember was a pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside. While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold we had a warm shed near the grove. There were six young colts in the meadow beside me; they were older than I was. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round the field, as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would bite and kick, as well as gallop. [Illustration] One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said: "I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say. The colts who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup at the races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play." [Illustration] I have never forgotten my mother's advice. I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he called her Pet. Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging and kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children. We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, "Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?" I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always took him to town on a market-day in a light gig. We had a ploughboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted he would have what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us. One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next field, watching what was going on; over the hedge he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as we saw the master we trotted up nearer to see what went on. "Bad boy!" he said, "bad boy! to chase the colts. This is not the first time, but it shall be the last. There--take your money and go home; I shall not want you on my farm again." So we never saw Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master; so we were well off. CHAPTER II THE HUNT Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" and cantered off, followed by the rest of us, to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it. "They have found a hare," said my mother, "and if they come this way we shall see the hunt." And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a "yo! yo, o, o! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horses snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking and ran about every way with their noses to the ground. "They have lost the scent," said the old horse; "perhaps the hare will get off." "What hare?" I said. "Oh, I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after"; and before long the dogs began their "yo; yo, o, o!" again, and back they came all together at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook. "Now we shall see the hare," said my mother; and just then a hare, wild with fright, rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream and came dashing across the field, followed by the huntsmen. Several men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp around to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg, torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased. [Illustration] As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look, there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down; one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still. "His neck is broken," said my mother. "And serves him right, too," said one of the colts. I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us. "Well, no," she said, "you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare, or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don't know." While my mother was saying this, we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterwards that it was the squire's only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family. They were now riding in all directions--to the doctor's, and to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his son. When Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more. My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was Rob Roy; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterwards. [Illustration] Not many days after, we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate, we saw a long strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the church-yard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but 'twas all for one little hare. CHAPTER III MY BREAKING IN I was now beginning to grow handsome, my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up. When I was four years old, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down, and then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him; he seemed to like me, and said, "When he has been well broken in he will do very well." My master said he would break me in himself, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began. Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry on his back a man, woman, or child; to go just the way they wish, and to go quietly. Besides this, he has to learn to wear a collar, and a breeching, and to stand still while they are put on; then to have a cart or a buggy fixed behind, so that he cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him; and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own, but always do his master's will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you see this breaking in is a great thing. [Illustration] I had, of course, long been used to a halter and a head-stall, and to be led about in the fields and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal of coaxing he got the bit into my mouth and the bridle fixed, but it was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth, between one's teeth, and over one's tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth, and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! at least I thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats, and what with my master's pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to wear my bit and bridle. Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; my master put it on my back very gently, while Old Daniel held my head; he then made the girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the time; then I had a few oats, then a little leading about; and this he did every day till I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At length, one morning, my master got on my back and rode me around the meadow on the soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I felt rather proud to carry my master, and as he continued to ride me a little every day, I soon became accustomed to it. The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith's forge, to see that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in his hand, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it. And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness; there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes, called blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either side, but only straight in front of me; next there was a small saddle with a nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the crupper. I hated the crupper--to have my long tail doubled up and poked through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my mother. I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighboring farmer's, who had a meadow which was skirted on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in among them. I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came--with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke--a long black train of something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I galloped to the further side of the meadow, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black, frightful thing came puffing and grinding past. For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing of a train as the cows and sheep did. Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a steam engine; but, thanks to my good master's care, I am as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable. Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way. My master often drove me in double harness, with my mother, because she was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master. "I hope you will fall into good hands, but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name." [Illustration] CHAPTER IV BIRTWICK PARK It was early in May, when there came a man from Gordon's, who took me away to the Hall. My master said, "Good-bye, Darkie; be a good horse and always do your best." I could not say "good-bye," so I put my nose in his hand; he patted me kindly, and I left my first home. I will describe the stable into which I was taken; this was very roomy, with four good stalls; a large swinging window opened into the yard, making it pleasant and airy. The first stall was a large square one, shut in behind with a wooden gate; the others were common stalls, good stalls, but not nearly so large. It had a low rack for hay and a low manger for corn; it was called a box stall, because the horse that was put into it was not tied up, but left loose, to do as he liked. It is a great thing to have a box stall. Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high but that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at the top. He gave me some very nice oats, patted me, spoke kindly, and then went away. When I had eaten my oats, I looked round. In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose. I put my head up to the iron rails at the top of my box, and said, "How do you do? What is your name?" He turned round as far as his halter would allow, held up his head, and said, "My name is Merrylegs. I am very handsome. I carry the young ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low cart. They think a great deal of me, and so does James. Are you going to live next door to me in the box?" I said, "Yes." "Well, then," he said, "I hope you are good-tempered; I do not like any one next door who bites." Just then a horse's head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears were laid back, and the eye looked rather ill-tempered. This was a tall chestnut mare, with a long handsome neck; she looked across to me and said, "So it is you have turned me out of my box; it is a very strange thing for a colt like you to come and turn a lady out of her own home." [Illustration] "I beg your pardon," I said, "I have turned no one out; the man who brought me put me here, and I had nothing to do with it. I never had words yet with horse or mare, and it is my wish to live at peace." "Well," she said, "we shall see; of course, I do not want to have words with a young thing like you." I said no more. In the afternoon, when she went out, Merrylegs told me all about it. "The thing is this," said Merrylegs, "Ginger has a habit of biting and snapping; that is why they call her Ginger, and when she was in the box-stall, she used to snap very much. One day she bit James in the arm and made it bleed, and so Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond of me, were afraid to come into the stable. They used to bring me nice things to eat, an apple, or a carrot, or a piece of bread, but after Ginger stood in that box, they dared not come, and I missed them very much. I hope they will now come again, if you do not bite or snap." I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay, and corn, and could not think what pleasure Ginger found it. "Well, I don't think she does find pleasure," says Merrylegs; "it is just a bad habit; she says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite? Of course, it is a very bad habit; but I am sure, if all she says be true, she must have been very ill-used before she came here. John does all he can to please her; so I think she might be good-tempered here. You see," he said, with a wise look, "I am twelve years old; I know a great deal, and I can tell you there is not a better place for a horse all round the country than this. John is the best groom that ever was; he has been here fourteen years; and you never saw such a kind boy as James is, so that it is all Ginger's own fault that she did not stay in that box." CHAPTER V A FAIR START The name of the coachman was John Manly; he had a wife and one child, and lived in the coachman's cottage, near the stables. [Illustration] The next morning he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming, and just as I was going into my box, with my coat soft and bright, the squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased. "John," he said, "I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other business. You may as well take him around after breakfast; go by the common and the Highwood, and back by the water-mill and the river; that will show his paces." "I will, sir," said John. After breakfast he came and fitted me with a bridle. He was very particular in letting out and taking in the straps, to fit my head comfortably; then he brought a saddle, but it was not broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute, and went for another, which fitted nicely. He rode me first slowly, then a trot, then a canter, and when we were on the common, he gave me a light touch with his whip, and we had a splendid gallop. "Ho, ho! my boy," he said, as he pulled me up, "you would like to follow the hounds, I think." As we came back through the park we met the squire and Mrs. Gordon walking; they stopped, and John jumped off. "Well, John, how does he go?" "First rate, sir," answered John; "he is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit, too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him. Down at the end of the common we met one of those traveling carts hung all over with baskets, rugs, and such like; you know, sir, many horses will not pass those carts quietly; he just took a good look at it, and then went on as quiet and pleasant as could be. They were shooting rabbits near the Highwood, and a gun went off close by; he pulled up a little and looked, but he did not stir a step to right or left. I just held the rein steady and did not hurry him, and it's my opinion he has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young." "That's well," said the squire, "I will try him myself to-morrow." The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother's counsel and my good old master's, and I tried to do exactly what he wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider, and thoughtful for his horse, too. When he came home, the lady was at the hall door as he rode up. "Well, my dear," she said, "how do you like him?" "He is exactly what John said," he replied; "a pleasanter creature I never wish to mount. What shall we call him?" She said: "He is really quite a beauty, and he has such a sweet, good-tempered face and such a fine, intelligent eye--what do you say to calling him 'Black Beauty'?" [Illustration] "Black Beauty--why, yes, I think that is a very good name. If you like, it shall be his name"; and so it was. When John went into the stable, he told James that the master and mistress had chosen a good sensible name for me, that meant something. They both laughed, and James said, "If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him Rob Roy, for I never saw two horses more alike." "That's no wonder," said John; "didn't you know that Farmer Grey's old Duchess was the mother of them both?" I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least they never know each other after they are sold. John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a lady's hair, and he would talk to me a great deal; of course, I did not understand all he said, but I learned more and more to know what he meant, and what he wanted me to do. I grew very fond of him, he was so gentle and kind; he seemed to know just how a horse feels, and when he cleaned me he knew the tender places and the ticklish places; when he brushed my head, he went as carefully over my eyes as if they were his own, and never stirred up any ill-temper. James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his way, so I thought myself well off. There was another man who helped in the yard, but he had very little to do with Ginger and me. A few days after this I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage. I wondered how we should get on together; but except laying her ears back when I was led up to her, she behaved very well. She did her work honestly, and did her full share, and I never wish to have a better partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening her pace, she would throw her weight right into the collar, and pull away straight up. We had both the same sort of courage at our work, and John had oftener to hold us in than to urge us forward; he never had to use the whip with either of us; then our paces were much the same, and I found it very easy to keep step with her when trotting, which made it pleasant, and master always liked it when we kept step well, and so did John. After we had been out two or three times together we grew quite friendly and sociable, which made me feel very much at home. [Illustration] As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow, that he was a favorite with every one, and especially with Miss Jessie and Flora, who used to ride him about in the orchard, and have fine games with him and their little dog Frisky. CHAPTER VI MERRYLEGS Mr. Blomefield, the vicar, had a large family of boys and girls; sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora. One of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. When they came, there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and this they would do by the hour together. One afternoon he had been sent out with them a long time, and when James brought him in and put on his halter, he said: "There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into trouble." "What have you been doing, Merrylegs?" I asked. "Oh!" said he, tossing his little head, "I have only been giving those young people a lesson; they did not know when they had enough, so I just pitched them off backwards; that was the only thing they could understand." "What?" said I, "you threw the children off? I thought you did know better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?" [Illustration] He looked very much offended, and said: "Of course not; I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever came into the stable; why, I am as careful of our young ladies as the master could be, and as for the little ones, it is I who teach them to ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back, I go as smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they are all right I go on again faster, you see, just to use them to it; so don't you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend and the best riding-master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys; boys," said he, shaking his mane, "are quite different, they must be broken in, as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught what's what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about, up and down the fields and all about the orchard, for a good hour. They had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding whip, and laid it on a little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint. Boys think a horse or pony is like a steam engine, and can go as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as the one who was whipping me could not understand, I just rose up on my hind legs and let him slip off behind--that was all; he mounted me again, and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as he began to use his stick, I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they were able to understand, that was all. They were not bad boys; they don't wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him, I think he was very angry to see such big sticks. He said they were not for young gentlemen." "If I had been you," said Ginger, "I would have given those boys a good kick, and that would have given them a lesson." "No doubt you would," said Merrylegs; "but then I am not quite such a fool as to anger our master or make James ashamed of me; besides, those children are under my charge when they are riding; I tell you they are entrusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our master say to Mrs. Blomefield, 'My dear madam, you need not be anxious about the children; my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as you or I could; I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money, he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy'; and do you think I am such an ungrateful brute as to forget all the kind treatment I have had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn vicious, because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No, no! you never had a good place where they were kind to you, and so you don't know, and I am sorry for you; but I can tell you good places make good horses. I wouldn't vex our people for anything; I love them, I do," said Merrylegs, and he gave a low "ho, ho, ho," through his nose, as he used to do in the morning when he heard James' footstep at the door. CHAPTER VII GOING FOR THE DOCTOR One night I was lying down in my straw fast asleep, when I was suddenly roused by the stable bell ringing very loud. I heard the door of John's house open, and his feet running up to the Hall. He was back again in no time; he unlocked the stable door, and came in, calling out, "Wake up, Beauty! you must go well now, if ever you did"; and almost before I could think, he had got the saddle on my back and the bridle on my head. He just ran around for his coat, and then took me at a quick trot up to the Hall door. The Squire stood there, with a lamp in his hand. "Now, John," he said, "ride for your life--that is, for your mistress' life; there is not a moment to lose. Give this note to Dr. White; give your horse a rest at the inn, and be back as soon as you can." John said, "Yes, sir," and was on my back in a minute. The gardener who lived at the lodge had heard the bell ring, and was ready with the gate open, and away we went through the park, and through the village, and down the hill till we came to the toll-gate. John called very loud and thumped upon the door; the man was soon out and flung open the gate. "Now," said John, "do you keep the gate open for the doctor; here's the money," and off we went again. [Illustration] There was before us a long piece of level road by the river-side; John said to me, "Now, Beauty, do your best," and so I did; I wanted no whip nor spur, and for two miles I galloped as fast I could lay my feet to the ground; I don't believe that my old grandfather, who won the race at Newmarket, could have gone faster. When we came to the bridge, John pulled me up a little and patted my neck. "Well done, Beauty! good old fellow," he said. He would have let me go slower, but my spirit was up, and I was off again as fast as before. The air was frosty, the moon was bright; it was very pleasant. We came through a village, then through a dark wood, then uphill, then downhill, till after an eight miles' run, we came to the town, through the streets and into the market-place. It was all quite still except the clatter of my feet on the stones--everybody was asleep. The church clock struck three as we drew up at Dr. White's door. John rang the bell twice, and then knocked at the door like thunder. A window was thrown up, and the doctor, in his night-cap, put his head out and said, "What do you want?" "Mrs. Gordon is very ill, sir; master wants you to go at once; he thinks she will die if you cannot get there. Here is a note." "Wait," he said, "I will come." He shut the window and was soon at the door. "The worst of it is," he said, "that my horse has been out all day, and is quite done up; my son has just been sent for, and he has taken the other. What is to be done? Can I have your horse?" "He has come at a gallop nearly all the way, sir, and I was to give him a rest here; but I think my master would not be against it, if you think fit, sir." "All right," he said; "I will soon be ready." John stood by me and stroked my neck. I was very hot. The doctor came out with his riding-whip. "You need not take that, sir," said John; "Black Beauty will go till he drops. Take care of him, sir, if you can; I should not like any harm to come to him." "No, no, John," said the doctor, "I hope not," and in a minute we had left John far behind. [Illustration] I will not tell about our way back. The doctor was a heavier man than John, and not so good a rider; however, I did my very best. The man at the toll-gate had it open. When we came to the hill, the doctor drew me up. "Now, my good fellow," he said, "take some breath." I was glad he did, for I was nearly spent, but that breathing helped me on, and soon we were in the park. Joe was at the lodge gate; my master was at the Hall door, for he had heard us coming. He spoke not a word; the doctor went into the house with him, and Joe led me to the stable. I was glad to get home; my legs shook under me, and I could only stand and pant. I had not a dry hair on my body, the water ran down my legs, and I steamed all over--Joe used to say, like a pot on the fire. Poor Joe! he was young and small, and as yet he knew very little, and his father, who would have helped him, had been sent to the next village; but I am sure he did the very best he knew. He rubbed my legs and my chest, but he did not put my warm cloth on me; he thought I was so hot I should not like it. Then he gave me a pail full of water to drink; it was cold and very good, and I drank it all; then he gave me some hay and some corn, and, thinking he had done right, he went away. Soon I began to shake and tremble, and turned deadly cold; my legs ached, my loins ached, and my chest ached, and I felt sore all over. This developed into a strong inflammation, and I could not draw my breath without pain. John nursed me night and day. My master, too, often came to see me. "My poor Beauty," he said one day, "my good horse, you saved your mistress' life, Beauty; yes, you saved her life." I was very glad to hear that, for it seems the doctor had said if we had been a little longer it would have been too late. John told my master he never saw a horse go so fast in his life. It seems as if the horse knew what was the matter. Of course I did, though John thought not; at least I knew as much as this--that John and I must go at the top of our speed, and that it was for the sake of the mistress. CHAPTER VIII THE PARTING I had lived in this happy place three years, but sad changes were about to come over us. We heard that our mistress was ill. The doctor was often at the house, and the master looked grave and anxious. Then we heard that she must go to a warm country for two or three years. The news fell upon the household like the tolling of a death-bell. Everybody was sorry. The master arranged for breaking up his establishment and leaving England. We used to hear it talked about in our stable; indeed, nothing else was talked about. John went about his work silent and sad, and Joe scarcely whistled. There was a great deal of coming and going; Ginger and I had full work. The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Flora with their governess. They came to bid us good-bye. They hugged poor Merrylegs like an old friend, and so indeed he was. Then we heard what had been arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to an old friend. Merrylegs he had given to the vicar, who was wanting a pony for Mrs. Blomefield, but it was on the condition that he should never be sold, and that when he was past work he should be shot and buried. Joe was engaged to take care of him and to help in the house, so I thought that Merrylegs was well off. [Illustration] "Have you decided what to do, John?" he said. "No, sir; I have made up my mind that if I could get a situation with some first-rate colt-breaker and horse-trainer, it would be the right thing for me. Many young animals are frightened and spoiled by wrong treatment, which need not be if the right man took them in hand. I always get on well with horses, and if I could help some of them to a fair start I should feel as if I was doing some good. What do you think of it, sir?" "I don't know a man anywhere," said master, "that I should think so suitable for it as yourself. You understand horses, and somehow they understand you, and I think you could not do better." The last sad day had come; the footman and the heavy luggage had gone off the day before, and there were only master and mistress, and her maid. Ginger and I brought the carriage up to the Hall door, for the last time. The servants brought out cushions and rugs, and when all were arranged, master came down the steps carrying the mistress in his arms (I was on the side next the house, and could see all that went on); he placed her carefully in the carriage, while the house servants stood round crying. "Good-bye, again," he said; "we shall not forget any of you," and he got in. "Drive on, John." Joe jumped up and we trotted slowly through the park and through the village, where the people were standing at their doors to have a last look and to say, "God bless them." When we reached the railway station, I think mistress walked from the carriage to the waiting-room. I heard her say in her own sweet voice, "Good-bye, John; God bless you." I felt the rein twitch, but John made no answer; perhaps he could not speak. As soon as Joe had taken the things out of the carriage, John called him to stand by the horses, while he went on the platform. Poor Joe! He stood close up to our heads to hide his tears. Very soon the train came puffing into the station; then two or three minutes, and the doors were slammed to; the guard whistled and the train glided away, leaving behind it only clouds of white smoke and some very heavy hearts. When it was quite out of sight, John came back. "We shall never see her again," he said--"never." He took the reins, mounted the box, and with Joe drove slowly home; but it was not our home now. CHAPTER IX EARLSHALL The next morning after breakfast, Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress' low chaise to take him to the vicarage; he came first and said good-bye to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the yard. Then John put the saddle on Ginger and the leading rein on me, and rode us across the country to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of W---- lived. There was a very fine house and a great deal of stabling. We went into the yard through a stone gateway, and John asked for Mr. York. It was some time before he came. He was a fine-looking, middle-aged man, and his voice said at once that he expected to be obeyed. He was very friendly and polite to John, and after giving us a slight look, he called a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some refreshment. We were taken to a light, airy stable, and placed in boxes adjoining each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half an hour John and York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to see us. "Now, Manly," he said, after carefully looking at us both, "I can see no fault in these horses; but we all know that horses have their peculiarities as well as men, and that sometimes they need different treatment. I should like to know if there is anything particular in either of these that you would like to mention." "Well," said John, "I don't believe there is a better pair of horses in the country, and right grieved I am to part with them, but they are not alike. The black one is the most perfect temper I ever knew; I suppose he has never known a hard word or blow since he was foaled, and all his pleasure seems to be to do what you wish; but the chestnut, I fancy, must have had bad treatment; we heard as much from the dealer. She came to us snappish and suspicious, but when she found what sort of place ours was, it all went off by degrees; for three years I have never seen the smallest sign of temper, and if she is well treated there is not a better, more willing animal than she is. But she has naturally a more irritable constitution than the black horse; flies tease her more; anything wrong in her harness frets her more; and if she were ill-used or unfairly treated she would not be unlikely to give tit for tat. You know that many high-mettled horses will do so." [Illustration] "Of course," said York, "I quite understand; but you know it is not easy in stables like these to have all the grooms just what they should be. I do my best, and there I must leave it. I'll remember what you have said about the mare." They were going out of the stable, when John stopped, and said, "I had better mention that we have never used the check-rein with either of them; the black horse never had one on, and the dealer said it was the gag-bit that spoiled the other's temper." "Well," said York, "if they come here, they must wear the check-rein. I prefer a loose rein myself, and his lordship is always very reasonable about horses; but my lady--that's another thing; she will have style, and if her carriage horses are not reined up tight she wouldn't look at them. I always stand out against the gag-bit, and shall do so, but it must be tight up when my lady rides!" "I am sorry for it," said John; "but I must go now, or I shall lose the train." He came round to each of us to pat and speak to us for the last time; his voice sounded very sad. I held my face close to him; that was all I could do to say good-bye; and then he was gone, and I have never seen him since. The next day Lord W---- came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our appearance. "I have great confidence in these horses," he said, "from the character my friend Gordon has given me of them. Of course they are not a match in color, but my idea is that they will do very well for the carriage while we are in the country. Before we go to London I must try to match Baron; the black horse, I believe, is perfect for riding." York then told him what John had said about us. "Well," said he, "you must keep an eye to the mare, and put the check-rein easy; I dare say they will do very well with a little humoring at first. I'll mention it to your lady." In the afternoon we were harnessed and put in the carriage and led round to the front of the house. It was all very grand, and three times as large as the old house at Birtwick, but not half so pleasant, if a horse may have an opinion. Two footmen were standing ready, dressed in drab livery, with scarlet breeches and white stockings. Presently we heard the rustling sound of silk as my lady came down the flight of stone steps. She stepped round to look at us; she was a tall, proud-looking woman, and did not seem pleased about something, but she said nothing, and got into the carriage. This was the first time of wearing a check-rein, and I must say, though it certainly was a nuisance not to be able to get my head down now and then, it did not pull my head higher than I was accustomed to carry it. I felt anxious about Ginger, but she seemed to be quiet and content. [Illustration] The next day we were again at the door, and the footmen as before; we heard the silk dress rustle, and the lady came down the steps, and in an imperious voice, she said, "York, you must put those horses' heads higher, they are not fit to be seen." York got down, and said very respectfully, "I beg your pardon, my lady, but these horses have not been reined up for three years, and my lord said it would be safer to bring them to it by degrees; but, if your ladyship pleases, I can take them up a little more." "Do so," she said. York came round to our heads and shortened the rein himself, one hole, I think. Every little makes a difference, be it for better or worse, and that day we had a steep hill to go up. Then I began to understand what I had heard of. Of course, I wanted to put my head forward and take the carriage up with a will as we had been used to do; but no, I had to pull with my head up now, and that took all the spirit out of me, and the strain came on my back and legs. When we came in, Ginger said, "Now you see what it is like; but this is not bad, and if it does not get much worse than this I shall say nothing about it, for we are very well treated here; but if they strain me up tight, why, let 'em look out! I can't bear it, and I won't." Day by day, hole by hole, our bearing-reins were shortened, and instead of looking forward with pleasure to having my harness put on, as I used to do, I began to dread it. Ginger too seemed restless, thought she said very little. The worst was yet to come. CHAPTER X A STRIKE FOR LIBERTY One day my lady came down later than usual, and the silk rustled more than ever. "Drive to the Duchess of B----'s," she said, and then after a pause, "Are you never going to get those horses' heads up, York? Raise them at once, and let us have no more of this humoring nonsense." York came to me first, while the groom stood at Ginger's head. He drew my head back and fixed the rein so tight that it was almost intolerable; then he went to Ginger, who was impatiently jerking her head up and down against the bit, as was her way now. She had a good idea of what was coming, and the moment York took the rein off the turret in order to shorten it, she took her opportunity, and reared up so suddenly that York had his nose roughly hit and his hat knocked off; the groom was nearly thrown off his legs. At once they both flew to her head, but she was a match for them, and went on plunging, rearing, and kicking in a most desperate manner; at last she kicked right over the carriage pole and fell down, after giving me a severe blow on my near quarter. There is no knowing what further mischief she might have done, had not York sat himself down flat on her head to prevent her struggling, at the same time calling out, "Unbuckle the black horse! Run for the winch and unscrew the carriage pole! Cut the trace here, somebody, if you can't unhitch it!" The groom soon set me free from Ginger and the carriage, and led me to my box. He just turned me in as I was, and ran back to York. I was much excited by what had happened, and if I had ever been used to kick or rear I am sure I should have done it then; but I never had, and there I stood, angry, sore in my leg, my head still strained up to the terret on the saddle, and no power to get it down. I was very miserable, and felt much inclined to kick the first person who came near me. Before long, however, Ginger was led in by two grooms, a good deal knocked about and bruised. York came with her and gave us orders, and then came to look at me. In a moment he let down my head. "Confound these check-reins!" he said to himself; "I thought we should have some mischief soon. Master will be sorely vexed. But here, if a woman's husband can't rule her, of course a servant can't; so I wash my hands of it, and if she can't get to the Duchess' garden party I can't help it." York did not say this before the men; he always spoke respectfully when they were by. Now he felt me all over, and soon found the place above my hock where I had been kicked. It was swelled and painful; he ordered it to be sponged with hot water, and then some lotion was put on. [Illustration] Lord W--- was much put out when he learned what had happened; he blamed York for giving way to his mistress, to which he replied that in future he would much prefer to receive his orders only from his lordship. I thought York might have stood up better for his horses, but perhaps I am no judge. Ginger was never put into the carriage again, but when she was well of her bruises one of Lord W----'s younger sons said he should like to have her; he was sure she would make a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged still to go in the carriage, and had a fresh partner called Max; he had always been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it. "Well," he said, "I bear it because I must; but it is shortening my life, and it will shorten yours too, if you have to stick to it." "Do you think," I said, "that our masters know how bad it is for us?" "I can't say," he replied, "but the dealers and the horse-doctors know it very well. I was at a dealer's once, who was training me and another horse to go as a pair; he was getting our heads up, and he said, a little higher and a little higher every day. A gentleman who was there asked him why he did so. 'Because,' said he, 'people won't buy them unless we do. The fashionable people want their horses to carry their heads high and to step high. Of course, it is very bad for the horses, but then it is good for trade. The horses soon wear up, and they come for another pair.' That," said Max, "is what he said in my hearing, and you can judge for yourself." What I suffered with that rein for four months in my lady's carriage would be hard to describe; but I am quite sure that, had it lasted much longer, either my health or my temper would have given way. Before that, I never knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now the action of the sharp bit on my tongue and jaw, and the constrained position of my head and throat, always caused me to froth at the mouth more or less. Some people think it very fine to see this, and say, "What fine, spirited creatures!" But it is just as unnatural for horses as for men to foam at the mouth; it is a sure sign of some discomfort, and should be attended to. Besides this, there was a pressure on my windpipe, which often made my breathing very uncomfortable; when I returned from my work, my neck and chest were strained and painful, my mouth and tongue tender, and I felt worn and depressed. [Illustration] In my old home I always knew that John and my master were my friends; but here, although in many ways I was well treated, I had no friend. York might have known, and very likely did know, how that rein harassed me; but I suppose he took it as a matter of course that could not be helped; at any rate, nothing was done to relieve me. CHAPTER XI A HORSE FAIR No doubt a horse fair is a very amusing place to those who have nothing to lose; at any rate, there is plenty to see. Long strings of young horses out of the country, fresh from the marshes, and droves of shaggy little Welsh ponies, no higher than Merrylegs; and hundreds of cart horses of all sorts, some of them with their long tails braided up and tied with scarlet cord; and a good many like myself, handsome and high-bred, but fallen into the middle class, through some accident or blemish, unsoundness of wind, or some other complaint. There were some splendid animals quite in their prime, and fit for anything, they were throwing out their legs and showing off their paces in high style, as they were trotted out with a leading rein, the groom running by the side. But round in the background there were a number of poor things, sadly broken down with hard work, with their knees knuckling over and their hind legs swinging out at every step; and there were some very dejected-looking old horses, with the under-lip hanging down and the ears lying back heavily, as if there was no more pleasure in life, and no more hope; there were some so thin you might see all their ribs, and some with old sores on their backs and hips. These were sad sights for a horse to look upon, who knows not but he may come to the same state. I was put with some useful-looking horses, and a good many people came to look at us. The gentlemen always turned from me when they saw my broken knees; though the man who had me swore it was only a slip in the stall. The first thing was to pull my mouth open, then to look at my eyes, then feel all the way down my legs and give me a hard feel of the skin and flesh, and then try my paces. It was wonderful what a difference there was in the way these things were done. Some did it in a rough, off-hand way, as if one was only a piece of wood; while others would take their hands gently over one's body, with a pat now and then, as much as to say, "By your leave." Of course, I judged a good deal of the buyers by their manners to myself. There was one man, I thought, if he would buy me, I should be happy. He was not a gentleman. He was rather a small man, but well made, and quick in all his motions. I knew in a moment, by the way he handled me, that he was used to horses; he spoke gently, and his gray eye had a kindly, cheery look in it. It may seem strange to say--but it is true all the same--that the clean, fresh smell there was about him made me take to him; no smell of old beer and tobacco, which I hated, but a fresh smell as if he had come out of a hayloft. He offered twenty-three pounds for me; but that was refused, and he walked away. I looked after him, but he was gone, and a very hard-looking, loud-voiced man came. I was dreadfully afraid he would have me; but he walked off. One or two more came who did not mean business. Then the hard-faced man came back again and offered twenty-three pounds. A very close bargain was being driven, for my salesman began to think he should not get all he asked, and must come down; but just then the gray-eyed man came back again. I could not help reaching out my head toward him. He stroked my face kindly. "Well, old chap," he said, "I think we should suit each other. I'll give twenty-four for him." "Say twenty-five, and you shall have him." "Twenty-four then," said my friend, in a very decided tone, "and not another sixpence--yes, or no?" "Done," said the salesman; "and you may depend upon it there's a monstrous deal of quality in that horse, and if you want him for cab work he's a bargain." [Illustration] The money was paid on the spot, and my new master took my halter, and led me out of the fair to an inn, where he had a saddle and bridle ready. He gave me a good feed of oats, and stood by while I ate it, talking to himself and talking to me. Half an hour after, we were on our way to London, through pleasant lanes and country roads, until we came into the great thoroughfare, on which we traveled steadily, till in the twilight we reached the great city. The gas lamps were already lighted; there were streets and streets crossing each other, for mile upon mile. I thought we should never come to the end of them. At last, in passing through one, we came to a long cab stand, when my rider called out in a cheery voice, "Good-night, Governor!" "Hallo!" cried a voice. "Have you got a good one?" "I think so," replied my owner. "I wish you luck with him." "Thank ye, Governor," and he rode on. We soon turned up one of the side-streets, and about half-way up that we turned into a very narrow street, with rather poor-looking houses on one side, and what seemed to be coach-houses and stables on the other. My owner pulled up at one of the houses and whistled. The door flew open, and a young woman, followed by a little girl and boy, ran out. There was a very lively greeting as my rider dismounted. "Now, then, Harry, my boy, open the gates, and mother will bring us the lantern." The next minute they were all round me in the stable yard. "Is he gentle, father?" "Yes, Dolly, as gentle as your own kitten; come and pat him." At once the little hand was patting about all over my shoulder without fear. How good it felt! "Let me get him a bran mash while you rub him down," said the mother. "Do, Polly, it's just what he wants; and I know you've got a beautiful mash ready for me." I was led into a comfortable, clean-smelling stall with plenty of dry straw, and after a capital supper, I lay down, thinking I was going to be happy. CHAPTER XII A LONDON CAB HORSE My new master's name was Jeremiah Barker, but as every one called him Jerry, I shall do the same. Polly, his wife, was just as good a match as a man could have. She was a plump, trim, tidy little woman, with smooth, dark hair, dark eyes, and a merry little mouth. The boy was nearly twelve years old, a tall, frank, good-tempered lad; and little Dorothy (Dolly they called her) was her mother over again, at eight years old. They were all wonderfully fond of each other; I never knew such a happy, merry family before or since. Jerry had a cab of his own, and two horses, which he drove and attended to himself. His other horse was a tall, white, rather large-boned animal, called Captain. He was old now, but when he was young he must have been splendid; he had still a proud way of holding his head and arching his neck; in fact, he was a high-bred, fine-mannered, noble old horse, every inch of him. He told me that in his early youth he went to the Crimean War; he belonged to an officer in the cavalry, and used to lead the regiment. The next morning, when I was well-groomed, Polly and Dolly came into the yard to see me and make friends. Harry had been helping his father since the early morning, and had stated his opinion that I should turn out "a regular brick." Polly brought me a slice of apple, and Dolly a piece of bread, and made as much of me as if I had been the Black Beauty of olden time. It was a great treat to be petted again and talked to in a gentle voice, and I let them see as well as I could that I wished to be friendly. Polly thought I was very handsome, and a great deal too good for a cab, if it was not for the broken knees. "Of course there's no one to tell us whose fault that was," said Jerry, "and as long as I don't know I shall give him the benefit of the doubt; for a firmer, neater stepper I never rode. We'll call him Jack, after the old one--shall we, Polly?" "Do," she said, "for I like to keep a good name going." [Illustration] Captain went out in the cab all the morning. Harry came in after school to feed me and give me water. In the afternoon I was put into the cab. Jerry took as much pains to see if the collar and bridle fitted comfortably as if he had been John Manly over again. There was no check-rein, no curb, nothing but a plain ring snaffle. What a blessing that was! After driving through the side-street we came to the large cabstand where Jerry had said "Good-night." On one side of this wide street were high houses with wonderful shop fronts, and on the other was an old church and churchyard, surrounded by iron palisades. Alongside these iron rails a number of cabs were drawn up, waiting for passengers; bits of hay were lying about on the ground; some of the men were standing together talking; some were sitting on their boxes reading the newspaper; and one or two were feeding their horses with bits of hay, and giving them a drink of water. We pulled up in the rank at the back of the last cab. Two or three men came round and began to look at me and pass their remarks. "Very good for a funeral," said one. "Too smart-looking," said another, shaking his head in a very wise way; "you'll find out something wrong one of these fine mornings, or my name isn't Jones." "Well," said Jerry pleasantly, "I suppose I need not find it out till it find me out, eh? And if so, I'll keep up my spirits a little longer." Then there came up a broad-faced man, dressed in a great gray coat with great gray capes and great white buttons, a gray hat, and a blue comforter loosely tied around his neck; his hair was gray, too; but he was a jolly-looking fellow, and the other men made way for him. He looked me all over, as if he had been going to buy me; and then straightening himself up with a grunt, he said, "He's the right sort for you, Jerry; I don't care what you gave for him, he'll be worth it." Thus my character was established on the stand. This man's name was Grant, but he was called "Gray Grant," or "Governor Grant." He had been the longest on that stand of any of the men, and he took it upon himself to settle matters and stop disputes. The first week of my life as a cab horse was very trying. I had never been used to London, and the noise, the hurry, the crowds of horses, carts, and carriages, that I had to make my way through, made me feel anxious and harassed; but I soon found that I could perfectly trust my driver, and then I made myself easy, and got used to it. [Illustration] Jerry was as good a driver as I had ever known; and what was better, he took as much thought for his horses as he did for himself. He soon found out that I was willing to work and do my best; and he never laid the whip on me, unless it was gently drawing the end of it over my back, when I was to go on; but generally I knew this quite well by the way in which he took up the reins; and I believe his whip was more frequently stuck up by his side than in his hand. In a short time I and my master understood each other, as well as horse and man can do. In the stable, too, he did all that he could for our comfort. The stalls were the old-fashioned style, too much on the slope; but he had two movable bars fixed across the back of our stalls, so that at night, when we were resting, he just took off our halters and put up the bars, and thus we could turn about and stand whichever way we pleased, which is a great comfort. Jerry kept us very clean, and gave us as much change of food as he could, and always plenty of it; and not only that, but he always gave us plenty of clean fresh water, which he allowed to stand by us both night and day, except of course when we came in warm. Some people say that a horse ought not to drink all he likes; but I know if we are allowed to drink when we want it we drink only a little at a time, and it does us a great deal more good than swallowing down half a bucketful at a time because we have been left without till we are thirsty and miserable. Some grooms will go home to their beer and leave us for hours with our dry hay and oats and nothing to moisten them; then of course we gulp down too much at once, which helps to spoil our breathing and sometimes chills our stomachs. But the best thing that we had here was our Sundays for rest! we worked so hard in the week, that I do not think we could have kept up to it, but for that day; besides, we had then time to enjoy each other's company. CHAPTER XIII DOLLY AND A REAL GENTLEMAN The winter came in early, with a great deal of cold and wet. There was snow, or sleet, or rain, almost every day for weeks, changing only for keen driving winds or sharp frosts. The horses all felt it very much. When it is a dry cold, a couple of good thick rugs will keep the warmth in us; but when it is soaking rain, they soon get wet through and are no good. Some of the drivers had a waterproof cover to throw over, which was a fine thing; but some of the men were so poor that they could not protect either themselves or their horses, and many of them suffered very much that winter. When we horses had worked half the day we went to our dry stables, and could rest; while they had to sit on their boxes, sometimes staying out as late as one or two o'clock in the morning, if they had a party to wait for. [Illustration] When the streets were slippery with frost or snow, that was the worst of all for us horses; one mile of such traveling with a weight to draw, and no firm footing, would take more out of us than four on a good road; every nerve and muscle of our bodies is on the strain to keep our balance; and, added to this, the fear of falling is more exhausting than anything else. If the roads are very bad, indeed, our shoes are roughed, but that makes us feel nervous at first. One cold windy day, Dolly brought Jerry a basin of something hot, and was standing by him while he ate it. He had scarcely begun, when a gentleman, walking toward us very fast, held up his umbrella. Jerry touched his hat in return, gave the basin to Dolly, and was taking off my cloth, when the gentleman, hastening up, cried out, "No, no, finish your soup, my friend; I have not much time to spare, but I can wait till you have done, and set your little girl safe on the pavement." So saying, he seated himself in the cab. Jerry thanked him kindly, and came back to Dolly. "There, Dolly, that's a gentleman; that's a real gentleman, Dolly; he has got time and thought for the comfort of a poor cabman and a little girl." [Illustration] Jerry finished his soup, set the child across, and then took his orders to drive to Clapham Rise. Several times after that, the same gentleman took our cab. I think he was very fond of dogs and horses, for whenever we took him to his own door, two or three dogs would come bounding out to meet him. Sometimes he came round and patted me saying in his quiet, pleasant way: "This horse has got a good master, and he deserves it." It was a very rare thing for any one to notice the horse that had been working for him. I have known ladies to do it now and then, and this gentleman, and one or two others have given me a pat and a kind word; but ninety-nine out of a hundred would as soon think of patting the steam engine that drew the train. One day, he and another gentleman took our cab; they stopped at a shop in R---- Street, and while his friend went in, he stood at the door. A little ahead of us on the other side of the street, a cart with two very fine horses was standing before some wine vaults; the carter was not with them, and I cannot tell how long they had been standing, but they seemed to think they had waited long enough, and began to move off. Before they had gone, many paces, the carter came running out and caught them. He seemed furious at their having moved, and with whip and rein punished them brutally, even beating them about the head. Our gentleman saw it all, and stepping quickly across the street, said in a decided voice: "If you don't stop that directly, I'll have you arrested for leaving your horses, and for brutal conduct." The man, who had clearly been drinking, poured forth some abusive language, but he left off knocking the horses about, and taking the reins, got into his cart; meantime our friend had quietly taken a notebook from his pocket, and looking at the name and address painted on the cart, he wrote something down. "What do you want with that?" growled the carter, as he cracked his whip and was moving on. A nod and a grim smile was the only answer he got. On returning to the cab, our friend was joined by his companion, who said laughing, "I should have thought, Wright, you had enough business of your own to look after, without troubling yourself about other people's horses and servants." Our friend stood still for a moment, and throwing his head a little back, "Do you know why this world is as bad as it is?" "No," said the other. "Then I'll tell you. It is because people think only about their own business, and won't trouble themselves to stand up for the oppressed, nor bring the wrong-doer to light. I never see a wicked thing like this without doing what I can, and many a master has thanked me for letting him know how his horses have been used." "I wish there were more gentlemen like you, sir," said Jerry, "for they are wanted badly enough in this city." CHAPTER XIV POOR GINGER One day, while our cab and many others were waiting outside one of the parks where music was playing, a shabby old cab drove up beside ours. The horse was an old worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and bones that showed plainly through it, the knees knuckled over, and the fore-legs were very unsteady. I had been eating some hay, and the wind rolled a little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out her long thin neck and picked it up, and then turned round and looked about for more. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse before, she looked full at me and said, "Black Beauty, is that you?" It was Ginger! but how changed! The beautifully arched and glossy neck was now straight, and lank, and fallen in; the clean, straight legs and delicate fetlocks were swelled; the joints were grown out of shape with hard work; the face, that was once so full of spirit and life, was now full of suffering, and I could tell by the heaving of her sides, and her frequent cough, how bad her breath was. Our drivers were standing together a little way off, so I sidled up to her a step or two, that we might have a little quiet talk. It was a sad tale that she had to tell. After a twelvemonth's run off at Earlshall, she was considered to be fit for work again, and was sold to a gentleman. For a little while she got on very well, but after a longer gallop than usual, the old strain returned, and after being rested and doctored she was again sold. In this way she changed hands several times, but always getting lower down. [Illustration] "And so at last," said she, "I was bought by a man who keeps a number of cabs and horses, and lets them out. You look well off, and I am glad of it, but I could not tell you what my life has been. When they found out my weakness, they said I was not worth what they gave for me, and that I must go into one of the low cabs, and just be used up; that is what they are doing, whipping and working with never one thought of what I suffer--they paid for me, and must get it out of me, they say. The man who hires me now pays a deal of money to the owner every day, and so he has to get it out of me, too; and so it's all the week round and round, with never a Sunday rest." I said, "You used to stand up for yourself if you were ill-used." "Ah!" she said, "I did once, but it's no use; men are strongest, and if they are cruel and have no feeling, there is nothing that we can do but just bear it--bear it on and on to the end. I wish the end was come, I wish I was dead. I have seen dead horses, and I am sure they do not suffer pain." I was very much troubled, and I put my nose up to hers, but I could say nothing to comfort her. I think she was pleased to see me, for she said, "You are the only friend I ever had." Just then her driver came up, and with a tug at her mouth, backed her out of the line and drove off, leaving me very sad, indeed. A short time after this, a cart with a dead horse in it passed our cab stand. The head hung out of the cart tail, the lifeless tongue was slowly dropping with blood; and the sunken eyes! but I can't speak of them, the sight was too dreadful! It was a chestnut horse with a long, thin neck. I saw a white streak down the forehead. I believe it was Ginger; I hoped it was, for then her troubles would be over. Oh! if men were more merciful, they would shoot us before we came to such misery. CHAPTER XV At a sale I found myself in company with a lot of horses--some lame, some broken-winded, some old, and some that I am sure it would have been merciful to shoot. [Illustration] The buyers and sellers, too, many of them, looked not much better off than the poor beasts they were bargaining about. There were poor old men, trying to get a horse or pony for a few pounds, that might drag about some little wood or coal cart. There were poor men trying to sell a worn-out beast for two or three pounds, rather than have the greater loss of killing him. Some of them looked as if poverty and hard times had hardened them all over; but there were others that I would have willingly used the last of my strength in serving; poor and shabby, but kind and humane, with voices that I could trust. There was one tottering old man that took a great fancy to me, and I to him, but I was not strong enough--it was an anxious time! Coming from the better part of the fair, I noticed a man who looked like a gentleman farmer, with a young boy by his side; he had a broad back and round shoulders, a kind, ruddy face, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat. When he came up to me and my companions, he stood still, and gave a pitiful look round upon us. I saw his eye rest on me; I had still a good mane and tail, which did something for my appearance. I pricked my ears and looked at him. "There's a horse, Willie, that has known better days." "Poor old fellow!" said the boy; "do you think, grandpapa, he was ever a carriage horse?" "Oh, yes! my boy," said the farmer, coming closer, "he might have been anything when he was young; look at his nostrils and his ears, the shape of his neck and shoulder; there's a deal of breeding about that horse." He put out his hand and gave me a kind pat on the neck. I put out my nose in answer to his kindness; the boy stroked my face. "Poor old fellow! see, grandpapa, how well he understands kindness. Could not you buy him and make him young again as you did with Ladybird?" "My dear boy, I can't make all old horses young; besides, Ladybird was not so very old, as she was run down and badly used." "Well, grandpapa, I don't believe that this one is old; look at his mane and tail. I wish you would look into his mouth, and then you could tell; though he is so very thin, his eyes are not sunk like some old horses." The old gentleman laughed. "Bless the boy! he is as horsey as his old grandfather." "But do look at his mouth, grandpapa, and ask the price; I am sure he would grow young in our meadows." The man who had brought me for sale now put in his word. "The young gentleman's a real knowing one, sir. Now, the fact is, this 'ere hoss is just pulled down with over-work in the cabs; he's not an old one, and I heard as how the vetenary said that a six-months' run off would set him right up, being as how his wind was not broken. I've had the tending of him these ten days past, and a gratefuller, pleasanter animal I never met with, and 'twould be worth a gentleman's while to give a five-pound note for him, and let him have a chance. I'll be bound he'd be worth twenty pounds next spring." The old gentleman laughed, and the little boy looked up eagerly. "O, grandpapa, did you not say the colt sold for five pounds more than you expected? You would not be poorer if you did buy this one." The farmer slowly felt my legs, which were much swelled and strained; then he looked at my mouth. "Thirteen or fourteen, I should say; just trot him out, will you?" I arched my poor thin neck, raised my tail a little and threw out my legs as well as I could, for they were very stiff. "What is the lowest you will take for him?" said the farmer as I came back. "Five pounds, sir; that was the lowest price my master set." "'Tis a speculation," said the old gentleman, shaking his head, but at the same time slowly drawing out his purse, "quite a speculation! Have you any more business here?" he said, counting the sovereigns into his hand. "No, sir, I can take him for you to the inn, if you please." "Do so, I am now going there." CHAPTER XVI MY LAST HOME One day, during this summer, the groom cleaned and dressed me with such extraordinary care that I thought some new change must be at hand; he trimmed my fetlocks and legs, passed the tar-brush over my hoofs, and even parted my forelock. I think the harness had an extra polish. Willie seemed half-anxious, half-merry, as he got into the chaise with his grandfather. "If the ladies take to him," said the old gentleman, "they'll be suited and he'll be suited; we can but try." [Illustration] At the distance of a mile or two from the village, we came to a pretty, low house, with a lawn and shrubbery at the front, and a drive up to the door. Willie rang the bell, and asked if Miss Blomefield or Miss Ellen was at home. Yes, they were. So, while Willie stayed with me, Mr. Thoroughgood went into the house. In about ten minutes he returned, followed by three ladies; one tall, pale lady, wrapped in a white shawl, leaned on a younger lady, with dark eyes and a merry face; the other, a very stately-looking person, was Miss Blomefield. They all came and looked at me and asked questions. The younger lady--that was Miss Ellen--took to me very much; she said she was sure she should like me, I had such a good face. The tall, pale lady said she should always be nervous in riding behind a horse that had once been down, as I might come down again, and if I did she should never get over the fright." "You see, ladies," said Mr. Thoroughgood, "many first-rate horses have had their knees broken through the carelessness of their drivers, without any fault of their own, and from what I see of this horse, I should say that is his case; but, of course, I do not wish to influence you. If you incline, you can have him on trial, and then your coachman will see what he thinks of him." "You have always been such a good adviser to us about our horses," said the stately lady, "that your recommendation would go a long way with me, and if my sister Lavinia sees no objection, we will accept your offer of a trial, with thanks." It was then arranged that I should be sent for the next day. In the morning a smart-looking young man came for me; at first, he looked pleased; but when he saw my knees, he said in a disappointed voice: "I didn't think, sir, you would have recommended a blemished horse like that." "'Handsome is that handsome does,'" said my master; "you are only taking him on trial, and I am sure you will do fairly by him, young man; if he is not safe as any horse you ever drove, send him back." I was led to my new home, placed in a comfortable stable, fed, and left to myself. The next day, when my groom was cleaning my face, he said: "That is just like the star that Black Beauty had, he is much the same height, too; I wonder where he is now." A little further on, he came to the place in my neck where I was bled, and where a little knot was left in the skin. He almost started, and begun to look me over carefully, talking to himself. "White star in the forehead, one white foot on the off side, this little knot just in that place"; then, looking at the middle of my back--"and as I am alive, there is that little patch of white hair that John used to call 'Beauty's threepenny bit.' It must be Black Beauty! Why, Beauty! Beauty! do you know me? little Joe Green, that almost killed you?" And he began patting and patting me as if he was quite overjoyed. I could not say that I remembered him, for now he was a fine grown young fellow, with black whiskers, and a man's voice, but I was sure he knew me, and that he was Joe Green, and I was very glad. I put my nose up to him, and tried to say that we were friends. I never saw a man so pleased. "Give you a fair trial! I should think so, indeed! I wonder who the rascal was that broke your knees, my old Beauty! you must have been badly served out somewhere; well, well, it won't be my fault if you haven't good times of it now. I wish John Manly was here to see you." In the afternoon I was put into a low Park chair and brought to the door. Miss Ellen was going to try me, and Green went with her. I soon found that she was a good driver, and she seemed pleased with my paces. I heard Joe telling her about me, and that he was sure I was Squire Gordon's old "Black Beauty." When we returned, the other sisters came out to hear how I had behaved myself. She told them what she had just heard, and said: "I shall certainly write to Mrs. Gordon, and tell her that her favorite horse has come to us. How pleased she will be!" After this I was driven every day for a week or so, and as I appeared to be quite safe, Miss Lavinia at last ventured out in the small close carriage. After this it was quite decided to keep me and call me by my old name of Black Beauty. I have now lived in this happy place a whole year. [Illustration] 
32301	----	INDIAN CHILD LIFE [Illustration] By E. W. DEMING [Illustration] INDIAN CHILD LIFE WITH NUMEROUS FULL-PAGE COLOUR-PLATES AFTER PAINTINGS IN WATER-COLOUR TOGETHER WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK-AND-WHITE BY EDWIN WILLARD DEMING AND WITH NEW STORIES BY THERESE O. DEMING [Illustration] NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS _PRINTED IN AMERICA_ [Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A RUNAWAY. Once, after an ARICKARA Indian mother had finished all her packing, as they were going to move camp, she fixed a travois on her big dog and placed her baby in the basket. Then all was ready and they were about to start, when a great, ugly black dog came along, and the two dogs began to fight. The squaw whipped them apart, and after she had quieted her poor little baby boy, who had been very much frightened, she put him back into his little carriage, and soon the Indians started. [Illustration: THE TWO DOGS BEGAN TO FIGHT.] The squaw walked beside the dog to guide him and, also, to amuse her baby. Indian babies play with little dolls made of buckskin, with long buckskin fringe for hair. If a feather is placed in the dolly's hair the babies think it is beautifully dressed. The baby of our story was having a lovely time with his dolly and so his mother thought she would just drop back and have a little chat with another Indian mother while the baby was good. She had hardly turned around, when that naughty dog saw a great big jack rabbit, just ahead, and thought it would make a delicious dinner. Off he started. He jumped right through the rough sage brush, and the poor baby rolled out. His mother was afraid he would be badly hurt, but he was only frightened. When the squaw caught the naughty dog again, she tied a rope around his neck and kept tight hold of it, so he couldn't play another trick on her. When the Indians stopped and camped, the little boy picked up a stick and whipped that dog as hard as he could for treating him so badly during the day's traveling. [Illustration: THE LITTLE BOY PICKED UP A STICK.] [Illustration] A GREEDY BEAR. Once there was a little PUEBLO Indian boy and his father was one of the best hunters in the village. One morning he went out into the mountains to shoot deer, the meat of which was to be dried for the winter supply. He was walking very carefully, as he would have frightened the game away if he had made a noise. Suddenly he heard a sound as if a mama bear were scolding a cub for being selfish. He looked, and there, indeed, was an old she-bear turning over stones and trying to find some grubs for her babies. [Illustration: TRYING TO FIND SOME GRUBS FOR HER BABIES.] The Indian shot the mama bear and one of the cubs scampered off as fast as he could go, but the hunter caught the other little bear and tied a horse-hair rope tight around the little fellow's neck, so he could drag him home to his little TAN-TSI-DAY. The two became very good friends, and when TAN-TSI-DAY'S mother brought a bowl of porridge to her baby, she always put in enough for the baby bear too. One day the baby bear was naughty, and when TAN-TSI-DAY'S mother had gone into the house, he took the bowl and ate all the porridge himself, and didn't give his little playfellow any. The baby was very much surprised, and called his Indian mother. Do you know how she punished the selfish little bear? When the next meal-time came, she just brought enough of the good porridge for her TAN-TSI-DAY, and made that naughty bear eat with the puppies. I think baby bear won't be such a greedy little fellow when allowed to eat with his little companion again. [Illustration: DRAG HIM HOME TO HIS TAN-TSI-DAY.] [Illustration] IN MISCHIEF. The naughty bear had been kept away from his playfellow for some time, and as the two loved one another so much, it made them both feel very sad. One day the Indian mother went out to visit, and baby bear saw her go. "Now," thought he, "I will see my little friend, and, if I am a very good little bear, perhaps his mother will let us play together again." Baby bear crept along very carefully, and when he thought the mother was not looking he hid behind a bake oven and almost had his first accident, for TAN-TSI-DAY'S mother had left one of her best jars standing there with herbs to dry. [Illustration: HE HID BEHIND A BAKE OVEN.] When the mother had got out of sight the baby bear marched into the adobe home of his friend, and then the two companions were glad. But baby bear and TAN-TSI-DAY saw the jars with all the good things in them, and then they forgot to try to be good. They ate the dried berries and sweet roots; tipped the jars and baskets to see if any goodies were in them; and when they had eaten all they wanted, sat just as close to each other as possible and went fast asleep. After a while the mother came home, and when she saw those two fast asleep, the jars broken, and all her good things spilled over the floor, she became very angry and started to whip them. Baby bear wakened up and ran as fast as his clumsy little legs would let him; but he didn't reach the top of his pole before the Indian mother had given him a good switching. [Illustration: REACH THE TOP OF HIS POLE.] [Illustration] CANOE BOYS. Little CHIPPEWAY Indian boys have lots of good times. In the spring they help their fathers and big brothers to make maple sugar. They watch the birch-bark troughs and, when one is full of sap, carry and empty it into a big kettle over a fire to boil down. Often the bears find the sap during the night, and, as they like sweets very much, drink it all; and the little boys are disappointed in the morning, when they go around with their birch-bark buckets, to find it all gone. Sometimes the bears try to steal the boiling syrup, and then they get their paws badly burned for trying to be thieves. [Illustration: THE BEARS FIND THE SAP.] In summer, the boys love to swim and play in the little lakes that are so numerous in the region of their home. One afternoon a number of boys got into a canoe and paddled, and as many other boys waded out into one of the shallow lakes to have some fun. The boys in the water were to try and take the canoe away from the boys that were inside. Oh, how hard the two sides worked, one to keep the boat right side up, and the other side to capture it; for if they tipped the canoe and spilled all the boys out they gained the victory, and would get in and see if they could hold it. They splashed the water in all directions, and when one boy fell or was pulled out of the boat, didn't he get a good ducking! The little dog helped all he could by barking very loud and trying to frighten the boys in the water. They played until it was so dark they had to stop and go home. Their houses, canoes, baskets, buckets and various other things, are made out of the bark of the birch tree. Whenever any of the CHIPPEWAY Indians want to go visiting, they always go in canoes when possible, for they are canoe Indians and almost live in their boats. They seldom go visiting on horseback as most other tribes do. [Illustration: THEY ALWAYS GO IN CANOES.] [Illustration] WINTER FUN. The little ASSINIBOIN Indian boys had a great deal of snow in winter, and, as they have no sleds as white boys have, they took buffalo ribs and slid down hill on them. A little boy was walking over the snow one day, on his snow-shoes, when he thought what fun it would be, if the boys would all go over on the hill and slide. He walked through the village, playing he was the town crier, and called all the little boys out on the hill to slide. They all took their buffalo ribs and went out, and the little girls--some who had babies on their backs, and some who were only playing--and even the mothers and grandmothers went along to see how much fun the boys were going to have. [Illustration: A LITTLE BOY WAS WALKING OVER THE SNOW ONE DAY, ON HIS SNOW-SHOES.] Some of the boys fastened the buffalo ribs on their feet, while others made little sleds by fastening the ribs together and making cross pieces of wood. Then they started at the top of the hill and came down, one after the other, shouting and laughing while other boys threw snow at them. Several times they went down the hill without any accident, and they were beginning to think nothing could throw them. They all ran up the hill for another long slide, the first one up was to be the first to start. One started right after the other, and as the first one was nearly at the bottom of the hill he lost his balance and over he went. The other boys were close behind him, and as each one came he went over, and the boys and girls, who were watching thought that was more fun for them than the sliding had been. Even the three companions who had been throwing sticks over the snow to see which could make them slide farthest, stopped their game to see how the boys were piled on top of one another. [Illustration: THROWING STICKS OVER THE SNOW TO SEE WHICH COULD MAKE THEM SLIDE FARTHEST.] [Illustration] MR. AND MRS. ANTELOPE AND THE BABIES. One bright, sunny day, Mr. and Mrs. Antelope took little Baby Antelope out for a run. They knew where to find a lovely feeding-ground, so that their baby could have a good dinner of nice young grass. Mr. and Mrs. Antelope were walking along very quietly; but the baby was so pleased to get out, that she gamboled far away, and frisked about. Pretty soon she came running back very much frightened and said, "Oh Mamma and Papa Antelope, do come with me! I have seen some of the queerest little animals over near that tree, and I don't know what they are." [Illustration: MR. AND MRS. ANTELOPE TOOK LITTLE BABY ANTELOPE OUT FOR A RUN.] Mr. and Mrs. Antelope became very much worried, because they thought perhaps their little one had seen one of those animals that walk on two legs and carry a long iron stick that can hit and kill them from afar. As Mr. and Mrs. Antelope are very curious people, they wanted to see what their baby meant. Can you guess what they saw? Leaning against the tree were two queer little animals. Mr. and Mrs. Antelope thought hard and looked very keenly; but they had never seen such animals before. Weren't Mr. and Mrs. Antelope funny? They didn't know that if they stayed much longer, a SIOUX Indian mother would come out from the bushes where she was picking berries and frighten them away from her little baby and then she would have to scold her daughter TOM-BE for falling asleep and not taking better care of her baby brother. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE CLIFF-DWELLERS AND THEIR PETS. A long time ago, before the white people came to live here, the COCHITI Indians used to live in houses made by hollowing deep holes into the north side of the deep cañons. They built their houses to face the south, because it was warmer in winter when the fierce north wind came over the mountains to see what damage he could do. Instead of finding houses to go into, he could only blow against the mountains. The little boys used to climb down the sides of the cliffs from their homes, and play in the warm sunshine with their tame foxes and make them jump for dried meat. [Illustration] Sometimes they took their bows and arrows and went out to hunt wild turkeys in the arroyos, or deep gullies around their homes. At night the foxes found a warm place in some house that had been deserted, perhaps because the opening had grown too large and the sand had drifted in, or perhaps because it was not sheltered enough from the snow in winter. The boys would climb to their own houses. In those days, the men and boys had to watch from high places to warn the people of the approach of any of their enemies, because the NAVAJO and APACHE Indians troubled the PUEBLO Indians a great deal in olden times. As long as the watchers could see no enemy, the women used to carry water from the river--which was quite far away--gather wood and till little patches of ground, but as soon as the enemy came down upon them, they looked for water in wells dug into the rock to hold the rain when it fell. This water was always saved for cases of this kind. [Illustration: SOMETIMES THEY WENT OUT TO HUNT WILD TURKEYS.] [Illustration] THE BURRO RACE. TOM-O-PING was a little PUEBLO Indian boy and one day his father said to him, "TOM-O-PING take my big black burro over to the cañon to feed." TOM-O-PING didn't say, "wait a minute" to his father, but jumped right on his burro. As he was going through the pueblo, he met his three companions, A-GO-YA, TO-A and BO-PING. TOM-O-PING did not like to go alone, so he asked two of his little friends to jump on behind him while the third ran along as best he could, and they would all get their own burros and have a race. The boys did not have to be asked twice, so they jumped on behind TOM-O-PING and then, as they were anxious to get to racing, they all tried to hurry the poor old burro along by kicking him in the ribs while BO-PING'S dog barked at his heels. Mr. Burro was tired and wouldn't endure that long: so in a moment he was standing on his fore-legs and the three boys were turning somersaults over his head, while the dog was kicked high in the air. The boys jumped upon his back again and this time were more patient, so they finally reached the cañon where the donkeys were feeding in safety. [Illustration: WHILE BO-PING'S DOG BARKED AT HIS HEELS.] The three waited for their friend to come and then each boy caught his own little animal, and as TO-A was the eldest boy he gave the signal to start. ONE! TWO!! THREE!!! and off they went over fields and prairie, down the old trail and through the sage brush, shouting and laughing and urging their little steeds along. First BO-PING was a little ahead, and then he was glad, for he had been telling how well his little donkey could go. Then the others whipped their small animals a little harder for none wanted to be beaten. How they did go! You never saw four little donkeys go faster. At last the race came to an end, and the little children, who had gathered to see the finish, clapped their hands and laughed as TO-A, who was a favorite with them all, came in just a little ahead of his companions. [Illustration: THE BOYS WERE TURNING SOMERSAULTS OVER HIS HEAD.] [Illustration] LEARNING TO SHOOT. Indian fathers are just as proud of their little sons as white fathers are of theirs. One day, a CROW Indian chief came in from the mountains, where he had been hunting and said to his little son: "Now, my little warrior, you are getting to be a big boy, you must grow up to be a big chief of your tribe. You must learn to shoot and be brave so that when you grow up, you will earn a name, and your people will love you." The father gave his little son a tiny bow and some arrows, and taking him by the hand, called his little dog and went out to see what they could find to shoot at. Just outside of the tepees, were some bushes where the magpies had gathered and were chattering together, enjoying the beautiful sunshine. Magpies are very inquisitive birds, and when they saw the little hunter, come along with his dog and his father, one of the little birds jumped down from the bush and hopped over to see what they were going to do. The father thought this was a good chance for his boy, so he got down on the ground to instruct him. The little fellow shot, and do you know he killed one of those birds! [Illustration: GAVE HIS LITTLE SON A TINY BOW.] Then the father was just as proud as his little boy. The little fellow picked up the bird, and then off he started for home. His mother was sitting in the tepee making her little son a new pair of moccasins, and when he came in and threw the bird over for her to see, she was as much pleased as her boy, for soon he would be able to shoot rabbits and other game for her to cook for his dinner. [Illustration: ABLE TO SHOOT RABBITS.] [Illustration] LITTLE BIRD, THE NAVAJO SHEPHERD BOY. Little bird was a little NAVAJO boy, whose papa had given him a dear little pony, because he took such good care of the sheep. When LITTLE BIRD went out with his papa's flock of sheep, he always took some goats along to help keep the flock together and drive off wolves or bears. LITTLE BIRD, on his pony's back, would watch, and the goats would climb on the rocks where they could see a long distance. One day, while they were watching, LITTLE BIRD fell asleep, on his pony's back. He didn't think there were any wolves or bears about; but soon he was dreaming that he heard the sheep making a great noise, and when he awoke, he saw that they were very much frightened and that the goats were marching toward the cañon. [Illustration] [Illustration] What do you think he saw? A great, black bear holding a dear little lamb in his arms. [Illustration] LITTLE BEAVER AND THE TAME CROWS. One day as LITTLE BEAVER was playing on the prairie before his mother's tepee, he saw his father coming across an arroyo from a hunting trip he had taken. LITTLE BEAVER looked very intently, for on top of one of the pack horses, he saw two black things flapping their wings. As soon as his father had got home and the things were unpacked, he said, "Come, my little warrior, I want to tell you a story." As soon as his little boy was on his knees he said: "While I was riding through the woods, I heard something say, 'Caw, Caw.' At first, I didn't see where it was and then I wished I had my little bright-eyed boy, for he could see. By and by it said 'Caw, Caw,' again and then, looking up, I saw an old mother crow standing on a limb, with a little crow on each side of her. I shot the mother and then climbed the tree and captured these two little crows and brought them home to my boy." LITTLE BEAVER was very much pleased, and he used to play a great deal with these two new pets. [Illustration] Not long after, when the crows had grown quite big and mischievous, LITTLE BEAVER sat outside of the tepee on the ground, to eat some dinner. The crows saw him and came running over to him. While LITTLE BEAVER tried to frighten one away the other would try to steal his meat and they kept it up quite a while until the little boy whipped them away. Then the crows felt very mournful to think they had been beaten, and walked away with their heads drooping, as if they knew enough to be ashamed of what they had tried to do. [Illustration] [Illustration] BRIGHT-EYES AND HIS PUMA KITTENS. Indian boys have very queer pets; they capture bear cubs, puma or mountain lion kittens, and various other young animals of the forest and tame them. The boys like to play with these strange pets, as much as little white boys love to play with puppies or kittens. Some Indian boys, just like the white boys, enjoy teasing their pets, which is very wrong as it makes the animals very angry, and often the boys are punished beyond their expectation for their naughtiness. BRIGHT-EYES was a little PAWNEE boy, who had two pretty little puma kittens, of which he was very proud, and when he did not tease or make them angry they would let him fondle and caress them just as you would a kitten. [Illustration: SOME INDIAN BOYS ENJOY TEASING THEIR PETS.] One day BRIGHT-EYES was sitting on a blanket under a tree playing with his kittens, when two of his friends came along. He asked them to stop and they did, because BRIGHT-EYES seemed to be having such a good time with his pets. The other boys did not play as gently as BRIGHT-EYES had done, and began teasing the kittens. They became very angry and wild. They scratched at the boys and tried to bite them, and if BRIGHT-EYES had been alone he would have fared very badly because he could not have beaten his wild pets off, but the other boys were older and they succeeded in quieting them enough to lead them away and tie them up. The kittens never trusted BRIGHT-EYES again as they did before, and the little fellow felt very sad. His father did not trust him with his pets either, and after that always kept the kittens tied even though BRIGHT-EYES promised not to make them angry any more. [Illustration] [Illustration] HODGSKA MAKES A VISIT. I will tell you of a little red boy going visiting, and perhaps you can fancy why he liked it so much. One day a CROW Indian mother called her little boy, HODGSKA, and told him to get dressed and she would take him to see his grandfather. HODGSKA was delighted. He came running in, and his mother put a pretty red breech-clout on him, braided his hair neatly, and then painted the part in his hair red, and HODGSKA was ready to start. [Illustration: HAD TO PULL UP HIS FEET TO KEEP HIS MOCCASINS DRY.] The horses were all ready, too. The mother's saddle was all decorated with bright colored flannel and pretty bead work, and HODGSKA had a bright blanket thrown over his horse's back. The mother rode in front because she had to lead the way. They followed an old trail for awhile, and HODGSKA was disappointed because he didn't think that was fun. Then off in the distance he saw a river, and oh how he wished they would have to cross it! HODGSKA was delighted when they really started to cross. In splashed the horses, and the water kept getting deeper and deeper until it came so high that the little boy had to pull up his feet to keep his moccasins dry. After the river had been forded they had to climb over a mountain, and HODGSKA was glad he had brought his bow and arrows because he might be able to shoot something to take to his grandfather. They rode very quietly, and little HODGSKA tried to ride especially quiet because he knew if he made much noise he would frighten the game. Soon he heard a little noise in the brush and looking over he saw two pretty deer, but they saw him, too, and ran off just as fast as they could. HODGSKA heard the little birds chattering and calling to one another and he saw a bear, but he found nothing he could shoot; so he had to meet his grandfather without being able to show what a hunter he had become. [Illustration: HE SAW TWO PRETTY DEER.] [Illustration] PLAYING AT MOVING HOUSE. Once there were two little PIEGAN Indian girls and they had been playing in a little play tepee for a long time. They had their baby brothers with them, and the babies had been playing out in the warm sunshine with their dogs, while the little girls played with their Indian dollies. The little brothers were good for a long time, and then they became tired of playing in one place, just as little white children get tired, so the sisters thought they would play at moving house. They fastened two long poles to the sides of the dog and made a travois, then they put a basket between the poles and laid their dollies in this play carriage. Then the little girls started to take down their tepee. [Illustration: RAN OFF AS HARD AS HE COULD RUN.] All of a sudden the most awful accident happened! The puppy caught one of the dollies in his mouth and ran off as hard as he could run. The poor little mamma was almost frantic. She ran after the naughty puppy and caught him just as he was about to chew that poor dolly up! After the poor dolly had been petted and loved, it was put back into the travois, and after all the packing had been finished the little girls took their baby brothers on their backs and started to move. Just as they were passing their homes their mothers came to the door and called them in to their dinner. They didn't say "In a minute," as little white children very often do, but went right away. [Illustration: TOOK THEIR BABY BROTHERS ON THEIR BACKS.] [Illustration] THE WAR DANCE. I fancy that little white children don't know that their red brothers like to dress up in grown-up people's things just as much as they do. One day several little SIOUX Indian boys decided to have a war dance. They braided each other's hair, and one little boy was so vain that, while his companion was braiding his hair, he kept admiring himself in a little piece of looking-glass that he held in his hand. After all had their hair finished, they put on the dance costumes just as they had seen their fathers do. Each wore the roach on his head, beads around his neck, and the belt; then each took his little bow and they started to have the dance. When the girls heard their little brothers playing outside, they went to the doors of their lodges to watch them. Then the boys had to do their best, of course, to show the girls what brave warriors they were going to be. [Illustration: KEPT ADMIRING HIMSELF IN A LITTLE PIECE OF LOOKING-GLASS.] An old grandfather was sitting out-of-doors sunning himself; so the boys brought a tom-tom, and asked him to make music for them. Then they danced the war dance in earnest--a true imitation of their fathers. They danced for several hours, until they were so tired they could dance no longer; then they retired to a tepee, which they made believe was their council house, and in council they decided that the little girls would surely have much more respect for them in the future. [Illustration: THE LITTLE GIRLS WOULD HAVE MORE RESPECT FOR THEM.] [Illustration] TAKING CARE OF THE PONIES. Out in the real wild West, where the PONCA Indians live when they are at home, there are bears, mountain lions, wolves, foxes, and many other wild animals, always roaming about in quest of food. Every evening, when it begins to get dark, the little boys have to go out and gather together all the horses, drive them to the village, and picket them for the night where the men can watch and keep them safe, not only from wild animals, but from Indians belonging to hostile tribes, out on horse-stealing expeditions. [Illustration: THE WOLF.] After the horses are safely picketed around camp, the small boys can play and have a good time; but they have to go to bed early because they have to be up very early in the morning. When the boys are all through with their breakfasts they drive the horses first to water for a drink, and then over to the cañons where some of them are hobbled and allowed to feed all day. When the boys hobble their horses they tie their front legs together down near the hoofs, so that the horses can only take short steps, and cannot run or wander off very far. While the little boys are out herding they keep their bright little eyes wide open to see everything. Sometimes they shoot at the little prairie dogs with their bows and arrows; but the prairie dogs have very bright eyes, too, and down they go into their little holes before the arrows can hurt them. The wise little owls live with the prairie dogs and they come out and sit near the holes watching for mice. The little boys shoot birds, rabbits, and various other small animals while they are out tending the horses. Sometimes when Indian mothers are very busy or want to visit, they hobble their little ones by tying their feet together, so that they can take short steps only. Then the babies can play out-of-doors, and the mothers are sure they cannot get very far away from home. [Illustration: THE WISE LITTLE OWLS.] [Illustration] THE BABIES AND THE WOODPECKERS. One day two WINNEBAGO Indian mothers took their little baby boys and put them on a blanket to play together. They were two happy little children, and after they had finished the bowl of dinner their mothers had given them, they didn't cry, but started playing with their little fingers and toes, and trying to catch the little stray rays of sunshine. They were sitting in the shade of a little sapling, and suddenly they heard a little "tap! tap!" against the tree. The babies looked all around, but they couldn't see anything. Then they heard another, "tap! tap!" just like the first one. This time they looked at the tree, and, can you tell what they saw? Two great, big woodpeckers, with great red heads. The babies thought they were such pretty birds, but they did not know what to say to them, and so were a little bashful; while the woodpeckers were very curious to know what new kind of animal they had found. [Illustration: THE BADGERS COME OUT OF THEIR HOLES.] You see there were no nice fat little worms in the young tree, and so the birds may have thought that the children had a bowl full of their favorite food, and they had themselves come too late. Little Indian children learn to know wild animals very early. Sometimes the badgers come out of their holes to look at them, and then the children are very much frightened because badgers are wise animals and play many tricks on people. At night, when they lie awake in their little beds, the children hear the wild geese talking to one another as they fly over the village. Then the mother tells them what bird is making the noise, and she also tells them, that when the geese fly south it will be too cold before very long for their babies to sit out of doors and when they fly toward the north, Spring is on the way with its beautiful sunshine. [Illustration: THE WILD GEESE TALKING TO ONE ANOTHER AS THEY FLY.] [Illustration] HOW THE PUEBLO BOYS WERE FRIGHTENED. Little Indian children, like their white brothers, have to be in bed early or their mothers tell them that the Indian bugaboo, which is a water spirit, will come after them. Sometimes the PUEBLO children, just like their white brothers, too, think their mothers are only trying to frighten them, when she reminds them of the time and tells them stories of how children are taken away, if they stay up late. One day some little boys were talking the bugaboo stories over, and they decided to try and see if their mothers were telling them true stories; so, after they had been sent to bed, they were very quiet for awhile, but when their mothers weren't watching, they slipped out. [Illustration: IT WAS A LOVELY NIGHT.] It was a lovely night and they thought they would go behind the houses and play awhile. The boys were running along, thinking of how they never again would be afraid of the water spirit, when, they all stopped short. For a moment they were so frightened, they could scarcely move. What do you think they saw? There, coming out of a doorway, straight ahead of them, was one of those terrible water spirits their mothers had been telling them about. It was coming right after them, shaking a rattle. I tell you those boys ran! Several very much frightened boys reached their homes, and, after that, they were very glad to go to bed when it was time, for they never again wanted to be chased by another water spirit. But I will tell you a secret. There are no water spirits; and these small Indian boys were surprised by a PUEBLO man who had seen them steal away from their homes and had decided to frighten them. So he dressed up to look like the Indians' pictures of a terrible water spirit from the Rio Grande river, and ran after the boys. [Illustration: ONE OF THOSE TERRIBLE WATER SPIRITS] 
31265	----	[Illustration: AUNT HANNAH AND SETH A STORY OF SOME PEOPLE AND A DOG. BY JAMES OTIS] [Illustration: "'HI, LIMPY!' A SHRILL VOICE CRIED."] [Illustration: _Aunt Hannah And Seth By James Otis Author of "How Tommy Saved the Barn" etc. New York Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. Publishers_] Copyright, 1900, by THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--AN ADVERTISEMENT, 1 II.--THE COUNTRY, 20 III.--AUNT HANNAH, 39 IV.--THE FLIGHT, 58 V.--AN ACCIDENT, 76 VI.--SUNSHINE, 95 AUNT HANNAH. CHAPTER I. AN ADVERTISEMENT. A SMALL boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the New York approach to the Brooklyn Bridge on a certain June morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. Seth Barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as Limpy Seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. Such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "Hi, Limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as Seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. Seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "Out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "Goin' to give up business?" "I got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' Snip a chance to run in the park. The poor little duffer don't have much fun down at Mother Hyde's while I'm workin'." "You might sell him for a pile of money, Limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "Teddy Dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "Look here, Tim, do you think I'd sell Snip, no matter how much money I might get for him? Why, he's the only relation I've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "It costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "What of that? He thinks a heap of me, Snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as I would if anything happened to one of us." "Yes, I reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! It's a pity, Limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "Snip has what milk he needs----" "An' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "What of that?" Seth cried sharply. "Don't I tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! I'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why I couldn't feed him." "A dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. I ain't countin' but that Snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as Teddy Dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "He's a heap better'n I am, Tim Chandler! Snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." As if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "There, look at that! If you didn't have any folks, Tim Chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "He ain't really yours," Tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "What's the reason he ain't? Didn't I find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't I kept him in good shape ever since? Of course he wasn't mine at first; but I'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! If you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like Snip. You ought'er see him when I come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! It seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! I tell you, Tim, Snip loves me just like I was his mother!" Master Chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "There's Pip Smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" Tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "He's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. He allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." Seth gave more attention to the caresses Snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until Tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "He's yellin' for you, Seth! What's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" Perhaps Tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had Master Smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited Pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "What kind of a game have you been up to, Limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. Seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "Anything gone wrong?" Tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "I don't know what he means," Seth replied, and Pip shouted wildly: "Listen to him! You'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all I can find out!" "Who?" Seth demanded, grown restive under Pip's accusing gaze. "You, of course!" "But I haven't been up to any game." "You can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause I've got it down here in black an' white." "Got what down?" Tim asked impatiently. "If there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "Seth Barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," Pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "Listen to this, Tim Chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game Limpy's been playin'!" Then, with a tragical air, Master Smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "INFORMATION WANTED of a boy calling himself Seth Barrows. Said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in Jersey City three years ago. He then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one Richard Genet. A liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. Address Symonds & Symonds, Attorneys-at-law." As he ceased reading, Master Smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met Seth's bewildered gaze. "Sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "But I don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "What does it mean?" Seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at Tim and Pip. "Mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "I reckon you can answer that better'n we could. When the bank on Broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for I saw it with my own eyes." "But I haven't been breakin' into any bank!" Seth wailed, hugging Snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "Then what's that advertisement there for?" and Master Smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "How do I know?" Now it was Tim's turn to gaze at Seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that Snip's master had committed some terrible crime. The lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. Although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. He knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. There was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of New York would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. The number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until Seth and Snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. Therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. Seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. When little Snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to Seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. Leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in Snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. A blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but Seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with Snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. Once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, Seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "See here, Seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. If you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "I haven't done a thing, an' you know it, Tim Chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "Then what's the notice about?" Tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "I don't know any more'n you do." "Where's the lead nickel Mickey Dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" Teddy Dixon asked sharply. Seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping Snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. Withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "It's gone!" Seth cried shrilly. "It's gone; but I'll cross my throat if I knew I was passin' it!" Snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, Seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "That settles the whole business," Teddy Dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "You shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" Seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. From that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of Seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "You've got to skip mighty quick," Tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "Where'll I go?" Seth cried tearfully. "They know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "You can bet I wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "If we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, I don't see how anybody could find you!" "But where'd I go?" Seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "Anywhere. Here's Snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." Seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. They held a hurried consultation, while Seth stood caressing Snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then Teddy and Tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. Seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of Broadway, Tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "You fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. Wait here, an' me an' Teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of Seth." This injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "You'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," Seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "It can't be helped," Teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "We ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. Keep your eye on Snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." Even if Seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. Tim and Teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. Had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. Seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and Snip were being forced. He understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. Finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, Teddy paid the passage money, and Seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as Tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. Now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, Seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "The minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," Teddy said impressively, clutching Seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "We'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "But what am I to do afterward?" Seth asked helplessly. "There ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. You're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "Snip an' I will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while I'm hidin'?" "How much have you got now?" "'Bout fifty cents." Tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "You'll need it all, an' I can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." Teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to Seth's expostulations, save as he said: "We're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. If you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way I reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' I stand ready to do all I can towards keepin' you away from him." "Look here, fellers," Seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "I don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. Where can Snip an' I go? We've got to earn our livin', an' I don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "That's easy enough," and Tim spoke hopefully. "The city is a fool alongside the country, an' I'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. When we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. Pip Smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' I've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." Seth shook his head doubtfully. Although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by Pip Smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "You'll strike it rich somewhere," Teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. I'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps I'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." The conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and Seth, with Snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "Keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from New York that the detectives can't find you," Tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, Snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. Tim and Teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. Then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "I wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for Seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." And Tim replied sadly: "If a feller stuck me with a counterfeit I'd think I had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape I'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' I ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if Pip Smith does think it's sich a soft snap." Then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how Seth had fared at the outset of his flight. CHAPTER II. THE COUNTRY. SETH had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. Neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. If it had been possible for Snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. Instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in Seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. The little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but Seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "I don't dare to stop yet a while, Snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when I'm locked up in jail." A big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. Then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here Seth halted irresolutely. He had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. He was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." No person could be seen in either direction, and Seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. For the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed Snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "You must wait a spell longer, Snippey dear," he muttered. "We may have to run for it, an' I mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. It would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' I'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows I wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." Then Seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. Two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "How many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. She looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "I don't know the price of them. This shop isn't mine; I'm tendin' it for a friend." "Then you can't sell things?" and Seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "Oh, dear, yes, that's what I'm here for; but I never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth I don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. Do you know what they are worth?" "The bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." The lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "It seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "Have you got anything else to eat?" "That candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "I'll take five cents' worth of cakes," Seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. The amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant Snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "What a dear little dog! Did he come with you?" "Yes, ma'am," Seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress Snip: "We're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes I'll thank you." "Dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to Snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "How far are you going?" "I don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "Got friends out this way, I take it?" "Well,--yes--no--that is, I don't know. Won't you please hurry?" The woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed Snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for Seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. Seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing Snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. His first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "They haven't caught up with us yet, Snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "If they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." Having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "We can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. It was not difficult for a boy tired as was Seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time Snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. It was most refreshing to Seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. Save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. Then Snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and Seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. There was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. The birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of Snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. The sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon Seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while Snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "It's almost sunset, Snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. It's fine, I know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but I don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. Besides, who knows but there are bears? We must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as Pip Smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." The fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of Tim and Teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. He had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and Snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. After a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, Seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "We'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to Snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. He did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to Snippey's alarm, and Seth hurried on at full speed. "That wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "We'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" Ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." Seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. Three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "If Pip Smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, Snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." Master Snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. Seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. He began to fear that he might get himself and Snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. No light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to Seth than any he had seen. "If the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. It can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." The barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. He could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. Promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, Seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with Snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. The fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. Many hours later the shrill barking of Snip awakened Seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. The rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. Seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny Snip. "Is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to Seth, painful pause. "Who--what animal? Oh, you mean Snip? Why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. He always barks when strange folks come near where I am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. Do you own this barn?" "Yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the Morses, an' there are none left now except Gladys an' me." "I hope you won't be mad 'cause I came in here last night. I counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder I kept right on sleepin'." "Have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that Snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "I didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. Well, to tell the truth, I was afraid I'd be driven away, same's I had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "Aunt Hannah! Aunt Hannah!" It was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at Snip: "I wish you would hold your dog, little boy. That is Gladys, an' she's so reckless that I'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." Seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a June wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "Oh, Aunt Hannah! Why, where in the world did that little boy--What a perfectly lovely dog! Oh, you dear!" This last exclamation was called forth by Master Snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "Don't, Gladys! You mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." The warning came too late. Gladys already had Snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "You poor, foolish Aunt Hannah! To think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! Isn't he a perfect beauty? I never saw such a dear!" The little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. She feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. There was just a tinge of jealousy in Seth's heart as he gazed at Snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. It seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. Gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of Aunt Hannah's anxiety. She admired Snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into Seth's possession. The boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "Put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," Seth said, without replying to her question. Then Snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. He sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with Seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. Gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch Snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." Not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to Seth, and by this time Aunt Hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like Snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "Of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and Gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while I am milking." Then it was that Seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing Snip's note of defiance and warning. Gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to Seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while Aunt Hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "There's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to Seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "Don't you think Snippey would like some milk?" "I'm certain he would," Seth replied promptly. "He hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." A moment later Master Snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since Seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. The fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. The walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. The floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. A large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "Well, if this is a farmer's house I wouldn't wonder if a good bit of Pip Smith's yarn was true," Seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. He was alone in the kitchen. Snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and Gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "Folks that live like this must be mighty rich," Seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "It ain't likely Snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' I expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. I reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. I wonder if that little bit of a woman expects I'll pay for breakfast?" CHAPTER III. AUNT HANNAH. WITH a broken comb, which he used upon Snip's hair as well as his own, Seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. On either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. The little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. Surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then Pip Smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "It must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," Seth said to himself. "It would please Snip way down to the ground; but I mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." Then Aunt Hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. Seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "Bless your heart, my child, I ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that I've done as much or more every day since I was Gladys's age." "But that's no reason why I shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause Snip an' me slept in the barn. Besides, I'd like to say to the fellers that I'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if I ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "Then you came from the city?" "Yes, an' I never got so far out in the country before. Say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" And as Aunt Hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, Seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. After placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to Gladys: "It's time White-Face was taken to pasture, child." "Do you mean the cow?" Seth asked. "Yes, dear." "Why can't I take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "Unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. It's only across the road over yonder." Seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which Aunt Hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. Only once before had Seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and Pip Smith had travelled over to the Erie Yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. It surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but Seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. She shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as Aunt Hannah had been of Snip. Once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from Snip, who probably fancied Seth stood in need of his protection. "Why did you jump so?" Gladys asked merrily. Seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "I reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "And you are really afraid of poor old White-Face? Why, she's as gentle as Snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." Then Gladys stepped boldly forward, and Snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "Now, you are just as foolish as your master," Gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. Then it was that Snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and Seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "I want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but I never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. I s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "Some cows are ugly, I suppose," Gladys replied reflectively, taking Snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when White-Face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but Aunt Hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. She's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. There, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. By the time we get back breakfast will be ready. Did you walk all the way from the city?" There was no necessity for Seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of Snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. The morning meal was prepared, and as Gladys drew out a chair to show Seth where he should sit, Aunt Hannah asked anxiously: "What does the dog do while you are eating?" "You'll see how well he can behave himself," Snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. Much to Seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, Gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. It caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with Snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. Then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "Where are you going, my boy?" "That's what I don't just know," Seth replied, after a short pause. "Pip Smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when Snip an' I had to come away, I thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "Haven't you any parents, or a home?" Aunt Hannah asked in surprise. "I don't s'pose I have. I did live over to Mr. Genet's in Jersey City; but he died, an' I had to hustle for myself." "Had to what?" Aunt Hannah asked. "Why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. There ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' I don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause I can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "Did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "Well, sometimes. You see I ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' Snip an' I had a room down to Mother Hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. We could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "I suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "Well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. Perhaps some time I could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then I'd been all right, you know." "Why did you come into the country?" "You see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" Seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left New York so unceremoniously. Perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. Neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. Aunt Hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "Do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "I don't know anything about it, 'cause you see I never was in the country before," Seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "Pip Smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. If I could always have such a bed as I got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "But you slept in the barn!" Gladys cried. "Yes; it was nicer than any room Mother Hyde's got. Don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "The farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but I don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "I might strike something," Seth said reflectively. "At any rate, Snip an' I'll have to keep movin'." "Then you have no idea where you're going?" And Aunt Hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "I wish I did," Seth replied with a sigh, and Gladys said quickly: "You can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "Perhaps I might come across a barn, same's I did last night." "And grow to be a regular tramp?" "I wouldn't be one if I was willin' to work, would I? That's all Snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." Aunt Hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. Snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and Seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. Gladys began removing the dishes from the table, Aunt Hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts Seth managed to ask: "How much will I have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "Why, bless your heart, my boy, I wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "But we must pay our way, you know, though I ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. I don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "You needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. Gladys an' I aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as I would like to see it." Seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. It was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when Aunt Hannah and Gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. It is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. Then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. It was Aunt Hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from Gladys: "It is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. But how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "I am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, Aunt Hannah. With three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "He can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as I see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. I have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "Surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "I believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, I'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time I hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." Seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. Until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and Snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. There was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. He stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "A feller who would bother a good woman like Aunt Hannah deserves to be kicked. She's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but I ain't goin' to play mean with her. It's lucky I happened to hear what was said, else I'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me I might." At that moment Snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "It's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," Seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "How would it be if I should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? I ought'er do it, Snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family I've got. An' that's where I'm mighty mean! You'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." Snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and Seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "I can't do it, little man, I can't do it! You must stick to me, else I'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. We'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. It must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." Then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by Aunt Hannah, and Snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until Gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "I'll take good care of him," she called to Seth, as Snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "I'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but I believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," Seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat Gladys laughed merrily. Then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when Aunt Hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "It looks very neat," she said approvingly. "I never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! Last spring I hired William Dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "Have I earned the breakfast Snip and I ate?" Seth asked, pleased with her praise. "Indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. When we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' I don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "It was the very nicest breakfast I ever had, Miss--Miss----" "You may call me 'Aunt Hannah,' for I'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. Would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "Indeed I would!" was the emphatic reply, and then Seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "That is, I would if I could; but Snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." Aunt Hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "You an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what I'm not able to attend to now I've grown so old. Why did you leave the city, my child?" Had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" Seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "I'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which Aunt Hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "I'd like to tell you, but I can't," he repeated. "I don't believe you are a bad boy, Seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. The lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "Perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. Gladys declares, an' I've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. I don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and Snip as members of the family." Seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "Would you rather go away?" Aunt Hannah asked in surprise. "No, I wouldn't!" Seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "I'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, Snip an' I can't stay to bother you. We'll leave when he comes back." "Listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. We will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after I have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." Then Gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged Snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and Aunt Hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving Seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "I never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" CHAPTER IV. THE FLIGHT. NEITHER Gladys nor Snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and Seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that Aunt Hannah had said. A very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. It seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. As the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left New York was first told; and once Aunt Hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. He believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. So long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "I'll come back when I'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe I didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when I passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "It would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time Snip could have!" Then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "I'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "I reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but I couldn't get along without him!" Gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. She and Snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing Seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "If you jump like that I shall begin to think you are as nervous as Aunt Hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "She insists that between Snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, Seth, that I've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. I had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two Dean boys and Malvinia Stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "I believe Snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," Seth replied gloomily. "I never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. If I wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "Of course he'll stay," Gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "Aunt Hannah and I have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. You two are to live here; Snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of New York. What do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "I'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." And Seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet Miss Gladys' startled gaze. "Wait till you've talked with Aunt Hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "We've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "I have talked with her," Seth replied gloomily. "We'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "I'd like to know why"; and now Gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "Neither you nor Snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much I know to a certainty." "I believe you, but it can't be done." And the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. Gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking Snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. During the remainder of the forenoon neither Aunt Hannah, Gladys, nor Snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. Seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to Aunt Hannah's instructions. This time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. Not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her Heavenly Father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. Aunt Hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to Seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. Perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left New York, Seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. Nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but Gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with Snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. Then Aunt Hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. Therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. Immediately after the meal had been brought to a close Seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. When she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and Snip were fugitives. Some of the neighbors called upon Aunt Hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that Gladys and Snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. His hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then Aunt Hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "I declare you have done as well as any man I could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread Seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "William Dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. You have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "I'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "Of course I could do such work quicker after I'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "I didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. We'll see to that in the morning. I must go after White-Face now, or we shall have a late supper. Have you seen anything of Gladys?" "She hasn't been here. Say, why can't I get the cow?" "I suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "I reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." And Seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that Aunt Hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. It did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since Gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. He led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "Is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as Aunt Hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "You've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "Sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. We poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." Seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "Don't you think I could do that?" he asked timidly. "I dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "Would you be willin' to let me try?" "Of course you shall," and Aunt Hannah got up quickly from the stool. "Be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." Seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although White-Face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. Then Aunt Hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished Seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as Gladys and Snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. Bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again Aunt Hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. While they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "You are to stay here until morning, Seth, and then we will have another talk. I'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. You are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper I guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." Understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, Seth took Snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "You've been mighty good to us, Miss--Aunt Hannah, an' I hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "You've done that this afternoon," Gladys cried laughingly. "Aunt Hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. All hands, including Snip, will have a share in the planting, and I wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." Seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed Aunt Hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "You won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and Seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. After undressing, and when Snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, Seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. There was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "I hope Aunt Hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" Then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. Never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! There were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. Snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. The chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the Morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. Weary, as Seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. Perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as Aunt Hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. It is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe Seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. More than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell Aunt Hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. To his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. Then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. Crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. And then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking Snip in his arms. The dog was sleeping soundly, and Seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "It's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. You'll be sorry not to see Gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as I shall, 'cause I know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." Then he opened the door softly, still holding Snip in his arms. Not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. It was as if he and Snip were the only occupants of the house. Seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since Aunt Hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. With his hand on Snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, Seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both Aunt Hannah and Gladys must be aroused. In trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing Snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and Seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. He was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. Never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. The descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. Once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. The key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. The moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from New York; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. He saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. A cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "Where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than Aunt Hannah. Seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. He had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "Where are you going, Seth dear?" "I wasn't--I had to run away, Aunt Hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "Why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "I was afraid you and Gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps I couldn't stick to what I'd agreed on." "Do you really want to leave us, Seth?" "Indeed I don't, Aunt Hannah! I'd give anything in this world if I could stay, for this is the very nicest place I ever was in. Oh, indeed, I don't want to go away!" "Then why not stay?" "I can't! I can't, 'cause I'd have to tell----" Seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in Snip's silky hair. "Is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" And the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. Seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "Then go right back to bed. You shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile I will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." CHAPTER V. AN ACCIDENT. FILLED with shame and confusion, Seth made no resistance when Aunt Hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. He was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while Snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." Seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. He could only realize that Aunt Hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. He wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "Of course she'll tell Gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe I'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. Seth was awakened next morning by Aunt Hannah's voice, as she called gently: "It's time to get up, my dear. The sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." Snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and Seth heard the little woman say to him: "I really believe Gladys was in the right when she said I would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. Do you want a saucer of milk?" "She won't talk so pleasantly when I get there," Seth said to himself. "I'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if I was a thief!" The lad soon came to know Aunt Hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. When he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "You see I'm beginning to depend on you already, Seth. Gladys isn't up yet, and I've left White-Face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. The grass is wet with dew, an' I'm gettin' so old that I don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." Seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. When the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. His one desire was to avoid coming face to face with Aunt Hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work Gladys came out in search of Snip. Seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. Just then Snip was of far more importance in the eyes of Aunt Hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "Come in an' wash your face, my dear. Breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." Seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. Had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. Aunt Hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. Seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. The little woman asked that her Father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. When the morning meal had come to an end Gladys was eager Seth should join her and Snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "We've only to plant the garden," Aunt Hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." Seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and Gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. Until noon the three, with Snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as Aunt Hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." Seth did not join Gladys and Snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. Twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from New York, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "I couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. There was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. During three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. Seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. He had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. Gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and Snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet Seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "It's no use, Snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "I can't stay an' not tell Aunt Hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. If I could talk to her in the dark, when I couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. We must have it out mighty soon, for I can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." He was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade Aunt Hannah and Gladys good-night. The moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and Seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. Having repeated to Snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. Only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, Snip following close behind, barking shrilly. Once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. The room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay Aunt Hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. It needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell Seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. Like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when Dud Wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. He pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "Don't get scared! We can't put the fire out with water; but I'll soon smother it." "You needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! It would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "I'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "There is no fire here now." And Aunt Hannah threw back the rugs, despite Seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "For mercy's sake, save the house! It's the only home I ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if I lost it!" Before she had ceased speaking Seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for Aunt Hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. Not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. The little woman remained upon the floor where Seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "Are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "Never mind me until the fire is out." "There is no more fire, an' I'm bound to mind you! Are you hurt?" "It doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet I can't use either ankle or wrist. Of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." Seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why Gladys did not make her appearance. The first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "What can I do? Oh, what can I do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for Gladys. "Don't waken her!" Aunt Hannah cried warningly. "If you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "Ain't she in the house?" Seth asked nervously. He feared Aunt Hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. He failed to observe that Snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and Seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "You mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," Aunt Hannah said soothingly. "But for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "But you can't get up!" Seth wailed. "That wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if I never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "But I'm not going to lie here. Surely you can help me on to the couch." "Tell me how to do it," Seth cried eagerly, and at that moment Gladys appeared in the doorway. "Lean over so that I may put my arms around your neck," Aunt Hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "She fell an' hurt herself," Seth said hurriedly to Gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. And then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "If you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to Gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. Aunt Hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. Then Gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, Aunt Hannah had been grievously burned. "Yes, I'm in some pain," she said in reply to Seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved I have no right to complain. Get some flour, Gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps Seth will run over to Mrs. Dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "Where does Mis' Dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when Gladys replied: "It's the first house past the grove where Snip and I went this afternoon!" Seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay Aunt Hannah for having given shelter to him and Snip, lending speed to his feet. The Dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, Seth ran back to help Gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. Aunt Hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "Mis' Dean is comin' right away. What can I do?" "Nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "You have been of such great service to me this night that I can never repay you." "Please don't say that, Aunt Hannah," Seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "If I could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think I was so awful bad." "I believe you to be a good boy, Seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. Even then," she added with a smile, "I fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." The arrival of Mrs. Dean put an end to any further conversation, and Seth was called upon to aid in carrying Aunt Hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "I am as well off in my own bed, Sarah Dean. Don't treat me as if I was a child who didn't know what was best." "You are goin' into the foreroom, Hannah Morse, an' that's all there is about it. That bed hasn't been used since the year your brother Benjamin was at home, an' I've always said that if anything happened to you, an' I had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. We'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "You can bet she does!" Seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from Mrs. Dean's mouth. When the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, Seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; Gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and Snip was ordered into the shed. Aunt Hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to Gladys' chamber, and then Mrs. Dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. Seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by Mr. Dean, and here Gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "How is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "Her hands and arms are burned very badly. Why, Seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and Mrs. Dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "That's 'cause she's so good. If I was like her I needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after I died. It would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see Aunt Hannah!" "She'd have burned to death but for you." "That ain't so, Gladys. I didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "She's just been telling Mrs. Dean that you saved her life, and the house." "Did she really?" Seth cried excitedly. "Did she say it in them very same words?" "Aunt Hannah made it sound a good deal better than I can. She said God sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "Wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" Seth asked quickly. "I've heard Mother Hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "Aunt Hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for I never heard a thing till Snippey came into my room barking." "I hope I did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "Don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "Perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "And since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "I hope so." "Why, Seth Barrows, how wicked you are!" "No, no, Gladys, I didn't mean I hoped she'd have burned to death; but I hoped I really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when I tell her." "Tell her what?" "Why Snip an' I had to run away from New York." "Is it something you're ashamed of?" Gladys asked quickly and in surprise. Seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. Gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "I don't believe it. Aunt Hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "Did Aunt Hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" And Seth rose to his feet excitedly. "I hope you don't think I'd tell a lie?" "Of course I don't, Gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--Aunt Hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder I had hard work to believe it." "She said to me those very same words----" "What ones?" "That you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." Then, suddenly, to Gladys' intense surprise, Seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. CHAPTER VI. SUNSHINE. MRS. DEAN had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that Gladys and Seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. At midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that Aunt Hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, Gladys, in obedience to Mrs. Dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but Seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "Somethin' that I could do might turn up, an' I count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "Snip an' I'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" So eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve Aunt Hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. With the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when Mrs. Dean came out from the foreroom. "Well, I do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Hannah Morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n I expected. I wish my William could take a few lessons from you." "I didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," Seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "If the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "You're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when I tell Hannah Morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." Seth did not venture to look up lest Mrs. Dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "Is Aunt Hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "I allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. At first I was afraid she'd broken some bones; but Mrs. Stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. It seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. The wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." Then Mrs. Dean questioned Seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. Then Gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after Seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. Mr. Dean came over to milk White-Face, and Seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if Aunt Hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as Mrs. Dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. The old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that Mr. Dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the Morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. Very proud was Seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and Gladys ran to tell Aunt Hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. During the next two days either Mrs. Dean or Mrs. Stubbs ruled over the Morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time Seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. Gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that Aunt Hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and Seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. The neighbors sent newspapers and books for Gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed Seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as Aunt Hannah herself would have done. Then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. He had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. It was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and Gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to Seth: "Aunt Hannah thinks I ought to run out of doors a little while because I have stayed in the house so long. There isn't the least bit of need; but I must go, else she'll worry herself sick. She says you can sit with her, an' I'll take Snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than I am." Just for a moment Seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that Aunt Hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. Gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. With Snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and Seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. Aunt Hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. The bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and Seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "I knew you would be forced to come when Gladys went out, and that was why I sent her. We two--you an' I--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." Seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed Aunt Hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave New York, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "I ought'er----" He stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "You have saved the old home, an' my life as well, Seth. Even if I had hesitated at making you one of the family, I could not do so now, after owing you so much." "Don't talk like that, Aunt Hannah! Don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" Seth cried tearfully. "It's the other way, an' Snip an' I are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. Wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "Ever since you got hurt I've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' I promised Snip an' myself that I'd do it the very first chance. If it----" "There is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. I have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "We shall have to go; but I'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause I know you think I was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what I've done." "My dear boy," and Aunt Hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "I never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "An' that's jest the truth. Now don't say a word till I've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." Then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, Seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by Teddy and Tim. "I didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but I reckon I'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause I couldn't afford to lose so much money. Of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if I should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let Gladys take care of poor little Snippey?" "Come here an' kiss me, Seth," Aunt Hannah said softly. "I wish I could put my hand on your head! And you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "You poor little child! If you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. The good Book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from God. But I'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. Do you know, Gladys read your story in the paper before I sent her for a walk, and that is why I wanted to be alone with you." Seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and Aunt Hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "Take up the newspaper lying on the table. I told Gladys to fold it so you might find the article I wanted you to read." Seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "Can you read, dear?" "Not very well, 'cause I have to spell out the big words." "Hold it before my eyes while I make the attempt. There isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, I hope." Seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: Messrs. Symonds & Symonds, the well-known attorneys of Pine Street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. Several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in San Francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one Seth Barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. All the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in Jersey City, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. His age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "It is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in New York City; but Messrs. Symonds & Symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. As has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. The boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. The moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." It was not until Aunt Hannah had concluded that Seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "Do you suppose the Seth Barrows told about there can be me?" "Of course, my dear. Isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "But there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, Aunt Hannah! There's a big mistake somewhere." "Do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in California?" "Indeed I don't. I thought Snip was all the relation I had in the world." "Why did the man in Jersey City allow you to live with him?" "I don't know. I had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause I was too small." "Well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "I don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but I'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from New York because of an advertisement. The money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "I wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," Seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "Now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. I'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. I've sent for Nathan Dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." Then Mrs. Dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and Seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. Gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "What did Aunt Hannah say to you?" "Why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "Because I read that story in the newspaper. Then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said I'd better ask Mr. Dean to come over this afternoon. I couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because Mrs. Dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. Did you tell her why you and Snippey ran away?" "Of course I did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance I had to speak with her alone, though I made sure she'd send me away." Then Seth repeated that which he had told Aunt Hannah, and while he was thus engaged Mr. Dean entered the house. During the two days which followed, Gladys and Seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when Aunt Hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. Then it was that Mr. Dean returned from New York, and came to make his report. There was no longer any question but that it was really Seth's uncle who had lately died in San Francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. It appeared, according to Mr. Dean's story, as learned from Messrs. Symonds & Symonds, that Daniel Barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying Richard Genet of Jersey City a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. Mr. Genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom Seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. There were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. Aunt Hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end Mr. Dean had several conferences with Symonds & Symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. There is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the Morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell Aunt Hannah, Seth, Gladys, and Snip after the inheritance was paid. That they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in Aunt Hannah's home? And in the days to come, when Father Time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, Seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and Snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. THE END. 
32513	----	THE THIRD LITTLE PET BOOK, WITH THE TALE OF MOP AND FRISK. BY AUNT FANNY, Author of "Night Caps," "Mittens," "Christmas Stories," "Wife's Stratagem," etc., etc. "I LOVE GOD AND LITTLE CHILDREN."--RICHTER. New-York: W. H. KELLEY & BROTHER, 627 BROADWAY. ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by W. H. KELLEY & BROTHER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York. JOHN A. GRAY & GREEN, PRINTERS, STEREOTYPERS, AND BINDERS, 16 and 18 Jacob Street, N. Y. [Illustration: Mop saves Hal's life.--P. 42.] THIS TALE OF MOP AND FRISK I DEDICATE TO MY LITTLE FRIEND HOWARD, WHO LIVES ON MURRAY HILL AVENUE. CONTENTS. PART I. THE DOGS LEAVE HOME, 9 PART II. THE DOGS MEET ONCE MORE, 24 MOP'S TALE, 35 FRISK'S TALE, 49 PART III. DASH SEES A PLAY, 85 THE DEATH OF POOR JACK, 118 PART IV. THE CONCLUSION OF FRISK'S TALE, 142 PART V. FRISK FINDS A NEW HOME, 174 MOP AND FRISK; OR, THE TWO DOGS. IN WORDS OF FIVE LETTERS AND LESS. MOP AND FRISK. PART I. THE DOGS LEAVE HOME. In a small town by the side of a lake, there once lived two dogs named Mop and Frisk. Frisk was a pert black and tan dog, with a tail that stood bolt up in the air, and a pair of ears to match; while Mop was a poor old cur, with a head like a worn-out hair-broom; ears like bell-pulls; a mouth that went from ear to ear, and a great bush of a tail. Then he had to drag the cart of an old rag-man round the town, to earn his meals; while Frisk, who lived with a pie-man, had a fine ride in the cart each morn; and all the work he had to do was to bark at the bad boys who tried to steal the pies. The rest of his time he spent in play. One day the old rag-man, who was as cross as ten bears, and far too fond of beer, came out of a shop where he had been to drink, while poor Mop had to wait in the cold. The rag-man's legs went from side to side; he could not walk; so he got in the cart, on top of all the rags, and cried to Mop: "Come, go on, you bad cur, or I'll make you!" and with these words, he let fall a great stick on the back of the poor dog, and gave him a kick with his thick hob-nail shoes. Mop tried to start, but it was more than he could drag. Down came the stick once more; and this time, made quite wild with pain, he gave one yelp and one jump, broke the old ropes that held him to the cart by a great jerk, and made off down the road like a flash. The bad old man did bawl to him to come back; but Mop was too wise for that, and did not stop to see if the wind was west or not, till he came to a part of the town which was quite new to him. The place where our dog now found him-self was a sort of blind court, with the blank wall of a house on each side, and, worse than all, with not the sign of a thing to eat to be seen. "A fly to snap at would be a good thing," said the poor dog with a sigh. "I think I could eat a bit of brick, if I could get one up. But cheer up! it will all come right in time! I'm _free_ at least--that is one good thing!" and he gave three jumps and three barks for joy, so loud that they most took the top of his head off. Just then there came up, at a smart pace, Frisk the pie-man's dog. He held his head in the air as proud as you like. When he saw Mop, he tried to turn up his nose at him, but it was so flat, there was no turn up to it. Then he gave a loud sniff, and said with an air: "Who are you? Where did _you_ come from?" "I am as good a dog as you," said Mop. "My coat is not quite so fine to be sure, and my ears don't stick up so much; but I'm a nice sort of chap for all that. Shake a paw." "What! shake a paw with such an old flop-ear as you? You must be mad." Mop did want to say, "You are a pert, stuck-up cur," but he was too well-bred; so he made a bow, and put his paw on his heart; and said: "I meant no wrong; but I took you for Frisk, the pie-man's dog." "Well, so I am--or so I was, I mean; till last week; but, you see, the trade was too low for a dog of my style--with such ears and such a long tail. I was not made to bark out of the back of a pie-cart at all the rag-tags in town; so I have cut the pie-man, and mean to try high life in some big house. My own aunt lives with a judge; and it will be odd if some rich man does not like my looks, and take me home with him. But I must be off; it would not do to be seen with you, if I hope to rise in the world. A good time to you, my boy. He! he! you are such a beau, you can't fail to cut a dash. G-o-o-d day!" "Stop a bit!" cried Mop, as Frisk ran off. "You don't think much of me _now_ I see, but time may show me to be the best dog yet. What if we were each to try to find a new place, and meet here in a month from now, to tell what has past in the mean time? Don't you think that would be a nice plan?" "Oh! I'll do so if you wish!" said Frisk; "but don't ask me to bow when we meet, I beg; it won't _do_, you know." "Shake a paw then," said Mop. Frisk, very loth, put the tip of one claw on Mop's paw. Then the two dogs stood back to back, and, with a one! two!! three!!! off they went as if a mad bull was at their heels. PART II. THE DOGS MEET ONCE MORE. On the last day of the month, Mop and Frisk, true to their word, came to the place where they last said good-by. But how each one did look to see if his mate were the same dog he last saw! Mop's coat was rough no more--it shone like silk; his ears were cut; he wore a fine brass neck ring, with a new name on it; and his whole air was that of a dog in luck. Poor Frisk was so thin that you could count all his ribs. His tail stood up in the air no more. He hung his head and crept close by the wall, as if he did fear some one would beat him if he dared to run or jump. Good Mop did not look on him with scorn when he saw him in this sad way; but ran up to him on three legs, with one paw held out for "How d'ye do," and his great fly-brush of a tail a-wag for joy. "Why, Frisk, old dog!" he cried, "how glad I am to see you! How have you been this long time?" "O Mop!" said Frisk in a sad tone, "will you speak to me now I am so poor? It is I who am not fit to be seen this time." "Frisk, my good dog," said Mop in a grave tone, "_real_ worth is not a thing of looks. Let me tell you that if I knew you to steal a bone, you would lose my good-will in truth. But I do not look down on dogs if they are poor and good. Come home with me; we can talk more at our ease in my nice house, where you will find some first-rate bones, if you would like them." "O yes! I guess I would!" cried Frisk. So the dogs set off on a trot by the side of a fine lake, on the banks of which the town was built. They soon came to a large house, with a court-yard in front, tall green rails all round, and a great gate by which to go in. There was a small gate near the large one, the latch of which Mop could lift with his nose, for Frisk and him-self to pass; and then the dogs ran round to the back of the house. On one side of the yard Frisk saw a fine dog-house, fit for the king, with a roof that ran to a peak, a porch in front, and a dove-cote on a pole on top. In-side there was a heap of clean, warm hay, and on a blue plate were some nice bones. "There!" said Mop, "don't you call that prime? Help your-self to the bones, Frisk; I can get lots more." Frisk did not wait to be asked twice, but fell to, and soon made way with the legs of a fowl. When these were gone, kind Mop ran to the house and got a beef-bone for him. Poor Frisk ate as if he was not used to such fine fare, and the good dog Mop, who gave up his own meal to feed Frisk, felt as glad as if he had had it all him-self. When Frisk had made an end of the bones, he and Mop laid down in the dog-house; and as Frisk had asked him to do so, Mop told his tale, as you shall hear. But first he asked Frisk to rise, so he could put more of the soft hay on his side. "Do you feel quite warm?" he asked. "O yes! thank you, dear Mop," said Frisk; "as warm as a toast. You will make me cry, if you are so kind to me. When you were poor, I was a cross dog to you. Oh! I can not bear to think how bad I was;" and a great big tear came out of each of Frisk's eyes, and ran off at the end of his nose. "Oh! that is all gone. We will be kind old dogs now, and do all the good we can in the world. And now here goes for the grand tale of all my joys and woes since I saw you." MOP'S TALE. "You know, Frisk, that when we left the court, you chose to go in the town, and I by the lake. I felt sad to think I had no one to care for me in the world. But my watch-word is, 'Don't give it up!' and I could not think that all would leave me to want a bone. So I laid down by the road-side, in hopes to see some one who would take care of me. "First, I saw a man on a fine horse; and as he had no dog, I said to my-self, 'Who knows but what he wants one to keep the flies from his horse's legs!' So I ran by him a short way, when--would you dream the man could be so bad?--he gave me a cut with his whip, that made me hop and yelp for pain. 'Serve you right for a vile cur!' he said with a loud laugh, and on he rode. [Illustration: "There was no room for me, and I had to trot on."--P. 88.] "Next came a blind man; but he had a dog to lead him. The blind man's hat was laid on the ground, and when a cent was put in it, the dog gave one bark; when two cents were put in, he gave two barks, and so on. So, you see, there was no room for me there, and I had to trot on. "At last I saw a small boy and girl trip down the road, hand in hand, with their nurse close by them. They wore such fine coats and hats, that it was plain they were rich; but when the boy put his small hand on my head, and said, 'Good dog,' and the girl did the same, I knew they must be kind too. "So I ran by them, in hopes they would speak to me once more. "There were some wild rose-buds on the bank of the lake, and when the girl saw them she cried: 'O Hal! just see those sweet rose-buds! How nice they look! They have just come out! Won't you pick me a few?' "'Yes, dear May,' said the boy; and he let go her hand and ran to where the rose-buds grew. "'Don't go there, dear child,' cried nurse; 'you may fall in the lake.' "'No I won't! I'll take care,' cried Hal; and as he spoke he bent way down the bank. O me! the earth gave way, his foot did slip, and ere the nurse could run to his aid, the poor child fell, with a loud cry, in the lake. "There was no time to be lost; and, more glad than I can say, that I was on the spot, I leapt in the lake, swam to the side of the child, and in as short a time as it takes to tell, I had his coat in my teeth, and got him safe to shore. "The nurse took her dear boy in her arms and cried for joy; and May was so glad that she put her arms round my wet head, and gave me a long hug. "'We must take the good dog home with us, Miss May,' said nurse, 'and tell your pa-pa what he has done for Hal. And now let me wrap my shawl round you, Hal, and then we must all run home as fast as we can, for fear you may take cold.' "We were soon at this house, where Mr. and Mrs. Grey, the pa-pa and mam-ma of Hal and May, live; and nurse soon told them how I had saved the life of their dear son. "You may think how great was my joy to have them call me, 'Good dog! brave dog! the best dog in the world!' and give me a hug and say I must live with them from that time. "So Mr. Grey sent me out with Hal to the yard; and he got Jim, the groom, to wash and trim me, while May ran to ask the cook for some meat to feed me. The dear child did wish so much to make me glad, that she tied her own white bib round my neck to keep me neat while I ate, and fed me with her own hand; while Hal, and a wee bit of a girl, who came to see them, did look on. [Illustration: "She fed me with her own hand."--P. 46.] "It was not quite as much to my taste as hers to be fed; but she was so full of the fun of it, that I would not for the world have made one growl. "Next day their pa-pa got me this nice house, and Hal put round my neck the brass ring you see me wear; which they say has on it: 'To Dash, the good dog, from Hal and May.'" When Mop, or Dash, as we must now call him, had come to an end, Frisk drew a deep sigh, and said: "Well, Dash, as that is your name, if I had been as good as you, I might be as well off by this time; but I think, when you hear what a sad life I have led for the past month, you will say I am well paid for my fine airs to you. So now to my tale." FRISK'S TALE. "I made haste to the best part of the town, when I left you and the court, and, late in the day, found my-self in a fine place. Near the best house was a group of three small boys; they were at play with some small, round, smooth stones; and when one stone hit the next, a boy could cry out: 'That is mine!' "Well, for my sins, I came to a halt just in front of these boys. [Illustration: "Near the best house was a group of three small boys."--P. 50.] "'Oh! oh! look at that nice dog!' cried one whose name I found was Bob. 'I guess he is lost. I mean to have him for my dog.' "'No, you shall not,' said Ned, the next in size. 'He shall be my dog.' "'No, he shall be mine,' said Sam. 'I want him! I _will_ have him!' and on that they all tore up the steps of the house, and burst in-to a room where their mam-ma was, with: "'Ma, I want the dog!' "'Ma, give me the dog!' "'No, no, no, ma!--me! me! me!' "'O dear! what a noise!' said their mam-ma. 'Do be still. If you want the dog, take him; but don't whine, or go on as if you all had the tooth-ache.' "All this time I was such a gump, I sat quite still; but when I saw the boys come out and rush at me with rude words, I said to my-self, 'Come on, Frisk; I do not think it will do to get a new place here.' So I made up my mind to take to my heels; when, O my dog-star! down came a great bat on my head, and the three boys fell on me all at once; grab'd me by the ears, tail, and one leg, at the same time, and would have torn me to bits, I am sure, if their mam-ma had not come and made Bob and Ned let go. "I was put in the front room then, in a whole skin, and here, in spite of all he could do, I broke from Sam and hid my-self at the back of a couch that stood by the fire-place. "'Now what's to be done?' said Sam. "'Let's hunt him out with sticks,' said Ned. "'Good! come on!' cried Bob and Sam; and with-out more words, Bob armed him-self with the broom, and Ned and Sam got canes, as if they were in chase of some wild beast, and all flew, with a loud whoop! to bang poor me out of my strong-hold. "I don't know what would have been my fate, if I had not hit on what to do just in time. The sides and front of the couch, by good luck, came down past the seat, and bands of broad tape were put from side to side, to keep the white slip in its place. I gave a jump, made out to land on the tapes, and sat on them in great fear lest they might give way. "It was well I did so; for the boys made their sticks fly from side to side at such a rate, that the first blow would have been the death of me. This game went on for some time, till they were quite at a loss to know why I did not come out or make a cry. "'Why where _can_ he be?' cried Sam. 'Look and see, quick!' "Ned went down on his knees--'Why he's gone!' he said with a gasp. "'O the b-a-a-d thing!' cried Sam. 'Ma! ma! our dog's lost! Boo! hoo! hoo!' and to my great joy, all three left the room to treat their dear 'ma' to a howl. Oh! how I _did_ long to snap at their legs. "By this time so much fluff and dust had got up my nose in my close nook, that I was fit to choke; and as the boys were gone, I dared to come out. There was a large arm-chair close by, with a deep, soft seat that was just to my taste. I hopt in, laid down, and was soon in a fine nap. "Think, then, what was my state of mind to wake up with a yell and a land-slide on top of me! Up flew a fat old dame from the arm-chair, where she had just sat down, as if she was shot! Bang! came a great gilt book, that she let fall in her start, right on the end of my poor tail, as I leapt to the floor! 'E-e-e!' went she; 'yi! yi! yi!' went I; and 'Hur-ra! here's the dog!' cried Ned, as he came bang in at the door, caught me by one ear, and ran up to the top floor with me in wild joy; which put the last touch to my woes! "Once in their play-room, the bad boys made me drag a toy-cart full of dirt, ran straws in-to my ears, beat me with sharp sticks, and shot peas at me out of a pop-gun. They kept up these nice plays till tea-time; when they were so kind as to let me go, and treat me to a few old scraps of cold meat for my share of the meal. "When tea was done, their mam-ma bid them go right to work and learn their tasks; and, with pouts and whines from all three, they sat down. As soon as their mam-ma left the room, Ned took out of his desk a mouse-trap, with a poor wee mouse in it, all in a shake of fear, and cried: 'Here, Sam, just see what I've got! An't that gay?' [Illustration: "Ned took from his desk a mouse-trap."--P. 64.] "'What? what? let me look!' cried Bob, who had sat till now with his legs spread out, and a book be-fore him up-side down. "'No, you shan't. Go 'way!' said Ned, in a whine. "'I will! I will!' Bob did bawl; and as he spoke he did jump up and give Ned's hair a great pull! Then Sam gave Bob a punch, and the three boys did fight and kick each other at a fine rate; in the midst of which pow-wow I left the room, and ran off down the back stair. "Here the maids were more kind to me than the boys; for cook made me a nice soft bed in a box, and gave me some bones to pick; while Jane, the maid, took me in her lap, and let me sleep there, snug and warm, till she went to bed. "But you could no more guess what the next day had in store for me, than you could say how deep the sea is; so I will tell you. "Just as Jane came in with the tea-tray, and cook had got a tin pan to pour me out some milk, down came those vile boys full tilt, to grab hold of me once more. The kind cook asked them to let me be, till I had had my milk; but she might as well have asked the wind not to blow; and with Bob to hold me, and Ned and Sam to mount guard on each side, they made haste once more to the play-room. "When they had me safe, and the door shut, Bob cried in great glee: 'Now, boys, I tell you what we'll do: let's play our dog was a slave, that we had caught just as he was on the point to run off. We will tie him by the fore paws and flog him well.' "Oh! oh! how I felt when I heard these words! My hair stood on end with fear. I threw my-self on the floor, and cried for help. Ah me! no help came. One would think they might have felt for a poor dog that could not help it-self. But no; they were with-out heart. "Bob found a cord, and tied my feet to a large nail in the wall. Ned and Sam did each fetch the strap that they had round their task-books, and then these bad boys beat me till I felt as if I must die. "At last they heard their mam-ma call from her room, 'Boys, boys, come right to your tasks--it is past nine o'clock;' for she did teach them her-self I found out. At the sound of her voice, they left off, and ran to the door to beg for a short time more. "Now was my time at last. I freed my paws by a great jerk, shot past Sam's legs, flew down the stair, and out of the house; for by great good luck, Jane had just gone to the door to let in the post-man. I am glad to say I sent Sam too down the stair like a shot, with a boot-jack and a pair of tongs, which Ned and Bob threw, and which were meant for me, at his heels. This made up, in part, for the pain he had put me to. But, oh! how sore and lame I was! I sank on the earth when I was clear out of sight, and felt as if my death was near. If it had not been for what next took place, my end would have come that day; but as I lay there all in a shake, I heard a child's voice say: 'O dear Fred! here is such a poor dog! Just see! he looks half dead! Let us stop and pat him!' "'Dear me! Poor toad!' cried Fred. 'Where could he have come from? Pat him well; don't fear.' "Her soft hand on my head made me raise my eyes, and I saw a boy and girl of nine and ten years old. They did not seem to be rich, but they were just as neat and nice as two pins, and their kind looks and words made me feel sure they were good. "'Poor dog! I fear he wants food,' went on Nell. 'I mean to give him a bit to eat, Fred.' "'Let me feed him too!' cried the boy. 'Here, take my knife and cut some bread for him.' "Nell took a loaf from the bag on her arm, and with Fred's knife cut off a good thick slice. She gave half to him, and they broke it in bits and fed me by turns. "'You dear pet,' said Nell, with a sigh, 'how I wish I could take you with me! But we are too poor; it can not be.' "'Oh! don't you think mam-ma would let us have him?' cried Fred. "'No, dear,' said Nell; 'we must not think of it. Come, bid the dog good-by, and let us make haste home.' "I could but lick her hand to thank her for the food, and as I could rise now, I felt that it was best to run on. [Illustration: "Good-by, dear doggy!"--P. 78.] "'Good-by, you dear doggy!" cried both; and they did stand and watch me till I was out of their sight. Oh! how I did wish I could go home with them! "Just as I did turn round the end of the street, I heard an odd sound----" Here Frisk rose in haste and said: "But I dare not stay, dear Dash; I ought now to be at home. Some day when I can get out, I will come and tell you the rest of my sad tale, for the worst part is yet to come." "But where must you go, Frisk?" said Dash. "Why, to the show, where I play," said Frisk. "You play! Can you act?" cried Dash. "Yes! come out-side. Now, just see here!" and while Dash did stare at him, with his mouth and eyes so wide open that you would not think he could close them at all, Frisk stood on his hind legs, and went thro' a jig, with a look on his face as if he had lost his last hope; then fell down on the grass, stiff and stark, as if he had been shot; got up, made a low bow, and then went lame on three legs. "Dear me!" cried Dash, "how smart you are! Where _did_ you learn all that?" "It would take a long time to tell," said Frisk. "If I can, I will come and see you next week, and you shall then hear all. Now, good-by." "Here, take this nice sweet bone with you," cried Dash. "Good-by, old chap. I hope I shall see you soon;" and the good dog went back to his house, full of Frisk's tale. He tried so hard to think of a way to do him some good, that he got quite a bald spot on the top of his head, and at last laid down with his nose in his paws, to sleep on it, and dream of bones with-out end; for, you know, he gave up his own to feed one worse off than him-self. Good Dash! I hope each dear girl and boy who reads this will try to be like him, for that is the way to be loved by all. PART III. DASH SEES A PLAY. The same eve, when Mr. Grey came home he said in a sly way: "I see there is a show of dogs, who dance and act a play, in town; but Hal and May do not care to see them, I know." "O yes! yes! we want to go!" cried both at once. "Do take us to see them, pa-pa." "Well, get your hats then," said Mr. Grey, "and we will go." "Let's take Dash," said May. "He wants to see the dog-show too!" Her pa-pa said, with a laugh, that he did not think Dash would care to see a play; but Hal and May did beg so hard, that at last he said they might take Dash if they chose. So the two ran up the stair in high glee to their nurse, who put on May's round straw hat and silk sack, and got her nice black mitts to put on her wee hands. May said, "I want to put on my mitts my-self, nurse;" so nurse said she might do so, and went on to dress Hal. But when May went to put the mitts on, she was in such haste, that she tried to get the right mitt on the left hand. The mitt would not go on, of course, and she cried out: "Why, nurse, this is all wrong; it's got no thumb at all!" How Hal and nurse did laugh when they saw what May had done! May had to laugh too, when nurse did show her that the mitts were quite right, if they were put on in the right way. They had great fun. But their pa-pa came to bid them make haste; so they told nurse good-by, and ran down the stair, hand in hand, as gay as two larks. Dash came to join them in the court-yard, and soon they were all four on their way to the show. But, dear me! when the man at the door of the show saw Dash, he said: "I can't let dogs in, sir." Here was a blow! and May, with her sweet blue eyes quite sad, cried out: "But you will let our Dash in, Mr. Show-man, won't you? You don't know what a good dog he is; he saved Hal's life!" Now when the show-man heard dear May say this, and saw her sweet face and blue eyes raised to his, he could not help a smile, and said: "Well, for such a dear pet, I must say, yes. Dash may go in, but he must lie still and make no noise. One bark, and out he goes!" "Oh! he will be as still as a deaf and dumb mouse!" cried Hal and May both at once. So, to the great joy of all, Dash went in. Hal and May took their seats with their pa-pa on a long bench, in a large room full of gay folks, and Dash sat on the floor close by them. There was a stage at one end of the room; a fall of green baize hung in front of it. In a short time a bell went "ting-a-ling! ting-a-ling!" and up rose the baize. Then Dash saw a small house, with a grape-vine at the side and tall trees, which he took for real ones, but Mr. Grey said were wood and green paint. You could see a green field at the back of the stage, and high hills, while the blue sky was as clear as it was out of doors. Mr. Grey had a bill with the names of the dogs that were to act on it, and Dash heard him read it to Hal and May. The name of the play was: THE DEATH OF POOR JACK, THE RUN-A-WAY. JACK, FRISK. COL. GRAPE-SHOT, TRIP. THE GUARD, TRAY AND WASP. JACK'S MAM-MA, FAN. THE SEXTON, SNAP. THE JUDGE, SHORT. Dash, when he found Frisk was to act, scarce drew a breath for fear he should lose a bit of the play, and sat so still that not a hair moved. First, in came two dogs on their hind-legs as the guard, in red coats and caps and blue pants. They had guns too; and they had such an odd look with their own tails up in the air out-side their coat-tails, and their head held as stiff as ram-rods to keep their caps on, that all the folks burst out in a laugh. Then the guard did peep round all the trees, and in all the holes they could find, on a hunt for Jack; and when they did not find him, they shook their heads as if to say: "No one here! that's a fact!" At last one of the guard went to rap at the door of the house. He gave such a hard knock, that he shook his cap down on one eye, and had to hold his head on one side, as if he had the tooth-ache, so as to see at all. It made him feel so bad, that he went off in a pet to the back of the stage, and left the guard whose cap was all right to knock for him-self. This one was so short, that he had to make a jump and stand on tip-toe to do it. Out came a dog in the dress of an old dame, who, Mr. Grey said, was Jack's mam-ma. She wore a black gown, a white cap, and plaid shawl, and had a work-bag on her arm, or fore-leg, and a big pair of specs tied on her nose. When she saw the guard, she spread out her paws, and gave each a look in turn, as if to ask what they came there for. The short guard made signs to her, to show they were on a hunt for a man who had left the camp with-out leave. The old dame shook her head at this, and put a paw on her heart, as if to say _she_ hadn't heard of such a thing; but the one-eyed guard shook _his_ head too, and did point thro' the door, as much as to say that the man was in _there_, he was sure. Then the old dame shook her head once more, and spread her skirt to keep them out of the house; but the guard were too smart for that. They aimed their guns at the wall of the house, to shoot Jack if he was in-side; and when the old dame saw that, she moved from the door-way, with a high squeak, and let them pass. In they went full tilt, and the one-eyed guard, in his haste, quite lost sight of his part, let fall his gun, and ran off on all four legs! It pains me to tell that a sad yelp was heard in-side the house, as if he had got a box on the ear for this fault; and Dash could not but think that to act was not such fine fun as you might take it to be. Soon out came the guard, with Jack held fast by both fore-legs, and the old dame at their backs, who cried with all her might and main. The run-a-way, who was Frisk to be sure, wore a coat and cap like the guard, and made a sad noise at his hard fate. He put his paw on his heart, and cast up his eyes as if to beg them to let him off; but they shook their heads. Then he held out both paws to his mam-ma, and she ran to him, put her paws round his neck, and did kiss him as well as she could. The guard gave him a pull to make him come. Frisk did kiss his paw and wave his cap to his mam-ma, who fell down in a swoon; and then they all three did march off. And that was the end of Part One. Just as the scene was to close, the old dame did lift up her head and fore-paws and look round. When she saw it was not time, she fell down once more; so flat, that all the folks burst out in a laugh. I fear they would not have been so gay if they knew how the poor dog was beat by the show-man, when the play was done, for this small fault. Next came a horn-pipe by a dog in a Scotch dress. He did it so well, that all the folks did clap their hands, and want him to do it once more; but it was now time for Part Two of the play; and he ran off with a low bow. When the baize was drawn up once more, the small house was gone, and a high desk was set on one side of the stage, with a bench in front for Col. Grape-shot. And at the desk sat the judge who was to try Jack for his life. The dog who was judge wore a fine black silk gown, with white fur down the front; he had white bands at his neck, and a great white wig on top of his ears, which made him look droll, I can tell you. And now, O dear! the deep roll of a drum was heard, and in came, one by one, a sad set in-deed! First did march the dog who beat the drum, and next to him Col. Grape-shot, in a grand blue and gold coat; a gold-laced hat, with red and white plumes; white pants, with a red stripe down each leg, and a sword by his side. Then came the guard with Jack, and, last of all, a dog with a long box in a hand-cart, which he drew. O dear! dear! this was to put poor Jack in when he was dead. The dog wore a black coat and an old red night-cap; and tied fast to one leg was a spade. He led the poor mam-ma by the paw, and once in a while tried to cheer her up; for he would lift his leg and give her a kind pat on the back with the end of his spade. But I think this did more harm than good, for each time he did so she gave a short howl, and half fell down. But now the guard, with Jack and Col. Grape-shot, were in a row in front of the judge, who waved his paw, and made a bow, as much as to say: "Go on." Col. Grape-shot, on this, did first point to Jack, and then pat the bench he sat on, as much as to say he had bid him stay in the camp. Then he shut his eyes, and leant his head on his right paw, to show that he went to sleep, and then he made two or three quick steps to the back of the stage, to let them know that Jack had run off while he slept. Then he shut his eyes once more, woke up with a start, flew to the guard, and, with a bark and a growl and a yap! yap! yap! let them know that Jack had cut off, and they must go and find him. Then he did point to the guard and Jack, to tell the judge that the run-a-way was found; and at last he made a low bow, and spread out his paws, by which, I dare say, he meant that his part was at an end. And now it was the turn of the judge, and he must say what was to be done to a man who was so bad as to run out of camp in time of war. The judge cast up his eyes, and threw up his paws, as if it was a sad shock to him to hear that Jack had been so bad. Then he did point to the guns of the guard and to Jack, and did nod his head as if he would nod it off. It was too plain! Poor Jack must be shot! His mam-ma, when she saw this, ran to the judge and fell on her knees; that is, she sat down on her hind-legs, with her paws held out, to beg him to let Jack off; but he shook his head "no." Then she did the same to Col. Grape-shot; but it was all of no use. Jack put his paws round her neck, and did kiss her good-by, at which Hal and May cried quite hard, and then gave him-self up to the guard. They took him to the back of the stage, put a white cloth on his eyes, and made him kneel down. Then they stood in front of him, side by side, put up their guns, and, flash! bang!! off went two shots; and poor Jack fell dead on the stage! [Illustration: "Flash!, bang! off went two shots!"--P. 118.] Down popt his mam-ma once more in a swoon; while the guard took off the lid of the box, and put Jack in-side, who laid as stiff as a ram-rod. The dog who drew the hand-cart put on the lid, and went off first; then the Col. and judge, arm in arm; then the guard, who had to drag Jack's mam-ma by the arms, and didn't seem to like it much; and last, the dog who beat the drum and who did bang a-way for dear life all the time. But just as the folks were quite in tears for the fate of poor Jack, in came the dog with the hand-cart full tilt, and in a great scare; for the lid of the box was half off, and you could see one of Jack's paws stuck out of a crack on top. All at once, off flew the lid, and out came Jack in a new dress, to dance a jig, and show that he had come to life once more, and was just as good as new. Oh! how the folks did laugh at this, and clap their hands! while Jack went on to show all his queer tricks. First, he held up both his legs on his right side, and took a walk with the two on his left side; then he leapt thro' a ring or hoop, that was let down from the top of the stage, and took a turn round in the air as he went; and, by way of a wind up, he stood on his head in the ring, and let him-self be drawn up out of sight, as the green baize came down. O dear! how much May and Hal liked all this, while Dash did not know how in the world Frisk could do it; and when all the boys and girls were as full as they could hold of the fun of the thing, Dash had as much as he could do to keep in a howl of grief; for, you must know, the dog could tell by poor Frisk's face that all this was no fun to him. And now the show was done, and it was time to go home. As they went, May and Hal had a nice long talk. May said: "O dear Hal! how I wish we had a dog that knew how to dance! What fun, when Sue and Kate Brown came, to have him show off!" "Dear pa-pa, do buy one for us, won't you?" said Hal. "O my! buy that queer dog--what was his name?--the one that stood on two legs, and on the top of his head, and was shot--that one!" When Dash heard Hal ask his pa-pa to buy Frisk, his heart went pit-a-pat, and he gave a short, glad bark, which meant, "O yes! _do_ buy Frisk!" "But," said pa-pa, "you know that Frisk acts 'Jack, the Run-a-way;' and what if I should buy him, and he should trot off the next day! You know Dash could not have a red coat on, and run on his hind-legs to bring Frisk back; and what would you do then?" Then Dash did wish with all his might that he could talk, "O dear!" he said to him-self; "I would give all my ears, and half my nose, if I could let them know that Frisk would not run off;" and then, strange to say, his love and wish to help Frisk made him get up on his hind-legs, and put his fore-paws up in the air; and he gave such a droll whine, that May and Hal burst out in a laugh, and said, "Look, pa-pa! just look at Dash! He too begs you to buy Frisk!" and then they both went and stood one on each side of the dog, put their hands up, and made such a queer whine just like him, that it was the best fun in the world to see and hear them. "But," said pa-pa, "if the show-man will sell him to me, do you not know it would be wrong to make the poor dog keep up his tricks?" "Wrong! why how, pa-pa?" "Well, my dears, it seems too sad a thing to tell you, but it is too true. The show-man has to beat his dogs, and starve them, to get them to learn the tricks that made you laugh so much. You saw how thin they were, and you heard them cry out, when they left the stage. If they made the least slip or mis-take, they got a hard blow for it. In this way they find out that they must do all their tricks quite right, or they will have the whip laid on their poor thin sides and heads; and so not a day goes by that the dogs are not starved and made to feel the whip. "Oh! oh!" cried Hal and May, "we did not know that. _We_ would not beat or starve a dog, or a cat, or a worm. What a bad show-man! We would like to beat _him_." "Oh! I hope not," said pa-pa. "The show-man may not think that dogs feel as much as we do. But I know you will be kind to all. I know you would not strike Dash, if he, by chance, broke one of your toys or hurt you in play." "O no! in-deed," they both cried; and they ran up to the dog, and gave him a good hug, and a kiss on the top of his head. You may be sure that Dash had not lost one word of all this talk; and he was still more sad when he knew how much poor Frisk had to bear. He made up his mind to tell Frisk to run off, and come to him. "I will hide him in my house till the show-man goes," he said to him-self. "I saw a great ham-bone on the shelf to-day. I know it will fall to my share, and, oh! won't it be good! I will give this to Frisk, and eat bits of bread. Yes, I will save up all the nice bones for him. Was he not a good dog?" But a whole week went by, and no Frisk. The ham-bone got quite dry; and Dash was sure poor Frisk must be ill or dead. At last one day, when Dash had lost all hope, he heard the pit-a-pat of four small feet in the yard. He had just gone in his house to take a short nap; but, I can tell you, he made but one jump out, for there was Frisk, on all fours, to be sure, but with his blue pants on his hind-legs, his red coat on his fore-legs, with the coat-tails, one on each side of his own tail, which was up in the air in an arch of joy, for here he was a real, true run-a-way. Dash flew to meet him. "Why, Frisk!" he cried; "make haste--fast--come--get right in my house. Don't mind if you tear those old coat-tails with the thorn-bush. There! that's the thing!--here you are, all safe! Now tell me, how _did_ you get off?" Frisk had run so fast that he could not speak; he could just pant, and lay his head on Dash's, with a look full of love. At last he said: "O Dash! I have run off in the midst of the play--the show-man struck me so hard for what I could not help--for my cap fell off--and I did think I must die with the pain. O Dash! if you knew what I have gone thro', your heart would break, and you would say, I did right to run a-way." The big tears ran down his nose, and his sobs did seem as if they would choke him; and Dash gave such a long howl of woe, that it makes me cry as I write these words, and I am quite sure you will cry as you read them. Then Dash got out all his best bones to feed poor Frisk, who ate as if he had not seen a bone an inch long in a month. When he had done, Dash said: "Now, dear Frisk, if you feel like it, tell me all you have gone thro'." So they sat down, and while the tears ran down Dash's nose, Frisk told the rest of his sad tale. PART IV. THE CONCLUSION OF FRISK'S TALE. You will bear in mind, Dash, that I left off where the good child fed me with bread. Well, this made me strong, and I went on my way. Soon I heard a sound, like that of a flute or fife; it was quite near, but I could see no one. All at once, a great mob of boys and men came down the road, and made a crowd close by me. I went in the midst of them to find out what it all meant. Dear me! it was some-thing queer to be sure. There was a man with a big drum fast to his back, which he beat with a drum-stick tied to one of his feet. In the front of his coat was a set of Pan's pipes, out of which he blew the tune the old cow died of. In his left hand he held a whip, while in his right was a cord, which led three dogs. The first one was an old dog, with bow-legs, who when the crowd did stop, got up on his hind-legs, and gave a look round at the two be-hind, who stood, right up on their hind-legs, all in a grave, glum way. One of these was in the dress of a girl. She had on a large round hat, full of big red bows. The hat was so big, and shook so much, that it did seem as if her head, hat, and all, would drop off, if it got a hard knock. "The dog with the bow-legs wore a blue coat, a flat hat with a broad brim, and such a high shirt col-lar, that the sharp ends all but put his eyes out. He had a pair of specs tied on his black nose with twine. The third had on a cap and coat like those of a small boy. And all did look as if they were on their way to be hung. "Then the man made a jig tune on his pipe, and beat the drum with his foot till he was as red as fire in the face, while the dogs kept time with hop, skip, and jump, with one eye on the whip. "The men and boys were full of the fun. O dear! how they did clap their hands and laugh! and I, great goose that I was, stood on _my_ hind-legs, to try how it felt, and kept near the dogs all day, and saw them dance at least ten times. "At last, when the sun had set, the man came to an old house, and let him-self in with a key; the dogs went in too, while I stood out-side on two legs, to try to peep thro' a small crack in the door. Soon there came--oh! such a good smell of hot beef-bones. I felt as if I would give all four of my legs for just one bone. "I gave the door a push, and found it moved; and then, to make a long tale short, I went in; for I said to my-self: 'The man may beat me to death, but if I stay here I shall starve to death; so I can but try for a bone.' "I found my-self in a low, dark room. The walls were black with dirt and smoke. The dogs lay in one part of the room, and the man sat by the fire. On a hook was a great pot, and from this came such a nice smell, that all the dogs, and I with them, did lick our lips the whole time. "And now there came in the room an old dame, with a dry, brown face, for all the world like the nut-shell dolls the pie-man's boy used to make. "'Well, John,' she said, 'have you had a good day?' "'Yes, Gran-ny; I took a hat full of cents. See here, what a lot of them! But that dog there, he lost me a three cent piece to-day; so he goes with-out his bone.' "The poor dog with the bow-legs gave a great howl when he heard this; but the show-man hit him on the nose with his whip, and he slunk off, while the big tears ran in a stream down his face. "The rest stood on their hind-legs in a row, while the old dame with the nut-shell face took the pot from the fire. "'Here,' said she to the show-man, 'hold the dish while I pour the stew out.' "Oh! how it did smoke! and what a fine smell it had! The man got a loaf of bread and two blue plates from the shelf, and a knife and fork for each; and then they went to work to eat as fast as they could, while the dogs and I did look on with all the eyes we had. When the show-man had eat-en all he could, he took some more meat, cut it up in bits, and said: 'Now, I shall give each dog a bit in turn. Look sharp you! If the wrong dog starts when I call, he gets none at all. Now then, Pete!' "The dog in the cap made a jump and one snap, and the meat was gone. "'Now then, Hop!' said the man; and the dog in the girl's hat got it; and then it was Pete's turn, while poor Bob with the bow-legs, who lost the three cents, kept up a kind of soft howl and a sob, as if his heart would break. "All this time I did think I must die for want of food, and I made up my mind to stand on my hind-legs till the show-man gave me some meat too. So I got up and did not fall, while you could count ten, then I ran up to the show-man, and stood on my hind-legs at his side. "'Why bless me, dame!' he cried, 'where did this dog come from?' "'Where to be sure,' said the dame; 'you let him in your-self.' "'Did I, Gran-ny? Well, that is queer. I did not see him. He seems to know how to stand up--sit down, sir.' "Down I went like a flash. "'Get up, sir,' and up I got once more as stiff as a po-ker. "'Why don't you take him for one of your set,' said the old dame. 'He must be lost, for just see here! his name is on the brass ring round his neck.' Then she put on a pair of old horn specs to spell my name out. 'F-r-i-s-k Frisk; what a nice name! and what a clean, trim chap he is! Why, John, he would be a great help to you, he seems so smart.' "'So he would,' said the man. 'He would soon learn to dance, and he knows now how to stand up. I can soon teach him more. Here, you, sir! take that!' and he threw me a large bit of meat, which I was glad to get, you may be sure. Then I took the rest of my share in my turn with Pete and Hop, and, O dear! how nice it was, and how glad I was to get it! "When we had eat all up, the show-man took off the hats and coats of his dogs, and sent them and me to sleep in a large flat box, that stood at the end of the room. It was full of straw and quite nice. "Then the man sat down by the fire to smoke his pipe and have a chat with his old brown nut-shell Gran-ny. "I was so glad to rest, that I went fast to sleep right off. But, O dear! O dear! the next morn, it was sad as it could be, for I had to learn to dance a jig, and stand on my head, and he beat me so, that I had a fit. I did think he would break each bone I had, and the more I cried the more he beat me. "But I had to learn; and in two weeks' time I went out with the rest. "One day the same man I ran from to-day saw me dance in the street. He was a big show-man, and had dog plays, and was quite rich and great; so he tried to buy me. I heard him tell _my_ man, that the dog who used to play 'Jack, the Run-a-way,' was just dead, and I would make a first-rate Jack in his place. "So he paid, I don't know how much, and got me, and set me to learn my part. O my dear Dash! my life was one scene of hard blows and hard fare. The poor wee dog who acts the old dame in the play is worse off than I, for she is so weak, that she can not do her part well; and oh! how he beats her! She has told me more than once that she would be glad to die, and I get quite wild when I think I can not help her. If the bad man would whip me for her, I would be glad to take it, tho' I get blows all the time for my own share." "Oh! how sad!" cried Dash, the big tears in his eyes. "What a bad, bad man! How glad I am you have run a-way from him. But what shall we do to hide you?" "Dear Dash, if you will keep me here for four or five days, I may get some one to take me, who is as good and kind as Mr. Grey, and then some day I will try to show you how much I feel what you _have_ done and _will do_ for me." "Don't speak of it," said Dash. "It is as much of a joy to _do_ good as to have good done to one's self. You shall stay here with me, dear Frisk! and we will wait and see what comes of it." "O you good old dog! you dear Dash! I will stay in your house all the time. I will be as still as a drum with a hole in it." "Yes, and I know you will come out all right at last. I tell you what! I heard May and Hal ask their pa-pa to buy you. O my! they want you so much!" "Do they? O dear! then I can stay here all the rest of my life." And in his joy he tried to stand on his head; but the roof of the dog-house was too low, and his legs came down on top of Dash's back, and gave him quite a start. "But," said Dash, "I must tell you that May and Hal said you were to dance for them." "O dear! if that is all, I will dance the whole day for a good home." So the two dogs kept house for a week, and Dash went out and got the bones, while Frisk made the straw beds, and swept the scraps out with his paws for a broom. Not the tip of his nose did he show in the day-time, but at night he took a run round the lawn to get the twist out of his legs. The fat old cook in the house said she did not know how Dash could eat so much; for he would beg for bones five or six times a day. She was a good old soul, and she gave him all the bones she had, and he would lick her hand and wag his tail, and all but speak to thank her. At last one day, Dash heard Mr. Grey say that the show-man had gone a-way. He had tried his best to find Frisk. He said he would give a large sum to get him back; and all the boys in town went out to hunt the poor dog. But they did not find him, as you and I know. PART V. FRISK FINDS A NEW HOME. And now, as I shall tell you, one day May and Hal went out on the lawn, when lo! there stood Frisk, first on his hind-legs, and then on his head; then he danced a jig, and then ran up to lick their hands. "O my! O look! here is that dear Jack we saw in the play," cried May. "Yes, so it is! Why, Jack, where _did_ you hide all this time?" said Hal, and he gave him a soft pat, and May put her white arms round his neck. Tears of joy stood in Frisk's eyes, and he ran with May and Hal and Dash up to the house, where their pa-pa and mam-ma were. You may be sure the two went hard to work to kiss and coax pa-pa to let Jack or Frisk stay. They asked him to look how thin the poor dog was, and how sad it would be to send him back to the show-man, who would beat him, and may-be kill him, he would be in such a rage. "O now, dear pa-pa! do let him live with us!" they cried; "_we_ will not beat him, and he may dance or not, as he likes. Come, we will kiss you ten times;" and they both got his face down, and gave them to him on each cheek at the same time, and made him and mam-ma laugh so, they could not speak a word for quite a while. Well, the end of all this long tale is, that Mr. Grey wrote to the show-man, and said he had got his dog, Frisk, and he would like to keep him. I do not dare to tell you how much he said he would give to buy him; but it was such a large sum, that the show-man took it. And now Jack--Frisk, as they call him--and Dash have each a house to live in, but they eat and take their naps in one, for they love to get as close, side by side, as they can. Frisk stands on his hind-legs and his head, and does his jig dance in great style for May and Hal, and all the boys and girls who come to see them. If _you_ want to see him, you must speak quick; for I fear he will soon be so fat, with all the nice bones and kind words he gets, that his hind-legs won't hold him up. But of this you may be quite sure, that Frisk and Dash will have a good home as long as they live, and when they die of old age, if you don't cry for their sad loss, May and Hal will; for, you know, Dash saved Hal's life; and life is dear to the young when they have no sad times, but joy and fun each day. And now May, and Hal, and Dash, and Frisk, must bid you good-by. If you want to hear how they get on, you must come and tell me, and if you give me a good kiss, I will let you know. Good-by! my dear pets! May the good God bless you all. [Transcriber's Note: * Pg 38 Added "period" after "88" in "P. 88". * Pg 135 Added "closing quotation" to ending of "not a good dog?".] 
35966	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 35966-h.htm or 35966-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35966/35966-h/35966-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35966/35966-h.zip) [Illustration: LOVELINESS] LOVELINESS A Story by ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS "Be my benediction said, With my hand upon thy head, Gentle fellow-creature!" E. B. BROWNING. Boston and New York Houghton, Mifflin and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1900 The Illustrations Are by Sarah S. Stilwell Copyright, 1899, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward and Houghton, Mifflin and Co. All Rights Reserved _For the smoke of their torment ascendeth._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE LOVELINESS _Frontispiece_ THE MAID STOOD LOOKING IDLY ABOUT 14 "TILL LOVELINESS COMES HOME" 20 THROUGH THE BENDING SHRUBBERY 40 LOVELINESS. Loveliness sat on an eider-down cushion embroidered with cherry-colored puppies on a pearl satin cover. The puppies had gold eyes. They were drinking a saucer of green milk. Loveliness wore a new necktie, of cherry, a shade or two brighter than the puppies, and a pearl-gray, or one might call it a silver-gray jacket. He was sitting in the broad window sill, with his head tipped a little, thoughtfully, towards the left side, as the heads of nervous people are said to incline. He was dreamily watching the street, looking for any one of a few friends of his who might pass by, and for the letter-carrier, who was somewhat late. Loveliness had dark, brilliant eyes, remarkably alert, but reflective when in repose. Part of their charm lay in the fact that one must watch for their best expression; for Loveliness wore bangs. He had a small and delicate nose, not guiltless of an aristocratic tip, with a suspicion of a sniff at the inferior orders of society. In truth, Loveliness was an aristocrat to the end of his tongue, which curled daintily against his opalescent teeth. At this moment it lay between his teeth, and hung forward as if he held a roseleaf in his lips; and this was the final evidence of his birth and breeding. For Loveliness was a little dog; a silver Yorkshire, blue of blood and delicately reared,--a tiny creature, the essence of tenderness; set, soul and body, to one only tune. To love and to be beloved,--that was his life. He knew no other, nor up to this time could he conceive of any other; for he was as devotedly beloved as he was passionately loving. His brain was in his heart. In saying this one does not question the quality of the brain, any more than one does in saying a similar thing of a woman. Indeed, considered as an intellect, his was of the highest order known to his race. Loveliness would have been interesting as a psychological study, had he not been absorbing as an affectional occupation. His family and friends often said, "How clever!" but not until after they had said, "How dear he is!" The order of precedence in this summary of character is the most enviable that can be experienced by human beings. But the dog took it as a matter of course. This little creature loved a number of people on a sliding scale of intimacy, carefully guarded, as the intimacies of the high-born usually are; but one he loved first, most, best of all, and profoundly. I have called him Loveliness because it was the pet name, the "little name," given to him by this person. In point of fact, he answered to a variety of appellations, more or less recognized by society; of these the most lawful and the least agreeable to himself was Mop. It was a disputed point whether this were an ancestral name, or whether he had received it from the dog store, whence he had emerged at the beginning of history,--the shaggiest, scrubbiest, raggedest, wildest little terrier that ever boasted of a high descent. People of a low type, those whose imagination was bounded by menial similes, or persons of that too ready inclination to the humorous which fails to consider the possible injustice or unkindness that it may involve, had in Mop's infancy found a base pleasure in attaching to him such epithets as window-washer, scrubbing-brush, feather-duster, and footmuff. But these had not adhered. Loveliness had. It bade fair, at the time of our story, to outlive every other name. The little dog had both friends and acquaintances on the street where the professor lived; and he watched for them from his cushion in the window, hours at a time. There was the cabman, the academic-looking cabman, who was the favorite of the faculty, and who hurrahed and snapped his whip at the Yorkshire as he passed by; there was the newsboy who brought the Sunday papers, and who whistled at Loveliness, and made faces, and called him Mop. To-day there was a dark-faced man, a stranger, standing across the street, and regarding the professor's house with the unpleasant look of the foreign and ill-natured. This man had eyebrows that met in a straight, black line upon his forehead, and he wore a yellow jersey. The dog threw back his supercilious little head and barked at the yellow jersey severely. But at that moment he saw the carrier, who ran up the steps laughing, and brought a gumdrop in a sealed envelope addressed to Loveliness. There was a large mail that afternoon, including a pile of pamphlets and circulars of the varied description that haunts professors' houses. Kathleen, the parlor maid,--another particular friend of the terrier's--took the mail up to the study, but dropped one of the pamphlets on the stairs. The dog rebuked her carelessness (after he had given his attention to the carrier's gumdrop) by picking the pamphlet up and bringing it back to the window seat, where he opened and dog-eared it with a literary manner for a while, until suddenly he forgot it altogether, and dropped it on the floor, and sprang, bounding. For the dearest person in the world had called him in a whisper,--"Love-li-ness!" And the dearest face in the world appeared above him and melted into laughing tenderness. "Loveliness! Where's my _Love_-li-ness?" A little girl had come into the room, a girl of between five and six years, but so small that one would scarcely have guessed her to be four,--a beautiful child, but transparent of coloring, and bearing in her delicate face the pathetic patience which only sick children, of all human creatures, ever show. She was exquisitely formed, but one little foot halted and stepped weakly on the thick carpet. Her organs of speech were perfect in mechanism, but often she did not speak quite aloud. Sometimes, on her weaker days, she carried a small crutch. They called her Adah. She came in without her crutch that afternoon; she was feeling quite strong and happy. The little dog sprang to her heart, and she crooned over him, sitting beside him on the window seat and whispering in her plaintive voice: "Love-li-ness! I can't live wivout you anover _min_ute, Loveliness! I can't _live_ wivout you!" She put her head down on the pearl-gray satin pillow with the cherry puppies, and the dog put his face beside hers. He was kept as sweet and clean as his little mistress, and he had no playfellow except herself, and never went away from home unless at the end of a gray satin ribbon leash. At all events, the two _would_ occupy the same pillow, and all idle effort to struggle with this fact had ceased in the household. Loveliness sighed one of the long sighs of perfect content recognized by all owners and lovers of dogs as one of the happiest sounds in this sad world, and laid his cheek to hers quietly. He asked nothing more of life. He had forgotten the world and all that was therein. He looked no longer for the cabman, the newsboy, or the carrier, and the man with the eyebrows had gone away. The universe did not exist; he and she were together. Heaven had happened. The dog glanced through half-closed, blissful eyes at the yellow hair--"eighteen carats fine"--that fell against his silver bangs. His short ecstatic breath mingled with the gentle breathing of the child. She talked to him in broken rhapsodies. She called him quaint, pet names of her own,--"Dearness" and "Daintiness," "Mopsiness" and "Preciousness," and "Dearest-in-the-World," and who knew what besides? Only the angels who are admitted to the souls of children and the hearts of little dogs could have understood that interview. No member of the professor's household ever interfered with the attachment between the child and the dog, which was set apart as one of the higher facts in the family life. Indeed, it had its own page of sacred history, which read on this wise:-- When Adah was a walking baby, two and a half years before the time of which we tell, the terrier was in the first proud flush of enthusiasm which an intelligent dog feels in the mastery of little feats and tricks. Of these he had a varied and interesting repertoire. His vocabulary, too, was large. At the date of our story it had reached one hundred and thirty words. It was juvenile and more limited at the time when the sacred page was written, but still beyond the average canine proficiency. Loveliness had always shown a genius for the English language. He could not speak it, but he tried harder than any other dog I ever knew to do so; and he grew to understand with ease an incredibly large part of the usual conversation of the family. It could never be proved that he followed--or did not follow--the professor of psychology in a discussion on the Critique of Pure Reason; but his mental grasp of ordinary topics was alert and logical. He sneezed when he was cold and wanted a window shut, and barked twice when his delicate china water-cup was empty. When the fire department rang by, or a stove in the house was left on draught too long, and he wished to call attention to the circumstance, he barked four times. Besides the commonplace accomplishments of turning somersaults, being a dead dog, sitting up to beg for things, and shaking hands, Loveliness had some attainments peculiar to himself. One of these was in itself scientifically interesting. This luxurious, daintily fed little creature, who had never known an hour's want nor any deprivation that he could remember, led by the blind instinct of starving, savage ancestors skulking in forests where the claw and tooth of every living thing were against every other, conscientiously sought to bury, against future exigencies, any kind of food for which he had no appetite. The remnants of his dog biscuit, his saucer of weak tea, an unpalatable dinner, alike received the treatment given to the bare bone of his forefathers when it was driven into the ground. Anything served the purpose of the earth,--the rough, wild earth of whose real nature the house pet knew so little. A newspaper, a glove, a handkerchief, a sheet of the professor's manuscript, a hearth brush, or a rug would answer. Drag these laboriously, and push them perseveringly to their places! Cover the saucer or the plate from sight with a solemn persistence that the starving, howling ancestor would have respected! Thus Loveliness recognized the laws of heredity. But the corners of rugs were, and remained, the favorite burying sod. On that black day when the baby girl had used her white apron by way of blowers before the reluctant nursery fire, the little dog was alone in the room with her. It had so happened. Suddenly, through the busy house resounded four shrill, staccato barks. In the vocabulary of Loveliness this meant, "Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!" Borne with them came the terrible cries of the child. When the mother and the nursemaid got to the spot, the baby was ablaze from her white apron to her yellow hair. She was writhing on the floor. The terrier, his own silver locks scorching, and his paws in the flame, was trying to cover his young mistress with the big Persian rug, in itself a load for a collie. He had so far succeeded that the progress of the flames had been checked. For years the professor speculated on the problems raised by this tremendous incident. Whether the Yorkshire regarded the fire as a superfluity, like a dinner one does not want,--but that was far-fetched. Whether he knew that wool puts out fire,--but that was incredible. Whether this, that, or the other, no man could say, or ever has. Perhaps the intellect of the dog, roused to its utmost by the demand upon his heart, blindly leaped to its most difficult exertion. It was always hard to cover things with rugs. In this extremity one must do the hardest. Or did sheer love teach him to choose, in a moment that might have made a fool or a lunatic of a man, the only one or two of several processes which could by any means reach the emergency? At all events, the dog saved the child. And she became henceforth the saint and idol of the family, and he its totem and its hero. The two stood together in one niche above the household altar. It was impossible to separate them. But after that terrible hour little Adah was as she was: frail, uncertain of step, scarred on the pearl of her neck and the rose of her cheek; not with full command of her voice; more nervously deficient than organically defective,--but a perfect being marred. Her father said, "She goeth lame and lovely." On the afternoon when our story began, the child and the Yorkshire sat cuddled together in the broad window seat for a long time. Blessedness sat with them. Adah talked in low love tones, using a language as incomprehensible to other people as the tongue in which the dog replied to her. They carried on long conversations, broken only by caresses, and by barks of bliss or jets of laughter. The child tired herself with laughing and loving, and the dog watched her; he did not sleep; he silently lapped the fingers of her little hand that lay like a cameo upon the silken cushion. Some one came in and said in a low voice: "She is tired out. She must have her supper and be put to bed." Afterwards it was remembered that she clung to Loveliness and cried a little, foolishly; fretting that she did not want her supper, and demanding that the dog should go up to bed with her and be put at once into his basket by her side. This was gently refused. "You shall see him in the morning," they told her. Kathleen put the little dog down forcibly from the arms of the child, who wailed at the separation. She called back over the balusters: "_Love_-li-ness! Good-by, Loveliness! When we're grown up, we'll _al_ways be togever, Loveliness!" The dog barked rebelliously for a few minutes; then sighed, and accepted the situation. He ran back and picked up the pamphlet which Kathleen had dropped, and carried it upstairs to the professor's study, where he laid it on the lowest shelf of the revolving bookcase. The professor glanced at the dog-eared pages and smiled. The pamphlet was one of the innumerable throng issued by some philanthropic society devoted to improving the condition of animals. When Kathleen came downstairs she found the dog standing at the front door, patiently asking that it might be opened for him. She went down the steps; for it was the rule of the house never to allow the most helpless member of the family at liberty unguarded. The evening was soft, and the maid stood looking idly about. A man in a yellow jersey, and with straight, black eyebrows, was on the other side of the street; but he did not look over. The suburban town was still and pleasant; advancing spring was in the air; no one was passing; only a negro boy lolled on the old-fashioned fence, and shouted: "Hi! Yi! Yi! Look a' dem crows carryin' off a b'iled pertater 'n' a piecer squushed pie!" [Illustration: THE MAID STOOD LOOKING IDLY ABOUT] Kathleen, for very vacuity of mind, turned to look. Neither potatoes nor squash pie were to be seen careering through the skies; nor, in fact, were there any crows. "I'll have yez arrested for sarse and slander!" cried Kathleen vigorously. But the negro boy had disappeared. So had the man in the yellow jersey. "Where's me dog?" muttered Kathleen. It was dipping dusk; it was deepening to dark. She called. Loveliness was an obedient little fellow always; but he did not reply. The maid called again; she examined the front yard and the premises,--slowly, for she was afraid to go in and tell. With the imbecility of the timid and the erring, she took too much time in a fruitless and unintelligent search before she went, trembling, into the house. Kathleen felt that this was the greatest emergency that had occurred since the baby was burned. She went straight to the master's door. "God have mercy on me, but I've lost the little dog, sir!" The professor wheeled around in his study chair. "There was a nigger and a squashed crow--but indeed I never left the little dog, as you bid me, sir--I never left him for the space of me breath between me lips--and when I draws it in the little dog warn't nowhere.... Oh, whatever'll _she_ say? Whatever'll _she_ do? Mother of God, forgive me soul! Who'll tell _her_?" Who indeed? The professor of psychology turned as pale as the paper on which he was about to write his next famous and inexplicable lecture. He pushed by Kathleen and sprang for his hat. But the child's mother had already run out, bareheaded, into the street, calling the dog as she ran. Nora, the cook, left the dinner to burn, and followed. Kathleen softly shut the nursery door, "So _she_ won't hear," and, sobbing, crept downstairs. The family gathered as if under the black wing of an unspeakable tragedy. They scoured the premises and the street, while the professor rang in the police call. But Loveliness was not to be found. The carrier came by, on his way home after his day's work was over. "Great Scott!" he cried. "I'd rather have lost a month's pay. Does _she_ know?" The newsboy trotted up, and stopped whistling. "Hully gee!" he said. "What'll the little _gell_ dew?" The popular cabman came by; he was driving the president, who let down the window and asked what had happened. The driver uttered a mild and academic oath. "Me 'n' my horse, we're at your disposal as soon as me and the president have got to faculty meeting." But the president of the University of St. George put his long legs out of the carriage, and bowed the professor into it. "The cab is at your service now," he said anxiously, "and so am I. They can get along without us for a while, to-night. Anything that I can do to help you, Professor Premice, in this--real calamity--How does the child bear it?" "Poor little kid!" muttered the cabman. "And to think how I used to snap my whip at 'em in the window!" "An' how I used to bring him candy, contrary to the postal laws!" sighed the carrier. The cab driver and the postman spoke as if the dog and the child were both already dead. The group broke slowly and sadly at last. The mother and the maids crept tearfully into the house. The professor, the carrier, the newsboy, and the president threw themselves into the matter as if they had been hunting for a lost child. The president deferred his engagement at the faculty meeting for two hours,--which gave about time for a faculty meeting to get under way. The professor and the cab driver and the police ransacked the town till nearly dawn. It began to rain, and the night grew chilly. The carrier went home, looking like a man in the shade of a public calamity. The newsboy ran around in the storm, shadowing all the negro boys he met, and whistling for Loveliness in dark places where low-bred curs answered him, and yellow mongrels snarled at his soaked heels. But the professor had the worst of it; for when he came in, drenched and tired, in the early morning, a little figure in a lace-trimmed nightgown stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for him. The professor gave one glance at the child's face, and instinctively covered his own. He could not bear to look at her. "Papa," said Adah, limping down the stairs, "where is Loveliness? I can't find him! Oh, I _can_not find him! And nobody will tell me where he's gone to. Papa? I arxpect _you_ to tell me 'e trufe. WHERE is my Loveliness?" * * * * * Her mother could not comfort or control her. She clung to her father's heart the remainder of the night; moaning at intervals, then unnaturally and piteously still. The rain dashed on the windows, for the storm increased; the child shrank and shivered. "He's _never_ been out in 'e rain, Papa! He will be wet--and frightened. Papa, who will give him his little baxet, and cover him up warm? Papa! Papa! who will be _kind_ to Loveliness?" In the broad daylight Adah fell into a short sleep. She woke with a start and a cry, and asked for the dog. "He'll come home to breakfust," she said, with quivering lip. "Tell Nora to have some sugar on his mush when he comes home." But Loveliness did not come home to breakfast. The child refused to eat her own. She hurried down and crept to the broad window seat, to watch the street. When she saw the empty gray satin cushion, she flung herself face down with a heart-rending cry. "Papa! Papa! Papa! I never had a 'fliction before. Oh, Papa, my heart will break itself apart. Papa, can't you know enough to comfort you little girl? I can't _live_ wivout my Loveliness. Oh, Papa! Papa!" * * * * * This was in the decline of March. The winds went down, and the rains came on. The snow slid from the streets of the university town, and withdrew into dingy patches about the roots of trees and fences, and in the shady sides of cold back yards. The mud yawned ankle-deep, and dried, and was not, and was dust beneath the foot. Crocuses blazed in the gardens of the faculty,--royal purple, gold, and wax-white lamps set in the young and vivid grass. The sun let down his mask and looked abroad, and it was April. The newsboy, the carrier and the cab-driver laughed for very joy of living. But when they passed the professor's house they did not laugh. It came on to be the heart and glory of the spring, and the warm days melted into May. But the little dog had not been found. The professor had exhausted hope and ingenuity in the dreary quest. The State, one might say without exaggeration, had been dragged for that tiny dumb thing,--seven pounds' weight of life and tenderness. Money had been poured like love upon the vain endeavor. Rewards of reckless proportion appealed from public places and from public columns to the blank eyes that could not or did not read. The great detective force, whose name is familiar from sea to sea, had supplemented the useless search of the local police and of the city press. And all had equally failed. The "dog banditti" had done their work too well. Loveliness had sunk out of sight like forgotten suffering in a scene of joy. In the window seat, propped with white pillows, "lame and lovely," Adah sat. The empty embroidered gray cushion lay beside her. Sometimes she patted the red puppies softly with one thin little hand; she allowed no one else to touch the cushion. "Till Loveliness comes home," she said. In the window, silent, pale, and seeing everything, she watched. But Loveliness did not come home. [Illustration: "TILL LOVELINESS COMES HOME"] The pitiful thing was that the child herself was so changed. She had wasted to a little wraith. For some time she had not walked without her crutch. Now she scarcely walked at all. At the first she had sobbed a good deal, in downright childish fashion; then she wept silently; but now she did not cry any more,--she did but watch. Her sight had grown unnaturally keen, like that of pilots; she gazed out of great eyes, bright, and dry, and solemn. Already she had taken on the look of children whose span of time is to be short. She weakened visibly. At first, her father took her out with him in the cab, so she should feel that she was conducting the search herself. But she had grown too feeble for this exertion. Sometimes, on such drives, she saw cruel sights,--animals suffering at the black tempers of men or the diabolic jests of boys; and she was hurried home, shivering and sobbing. When night came she would ask for the Yorkshire's bed to be put beside her own, and with trembling fingers would draw up the crimson blankets over the crimson mattress, as if the dog had been between them. Then she would ask the question that haunted her most:-- "Mamma, who will put Loveliness into a little baxet to sleep, and cover him up? Papa, Papa, will they be _kind_ to Loveliness?" Stormy nights and days were always the hardest. "Will Loveliness be out and get wet? Will he shiver like 'e black dog I saw to-day? Will he have warm milk for his supper? Is there anybody to rub him dry and cuddle my Loveliness?" To divert the child from her grief proved impossible. They took her somewhere, in the old, idle effort to change the place and help the pain; but she mourned so, "because he might come home, and nobody see him but me," that they brought her back. The president of the university, who was a dogless and childless man, presented the bereaved household with a mongrel white puppy, purchased under the amiable impression that it was of a rare, Parisian breed. The distinguished man cherished the ignorant hope of bestowing consolation. But the invalid child, with the sensitiveness of invalid children, refused to look at the puppy, who was returned to his donor, and constituted himself henceforth the tyrant and terror of that scholastic household. As the weather grew warmer, little Adah failed and sank. It came on to be the bloom of the year, and she no longer left the house. The carrier and the cab driver lifted their hats in silence now, when they passed the window where the little girl sat, and the newsboy looked up with a sober face, like that of a man. The faculty and the neighbors did not ask, "How is the child?" but always, "Have you heard from the dog?" The doctor began to call daily. He did not shake his head,--no doctor does outside of an old-fashioned story,--and he smiled cheerfully enough inside the house; but when he came out of it, to his carriage, he did not smile. So the spring mellowed, and it was the first of June. One night, the poor professor sat trying to put into shape an impossible thesis on an incomprehensible subject (it was called The Identity of Identity and Non-Identity), for Commencement delivery in his department. Pulling aside some books of reference that he needed, he dragged to view a pamphlet from the lowest shelf of the revolving bookcase. Then he saw the marks of the Yorkshire's teeth and claws on the pamphlet corners, and, sadly smiling, he opened and read. The Commencement thesis on The Identity of Identity and Non-Identity was not corrected that night. The professor of psychology sat moulded into his study chair, rigid, with iron lips and clenched hands, and read the pamphlet through, every word, from beginning to end. For the first time in his life, this eminent man, wise in the wisdom of the world of mind, and half educated in the practical affairs of the world of matter, studied for himself the authenticated records of the torments imposed upon dumb animals in the name of science. As an instructed man, of course this subject was not wholly unfamiliar to him, but it was wholly foreign. Hitherto he had given it polite and indifferent attention, and had gone his ways. Now he read like a man himself bound, without anæsthesia, beneath the knife. Now he read for the child's sake, with the child's mind, with the child's nerves, and with those of the little helpless thing for whom her life was wasting. He tore from his shelves every volume, every pamphlet that he owned upon the direful subject which that June night opened to his consciousness; and he read until the birds sang. With brain on fire, he crept, in the brightness of coming day, to his wife's side. "Tired out, dear?" she asked gently. Then he saw that she too had not slept. "Adah has such dreams," she explained; "cruel things,--all the same kind." "About the dog?" "Always about the dog. I have been sitting up with her. She is--not as strong as--not quite"-- The professor set his teeth when he heard the mother's moan. When she had sunk into broken rest he stole back to his study, and locked out of sight the pamphlet which Loveliness had chewed. So, with the profound and scientific treatises on the subject, arguing and illustrating this way and that (some of these had cuts and photogravures which would haunt the imagination for years), he crowded the whole out of reach. His own brain was reeling with horrors which it would have driven the woman or the child mad to read. Scenes too ghastly for a strong mind to dwell upon, incidents too fearful for a weak one to conceive, flitted before the sleepless father. Now the professor began to do strange and secretive things. Unknown to his wife, unsuspected by his fading child, he began to cause the laboratories of the city and its environs to be searched. In the process, curious trades developed themselves to his astonished ignorance: the tricks of boys who supply the material of anguish; the trade of the janitor who sells it to the demonstrator; the trade of the brute who allures his superior, the dog, to the lairs of medical students. Dark arts started to the foreground, like imps around Mephistopheles concealed. From such repellent education the professor came home and took his little girl into his arms, and did not speak, but laid his cheek to hers, and heard the piteous, familiar question, "Papa, did you promise me they'd be kind to Loveliness?" It was always a whispered question now; for Adah had entirely lost command of her voice, partly from weakness, partly from the old injury to the vocal organs; and this seemed, somehow, to make it the harder to answer her. So there fell a day when the child in the window, propped by more than the usual pillows, sat watching longer than usual, or more sadly, or more eagerly,--who can say what it was? Or did she look so much more translucent, more pathetic, than on another day? She leaned her cheek on one little wasted hand. Her great eyes commanded the street. She had her pilot's look. Now and then, if a little dog passed, and if he were gray, she started and leaned forward, then sank back faintly. The sight of her would have touched a savage; and one beheld it. A man in a yellow jersey passed by upon the other side of the street, and glanced over. His straight, black brows contracted, and he looked at the child steadily. As he walked on, it might have been noticed that his brutal head hung to his breast. But he passed, and that cultivated street was clean of him. The carrier met him around the corner, and glanced at him with coldness. "What's de matter of de kid yonder, in de winder?" asked the foreigner. "Dyin'," said the carrier shortly. "Looks she had--what you call him?--gallopin' consum'tion," observed the man with the eyebrows. "Gallopin' heartbreak," replied the carrier, pushing by. "There's a devil layin' round loose outside of hell that stole her dog,--and she a little sickly thing to start with, ---- him! There's fifty men in this town would lynch him inside of ten minutes, if they got a clue to him, ---- him to ----!" That afternoon, when the professor left the house, the newsboy ran up eagerly. "There's a little nigger wants yez, perfesser, downstreet. He's in wid the dog robbers, that nigger is. Jes' you arsk him when he see Mop las' time. Take him by the scruff the neck, an' wallop like hell till he tells. Be spry, now, perfesser!" The professor hurried down the street, fully prepared to obey these directions, and found the negro boy, as he had been told. "Come along furder," said the boy, looking around uneasily. He spoke a few words in a hoarse whisper. The blood leaped to the professor's wan cheeks, and back again. "I'll show ye for a V," suggested the boy cunningly. "But I won't take no noter hand. Make it cash, an' I'll show yer. Ye ain't no time to be foolin'," added the gamin. "It's sot for termorrer 'leven o'clock. He's down for the biggest show of the term, _he_ is. The students is all gwineter go, an' the doctors along of 'em." * * * * * His own university! His own university! The professor repeated the three words, as he dashed into the city with the academic cabman's fastest horse. For weeks his detectives had watched every laboratory within fifty miles. But--his own college! With the density which sometimes submerges a superior intellect, it had never occurred to him that he might find his own dog in the medical school of his own institution. Stupidly he sat gazing at the back of the gamin who slunk beside the aversion of the driver on the box. The professor seemed to himself to be driving through the terms of a false syllogism. The cabman drew up in a filthy and savage neighborhood, in whose grim purlieus the St. George professors did not take their walks abroad. The negro boy tumbled off the box. The professor sat, trembling like a woman. The boy went into the tenement, whistling. When he came out he did not whistle. His evil little face had fallen. His arms were empty. "The critter's dum gone," he said. "_Gone?_" "He's dum goneter de college. Dey'se tuk him, sah. Dum dog to go so yairly." The countenance of the professor blazed with the mingling fires of horror and of hope. The excited driver lashed the St. George horse to foam; in six minutes the cab drew up at the medical school. The passenger ran up the walk like a boy, and dashed into the building. He had never entered it before. He was obliged to inquire his way, like a rustic on a first trip to town. After some delay and difficulty he found the janitor, and, with the assurance of position, stated his case. But the janitor smiled. "I will go now--at once--and remove the dog," announced the professor. "In which direction is it? My little girl--There is no time to lose. Which door did you say?" But now the janitor did not smile. "Excuse me, sir," he said frigidly, "I have no orders to admit strangers." He backed up against a closed door, and stood there stolidly. The professor, burning with human rage, leaned over and shook the door. It was locked. "Man of darkness!" cried the professor. "You who perpetrate"--Then he collected himself. "Pardon me," he said, with his natural dignity; "I forget that you obey the orders of your chiefs, and that you do not recognize me. I am not accustomed to be refused admittance to the departments of my own university. I am Professor Premice, of the Chair of Mental Philosophy,--Professor Theophrastus Premice." He felt for his cards, but he had used the last one in his wallet. "You might be, and you mightn't," replied the janitor grimly. "I never heard tell of you that I know of. My orders are not to admit, and I do not admit." "You are unlawfully detaining and torturing my dog!" gasped the professor. "I demand my property at once!" "We have such a lot of these cases," answered the janitor wearily. "We hain't got your dog. We don't take gentlemen's dogs, nor ladies' pets. And we always etherize. We operate very tenderly. You hain't produced any evidence or authority, and I can't let you in without." "Be so good," urged the professor, restraining himself by a violent effort, "as to bear my name to some of the faculty. Say that I am without, and wish to see one of my colleagues on an urgent matter." "None of 'em's in just now but the assistant demonstrator," retorted the janitor, without budging. "_He_'s experimenting on a--well, he's engaged in a very pretty operation just now, and cannot be disturbed. No, sir. You had better not touch the door. I tell you, I do not admit nor permit. Stand back, sir!" The professor stood back. He might have entered the lecture room by other doors, but he did not know it; and they were not visible from the spot where he stood. He had happened on the laboratory door, and that refused him. He staggered out to his cab, and sank down weakly. "Drive me to my lawyer!" he cried. "Do not lose a moment--if you love her!" * * * * * It was eleven o'clock of the following morning; a dreamy June day, afloat with color, scent, and warmth, as gentle as the depths of tenderness in the human heart, and as vigorous as its noblest aspirations. The students of the famous medical school of the University of St. George were crowding up the flagged walk and the old granite steps of the college; the lecture room was filling; the students chatted and joked profusely, as medical students do, on occasions least productive of amusement to the non-professional observer. There chanced to be some sprays of lily of the valley in a tumbler set upon the window sill of the adjoining physiological laboratory, and the flower seemed to stare at something which it saw within the room. Now and then, through the door connecting with the lecture room, a faint sound penetrated the laughter and conversation of the students,--a sound to hear and never to forget while remembrance rang through the brain, but not to tell of. The room filled; the demonstrator appeared suddenly, in his fresh, white blouse; the students began to grow quiet. Some one had already locked the door leading from the laboratory to the hallway. The lily in the window looked, and seemed, in the low June wind, to turn its face away. "Gentlemen," began the operator, "we have before us to-day a demonstration of unusual beauty and interest. It is our intention to study"--here he minutely described the nature of the operation. "There will be also some collateral demonstrations of more than ordinary value. The material has been carefully selected. It is young and healthy," observed the surgeon. "We have not put the subject under the usual anæsthesia,"--he motioned to his assistant, who at this point went into the laboratory,--"because of the importance of some preliminary experiments which were instituted yesterday, and to the perfection of which consciousness is conditional. Gentlemen, you see before you"-- The assistant entered through the laboratory door at this moment, bearing something which he held straight out before him. The students, on tiered and curving benches, looked down from their amphitheatre, lightly, as they had been trained to look. "It is needless to say," proceeded the lecturer, "that the subject will be mercifully disposed of as soon as the demonstration is completed. And we shall operate with the greatest tenderness, as we always do. Gentlemen, I am reminded of a story"-- The demonstrator indulged in a little persiflage at this point, raising a laugh among the class; he smiled himself; he gestured with the scalpel, which he had selected while he was talking; he made three or four sinister cuts with it in the air, preparatory cuts,--an awful rehearsal. He held the instrument suspended, thoughtfully. "The first incision"--he began. "Follow me closely, now. You see--Gentlemen? Gentlemen! Really, I cannot proceed in such a disturbance--What _is_ that noise?" With the suspended scalpel in his hand, the demonstrator turned impatiently. "It's a row in the corridor," said one of the students. "We hope you won't delay for that, doctor. It's nothing of any consequence. Please go ahead." But the locked door of the laboratory shook violently, and rattled in unseen hands. Voices clashed from the outside. The disturbance increased. "Open! Open the door!" Heavy blows fell upon the panels. "In the name of humanity, in the name of mercy, open this door!" "It must be some of those fanatics," said the operator, laying down his instrument. "Where is the janitor? Call him to put a stop to this." He took up the instrument with an impetuous motion; then laid it irritably down again. The attention of his audience was now concentrated upon the laboratory door, for the confusion had redoubled. At the same time feet were heard approaching the students' entrance to the lecture room. One of the young men took it upon himself to lock that door also, which was not the custom of the place; but he found no key, and two or three of his classmates joined him in standing against the door, which they barricaded. Their blood was up,--they knew not why; the fighting animal in them leaped at the mysterious intrusion. There was every prospect of a scene unprecedented in the history of the lecture room. The expected did not happen. It appeared that some unsuccessful effort was made to force this door, but it was not prolonged; then the footsteps retreated down the stairs, and the demand at the laboratory entrance set in again,--this time in a new voice:-- "It is an officer of the court! There is a search-warrant for stolen property! Open in the name of the Law! _Open this door in the name of the Commonwealth!_" Now the door sank open, was burst open, or was unlocked,--in the excitement, no one knew which or how,--and the professor and the lawyer, the officer and the search-warrant, fell in. The professor pushed ahead, and strode to the operating table. There lay the tiny creature, so daintily reared, so passionately beloved; he who had been sheltered in the heart of luxury, like the little daughter of the house herself; he who used never to know a pang that love or luxury could prevent or cure; he who had been the soul of tenderness, and had known only the soul of tenderness. There, stretched, bound, gagged, gasping, doomed to a doom which the readers of this page would forbid this pen to describe, lay the silver Yorkshire, kissing his vivisector's hand. In the past few months Loveliness had known to the uttermost the matchless misery of the lost dog (for he had been sold and restolen more than once); he had known the miseries of cold, of hunger, of neglect, of homelessness, and other torments of which it is as well not to think; the sufferings which ignorance imposes upon animals. He was about to endure the worst torture of them all,--that reserved by wisdom and power for the dumb, the undefended, and the small. The officer seized the scalpel which the demonstrator had laid aside, and slashed through the straps that bound the victim down. When the gag was removed, and the little creature, shorn, sunken, changed, almost unrecognizable, looked up into his master's face, those cruel walls rang to such a cry of more than human anguish and ecstasy as they had never heard before, and never may again. The operator turned away; he stood in his butcher's blouse and stared through out of the laboratory window, over the head of the lily, which regarded him fixedly. The students grew rapidly quiet. When the professor took Loveliness into his arms, and the Yorkshire, still crying like a human child that had been lost and saved, put up his weak paws around his master's neck and tried to kiss the tears that fell, unashamed, down the cheeks of that eminent man, the lecture room burst into a storm of applause; then fell suddenly still again, as if it felt embarrassed both by its expression and by its silence, and knew not what to do. "Has the knife touched him--anywhere?" asked the professor, choking. "No, thank God!" replied the demonstrator, turning around timidly; "and I assure you--our regrets--such a mistake"-- "That will do, doctor," said the professor. "Gentlemen, let me pass, if you please. I have no time to lose. There is one waiting for this little creature who"-- He did not finish his sentence, but went out from among them. As he passed with the shorn and quivering dog in his arms, the students rose to their feet. * * * * * He stopped the cab a hundred feet away, went across a neighbor's lot, and got into the house by the back door, with the Yorkshire hidden under his coat. The doctor's buggy stood at the curbstone in front. The little girl was so weak that morning--what might not have happened? The father felt, with a sudden sickness of heart, that time had hardly converged more closely with fate in the operating room than it was narrowing in his own home. The cook shrieked when she saw him come into the kitchen with the half-hidden burden in his arms; and Kathleen ran in, panting. "Call the doctor," he commanded hoarsely, "and ask him what we shall do." All the stories that he had ever read about joy that killed blazed through his brain. He dared neither advance nor retreat, but stood in the middle of the kitchen, stupidly. Then he saw that the quick wit of Kathleen had got ahead of him; for she was on her knees arranging the crimson blankets in the empty basket. Between the three, they gently laid the emaciated and disfigured dog into his own bed. Nora cried into the milk she was warming for the little thing. And the doctor came in while Loveliness feebly drank. "Wait a minute," he said, turning on his heel. He went back to the room where the child lay among the white pillows, with her hand upon the empty gray satin cushion. Absently she stroked one of the red puppies whose gold eyes gazed forever at the saucer of green milk. She lay with her lashes on her cheeks. It was the first day that she had not watched the street. Her mother, sitting back at the door, was fanning her. "Adah!" said the doctor cheerily. "We've got something good to tell you. Your father has found--there, there, my child!--yes, your father has found him. He looks a little queer and homesick--guess he's missed you some--and you mustn't mind how he looks, for--you see, Adah, we think he has lived with a--with a barber, and got shaved for nothing!" added the doctor stoutly. The doctor had told his share of professional fibs in his day, like the most of his race; but I hope he was forgiven all the others for this one's merciful and beautiful sake. "Come, professor!" he called, courageously enough. But his own heart beat as hard as the father's and the mother's, when the professor slowly mounted the stairs with the basket bed and the exhausted dog within it. "LOVE-_li-ness_!" cried the child. It was the first loud word that she had spoken for months. Then they lifted the dog and put him in her arms; and they turned away their faces, for the sight of that reunion was all the nerve could bear. * * * * * So it was as it has been, and ever will be, since the beginning to the end of time. Joy, the Angel of Delight and Danger, the most precious and the most perilous of messengers to the heart that loves, came to our two little friends, and might have destroyed, but saved instead. The child was strong before the dog was; but both convalesced rapidly and sweetly enough. In a week Adah threw away her little crutch. Her lost voice returned, to stay. The pearl and the rose of her soft, invalid skin browned with the summer sun. Peals of laughter and ecstatic barks resounded through the happy house. Little feet and little paws trotted together across the dew-touched lawn. Wonderful neck ribbons,--a new color every day,--tied by eager, small fingers upon the silver-gray throat of the Yorkshire, flashed through the bending shrubbery in pursuit of a little glancing white figure in lawn dresses, with shade hat hanging down her back. The satin cushion with the embroidered puppies was carried out among the blushing weigelia bushes; and the twain lived and loved and played, from day-start to twilight, in the live, midsummer air. [Illustration: THROUGH THE BENDING SHRUBBERY] Sometimes she was overheard conversing with the terrier,--long, confidential talks, with which no third person intermeddled. "Dearness! Daintiness! Loveliness! Did you have a little baxet with blankets while you were away? Preciousness! Did they cut you meat and warm you soup for you, and comfort you? Did they ever let you out to shi-shiver in 'e wet and cold? Tell me, Dearest-in-'e-World! Tell me, Love-li-ness! Tell me all about it. Tell me about 'e barber who shaved you hair so close,--was he _kind_ to you?" When Commencement was over, and the town quiet and a little dull, something of a festive nature was thought good for Adah; and the doctor, who came only as a matter of occasional ceremony now, to see his patient running away from him, proposed a party; for he was not an imaginative man, and could only suggest the conventional. "Something to take her mind off the dog for a little," he said. "We must avoid anything resembling a fixed idea." "Love is always a fixed idea," replied the professor of psychology, smiling. "But you may try, doctor." "I will arx Loveliness," said the child quietly. She ran away with the Yorkshire, and they sat among the reddening weigelia bushes for some time, conversing in low tones. Then they trotted back, laughing and barking. "Yes, Papa, we'll have a party. But it must be a _Love_liness party, Mamma. And we've decided who to arx, and all about it. If you would like to know, I'll whisper you, for it's a secret to Loveliness and me, until we think it over." Merrily she whispered in her mother's bending ear a list of chosen guests. It ran on this wise:-- The family. The carrier. Kathleen and Nora. The newsboy. The cabman. The doctor. Some of the neighbors' little dogs and girls. Not boys, because they say "Sister boy!" and "Sickum!" The president's white puppy. The president. Nobody else. Not the barber. "Here's 'e invitation," she added with dignity, "and we'll have a picture of him printed on his puppy cushion at 'e top, Papa." She put into her father's hand a slip of paper, on which she had laboriously and irregularly printed in pencil the following legend:-- +-----------------------------+ | ON SATTERDAY, AFTER NUNE. | | IF NOT STORMY. | | AT 2 O CLUK. | | LOVELINESS | | _At Home._ | +-----------------------------+ ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO. The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A. _FICTION AND BIOGRAPHY_ By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (MRS. WARD) THE GATES AJAR. 16mo, $1.50. BEYOND THE GATES. 16mo, $1.25. THE GATES BETWEEN. 16mo, $1.25. MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS. Stories. 16mo, $1.50. HEDGED IN. 16mo, $1.50. THE SILENT PARTNER. 16mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF AVIS. 16mo, $1.50. SEALED ORDERS, and Other Stories. 16mo, $1.50. FRIENDS: A Duet. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. DOCTOR ZAY. 16mo, $1.25. AN OLD MAID'S PARADISE, and BURGLARS IN PARADISE. 16mo, $1.25. THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. Collaborated with HERBERT D. WARD. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. COME FORTH! Collaborated with HERBERT D. WARD. 16mo, $1.25; paper, 50 cents. FOURTEEN TO ONE. Short Stories. 16mo, $1.25. DONALD MARCY. 16mo, $1.25. A SINGULAR LIFE. 16mo, $1.25. THE SUPPLY AT SAINT AGATHA'S. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. THE MADONNA OF THE TUBS. Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 75 cents. JACK THE FISHERMAN. Illustrated. Square 12mo, boards, 50 cents. LOVELINESS: A Story. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50. THE STORY OF JESUS CHRIST: An Interpretation. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. BOSTON AND NEW YORK. * * * * * Transcriber's note: The list of the author's other titles (which originally appeared before the title page) has been moved to the end. Page 19, comma added ("The newsboy, the carrier"). Both "cab driver" and "cab-driver" were used in this text.] 
37188	----	PLISH AND PLUM _By the Author of_ MAX AND MAURICE Plish and Plum. From the German OF WILHELM BUSCH, AUTHOR OF "MAX AND MAURICE." BY CHARLES T. BROOKS. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1895. _Copyright, 1882_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. PLISH AND PLUM. CHAPTER I. With a pipe between his lips, Two young dogs upon his hips, Jogs along old Caspar Sly; How that man can smoke,--oh, my! But although the pipe-bowl glows Red and hot beneath his nose; Yet his heart is icy-cold; How can earth such wretches hold! "Of what earthly use to me Can such brutes," he mutters, "be? Do they earn their vittles? No! 'Tis high time I let 'em go. What you don't want, fling away! Them's my sentiments, I say!" O'er the pond he silent bends, For to drown them he intends. With their legs the quadrupeds Kick and squirm,--can't move their heads And the inner voice speaks out: How 't will end we gravely doubt. _Hubs!_--an airy curve one makes; _Plish!_--a headlong dive he takes. Hubs!--the second follows suit; _Plum!_--the wave engulfs the brute. "That's well ended," Caspar cries, Puffs away and homeward hies. But, as often happens, here too Things don't go as they appear to. Paul and Peter,--so 'twas fated,-- Naked in the bushes waited For a swim; and they descry What was done by wicked Sly. And like frogs they dove, _kechunk_, Where the poor young dogs had sunk. Quickly each one with his hand Drags a little dog to land. "Plish, I'll call my dog," cried Paul; "Plum," said Peter, "mine I'll call." Paul and Peter then with pleasure, Tenderly took each his treasure, And, with speed and joy past telling, Steered for the parental dwelling. CHAPTER II. Papa Fittig, calm and cosy, Mamma Fittig, round and rosy, Arm in arm sit peaceful there-- Troubled by no speck of care-- On the bench before the door; For the summer day is o'er, And the supper hour is near, And the lads will soon be here. Soon they burst upon the view, Plish and Plum are with them too. Fittig thinks a dog a plague: "Nah!" he cries,--"excuse, I beg!" But mamma with soft looks pleaded: "Let them, Fittig!"--and succeeded. Evening milk, fresh and delicious, On the table stood in dishes. Joyfully they haste indoors; Plish and Plum ahead, of course. Mercy! look! right in the sweet Cream each wretch has set his feet; And the noise their lapping makes Shows what comfort each one takes. At the window peeps old Sly, Chuckles loud and says: "My eye! This is very bad, he! he! Very bad, but not for me!!" CHAPTER III. When night came, all worn and tired, As if nothing had transpired, Paul and Peter in their chamber Lay there, wrapt in peaceful slumber, A soft snoring through their noses Shows how tranquilly each dozes. But not so with Plish and Plum! They sit ill-at-ease and glum, Not being lodged to suit their mind, To turn in they too inclined. Plish, the dog's old rule to follow, Turns round thrice, his bed to hollow; Plum, however, shows a mind More affectionately inclined. When we dream of perfect rest Comes full many a troublous guest. "March!" With this harsh word the pets. Turn their outward summersets Coolness wakes activity; Time well-filled glides pleasantly. Means of sport are handy too, Here a stocking--there a shoe. These, before the morning glow, Curious changes undergo. When he comes the boys to wake, And beholds the frightful wreck, Pale the father cries: "This will Be a monstrous heavy bill!" Vengeful claws are in the air; Feigning sleep, the rogues lie there; But the mother begs: "I pray, Fittig dear, thy wrath allay!" And her loving words assuage The stern father's boiling rage. Paul and Peter never care How they look or what they wear. Peter two old slippers gets, Paul his infant pantalets. Plish and Plum, in morals blind, To the dog-house are confined. "This is bad!" says Sly, "he! he! Very bad, but not for me!" CHAPTER IV. Caught at last in wiry house, Sits that most audacious mouse, Who, with many a nightly antic, Drove poor Mamma Fittig frantic,-- Rioting, with paws erratic, From the cellar to the attic. This event to Plish and Plum Was a long-sought _gaudium_; For the word was: "Stu-boys! take him! Seize the wicked grinder--shake him!" Soft! a refuge mousey reaches In a leg of Peter's breeches. Through the leg-tube Plish pursues him, Plum makes sure he shall not lose him. Nip! the mousey with his tooth Stings the smeller of the youth. Plish essays to pull him clear; Nip! the plague's on Plish's ear. See! they run heels over head, Into neighbor's garden-bed. _Kritze_-_kratze_! what will be-- Come, sweet flower-plot, of thee? At that moment Madam Mieding, With fresh oil, her lamp is feeding; And her heart comes near to breaking, With those pests her garden wrecking. Indignation lends her wings, And the oil-can, too, she brings. Now, with mingling joy and wrath, She gives each a shower-bath-- First to Plish and then to Plum, Shower-bath of petroleum! Of the effect that might be wrought, Madam Mieding had not thought. But what presently took place, Right before this lady's face, Made her shut her eyes, so dazed That she smiled like one half crazed,-- Drew a heavy sigh, and soon Gasped and sank down in a swoon. Paul and Peter, hard and cool, Heed not much the Golden Rule. Suffering, stretched beside the way Never once disturbs their play. "Bad enough!" says Sly; "he! he! Shocking bad! but not for me!" CHAPTER V. Breeches short and long surtout, Crooked nose and cane to suit, Gray of soul and black of eye, Hat slouched back, expression sly-- Such is old Sol Shuffleshins; How complacently he grins! Fittig's door he's passing now; Hark! a furious, _row-wow-wow_! Scarcely has the echo gone, When the following scene comes on. Turn and twist him as he will, Plish and Plum stick to him still; Underneath his long surtout Tugs and tears each crazy brute. Shall that happen twice? not quite! Mind shall triumph over might! Presto! What strange dog is there, Hat in mouth? the young ones stare. What queer quadruped can he, Backing toward the doorway, be? Mrs. Fittig hears the clatter, Comes to see what _is_ the matter. Soft as on a mossy bank, In her lap Sol backward sank. Fittig also came in view. "Ow!" cried Sol, "I'm torn in two! Herr von Fittig pays me for 't, Or I'll carry it to court!" He must pay; that makes him pout Worse than having ten teeth out. In despair he casts askance At that youthful pair a glance,-- Seeming plainly to confess, "I've no words your shame to express" Little care the hardened creatures For their parent's play of features. "Bad enough!" says Sly, "he! he! Awful bad! but not for me!" CHAPTER VI. Plish and Plum, their deeds declare, Are a graceless, low-lived pair. Yet they live in close communion; And for that, in my opinion, They deserve some commendation; But will 't be of long duration? "Rogue & Co."--such firm, be sure, Cannot many days endure. In the sunshine, vis-a-vis, Sits a lap-dog, fair to see. To our pair this lovely sight Is a rare and keen delight. Each would gain the foremost place To behold that beauteous face. If the front is gained by Plish, Plum looks glum and dismalish; Then if it is seized by Plum, That makes Plish exceeding glum. Soon low-muttering thunders growl, Paws scratch gravel, eyeballs roll, And the furious fight begins; Plum cuts dirt, his brother wins. Mamma Fittig stands and makes Chicken salad and pancakes,-- Those well known and favorite dishes, Every child devoutly wishes. Whirr! right through the window come, Helter-skelter, Plish and Plum. Pot and pan and stove and stew Mingle in one grand ragout. "Wait! you vile Plish!" Peter holloos, And the word instanter follows With a well-aimed blow; but Paul Doesn't relish that at all. "What d' ye mean, to strike my creatur'?" Cries out Paul, and lashes Peter; Who, inflamed with pain and passion, Winds up Paul in curious fashion. Now the battle desperate grows; Each the costly salad throws, In a frenzy, at his brother, And they poultice one another. In comes papa Fittig, hasting To inflict on them a basting. Mamma Fittig, full of kindness, Fearing anger's headlong blindness, Cries, "Best Fittig! pray consider!" But her zeal for once undid her. Her lace cap, so nice and new, Fittig's cane has bored quite through. Laughs the wicked Sly, "He! he! All are done for, now, I see!" He who laughs at others' woes Makes few friends and many foes. Hot and heavy the old chap Finds, I guess, the pancake cap. "Bad," said Sly, "as bad can be, And this once, too, bad for me!" CHAPTER VII. So now there sit Plish and Plum, Very dull and very glum. Two strong chains, and short, did hem The activity of them. Fittig seriously reflected: "This must somehow be corrected! Virtue needs encouragement; Vice gets on by natural bent." Paul and Peter now began Schooling with Herr Buckleman. At the first day's session he Thus addressed them pleasantly: "Dear lads,--I assure you, I am very Glad you have come to this seminary; And, as I hope, with all your powers Intend to improve these precious hours. And first, the things most important to mention, Reading, writing, and ciphering will claim our attention; For these are the arts by which man rises To honor and wealth, and wins great prizes. But, secondly, what good would all this do, Unless politeness were added thereto? For he who is not polite to all Into trouble will certainly fall. Finally, therefore, bending before you, As you see, I entreat and implore you, If in good faith you have made up your mind To follow the rules I have now defined, Then lift up your hands and look me in the eye, And say, 'Herr Buckleman, we will try!'" Paul and Peter thought: "Old man, D'ye think us greenhorns? Is that your plan?" They give no answer, but inwardly They grin and giggle, and say, "he! he!" Whereat old Master Buckleman Gave a low whistle, and thus began: "Since, then, you've resolved to be Hardened reprobates," said he, "I am resolved, face down, to lay You both across my desk straightway, Applying the stick to your hinder parts In hopes of softening your hard hearts." Drawing out then from beneath His coat, like sabre from its sheath, His good hazel rod, of stuff Flexible and tight and tough,-- He with many a sturdy thwack Laid it on each urchin's back. Nay, he trounced two backs in one, Till he deemed the work was done. "Now then," he spoke in a tranquil way, "Belovèd children, what do you say? Are you content and are we agreed?" "Yes, yes, Herr Buckleman,--yes, indeed!" Such was the method of Buckleman; We see the good effects of his plan. 'Twas the talk of the people, one and all,-- "Charming children--Peter and Paul!" And so _they_ tried it on Plish and Plum: They too, also, to school must come. And the Buckleman plan's applied Faithfully to each one's hide. Masters of Arts, they're soon approved, And universally beloved; And, as one might well expect, Art shows practical effect. CONCLUSION. One day travelling through the land, With a field-glass in his hand, A well-dressed man of fortune came; Mister Peep, they called his name. "Can't I, as I pass," said he, "View the distant scenery? Beauty reigns elsewhere, I know, Whereas here 'tis but so-so." Here he pitched into the pond, Viewed the mud and naught beyond. "Paul and Peter,--look and see Where the gentleman can be!" So said Fittig, who just then Walked forth with the little men; But fu'l soon it was made plain Where the gentleman had lain, When he, minus hat and glass, Stood all dripping on the grass. "_Allez!_ Plish and Plum, _apport!_" Came the order from the shore. Strictly trained to fetch and carry,-- Not a moment did they tarry,-- Fetched the lost goods from the deep. "Very well," cried Mister Peep. "Nice dogs, friend, I'll buy the two; How'll a hundred dollars do?" Papa Fittig's head inclined: "The gentleman is very kind." On new legs he seems to stand, Such a pile of cash in hand. "Ah, you darlings, Plish and Plum! We must part--the hour has come-- On this very spot, right here, Where we four, this time last year, Were united, by the pond, In a sweet and solemn bond. May your life in peace be led, With beefsteak for daily bread." Now all this was seen by Sly, Just then happening to pass by. "Very pleasant," mutters he, "Yes, no doubt, but not for me." Envy, like a poisoned dart, Stung him to the very heart. All before him misty grows; Legs give way and back he goes, Down into the oozy damp; Quenched forever is life's lamp! Left alone upon the shore, Quickened by his breath no more, Faintly gleams the expiring soul Of the pipe within the bowl; One blue cloud I see ascend, _Futt!_ the tale is at an End. University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 
19824	----	[Illustration: By one desperate leap he shook himself clear. (Page 263.)] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ HORSES NINE STORIES OF HARNESS AND SADDLE BY SEWELL FORD ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1905 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, 1903, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published, March, 1903 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TROW DIRECTORY PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS Page SKIPPER 1 Being the Biography of a Blue-Ribboner. CALICO 31 Who Travelled with a Round Top. OLD SILVER 67 A Story of the Gray Horse Truck. BLUE BLAZES 95 And the Marring of Him. CHIEFTAIN 125 A Story of the Heavy Draught Service. BARNACLES 157 Who Mutinied for Good Cause. BLACK EAGLE 181 Who Once Ruled the Ranges. BONFIRE 215 Broken for the House of Jerry. PASHA 241 The Son of Selim. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ILLUSTRATIONS By Frederic Dorr Steele and L. Maynard Dixon By one desperate leap he shook himself clear Frontispiece FACING PAGE There were many heavy wagons 6 For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart 24 He would do his best to steady them down to the work 130 Then let him snake a truck down West Street 144 "Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground 266 Mr. Dave kept his seat more by force of muscular habit than anything else 268 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SKIPPER BEING THE BIOGRAPHY OF A BLUE-RIBBONER At the age of six Skipper went on the force. Clean of limb and sound of wind he was, with not a blemish from the tip of his black tail to the end of his crinkly forelock. He had been broken to saddle by a Green Mountain boy who knew more of horse nature than of the trashy things writ in books. He gave Skipper kind words and an occasional friendly pat on the flank. So Skipper's disposition was sweet and his nature a trusting one. This is why Skipper learned so soon the ways of the city. The first time he saw one of those little wheeled houses, all windows and full of people, come rushing down the street with a fearful whirr and clank of bell, he wanted to bolt. But the man on his back spoke in an easy, calm voice, saying, "So-o-o! There, me b'y. Aisy wid ye. So-o-o!" which was excellent advice, for the queer contrivance whizzed by and did him no harm. In a week he could watch one without even pricking up his ears. It was strange work Skipper had been brought to the city to do. As a colt he had seen horses dragging ploughs, pulling big loads of hay, and hitched to many kinds of vehicles. He himself had drawn a light buggy and thought it good fun, though you did have to keep your heels down and trot instead of canter. He had liked best to lope off with the boy on his back, down to the Corners, where the store was. But here there were no ploughs, nor hay-carts, nor mowing-machines. There were many heavy wagons, it was true, but these were all drawn by stocky Percherons and big Western grays or stout Canada blacks who seemed fully equal to the task. Also there were carriages--my, what shiny carriages! And what smart, sleek-looking horses drew them! And how high they did hold their heads and how they did throw their feet about--just as if they were dancing on eggs. "Proud, stuck-up things," thought Skipper. It was clear that none of this work was for him. Early on the first morning of his service men in brass-buttoned blue coats came to the stable to feed and rub down the horses. Skipper's man had two names. One was Officer Martin; at least that was the one to which he answered when the man with the cap called the roll before they rode out for duty. The other name was "Reddy." That was what the rest of the men in blue coats called him. Skipper noticed that he had red hair and concluded that "Reddy" must be his real name. As for Skipper's name, it was written on the tag tied to the halter which he wore when he came to the city. Skipper heard him read it. The boy on the farm had done that, and Skipper was glad, for he liked the name. There was much to learn in those first few weeks, and Skipper learned it quickly. He came to know that at inspection, which began the day, you must stand with your nose just on a line with that of the horse on either side. If you didn't you felt the bit or the spurs. He mastered the meaning of "right dress," "left dress," "forward," "fours right," and a lot of other things. Some of them were very strange. [Illustration: There were many heavy wagons.] Now on the farm they had said, "Whoa, boy," and "Gid a-a-ap." Here they said, "Halt" and "Forward!" But "Reddy" used none of these terms. He pressed with his knees on your withers, loosened the reins, and made a queer little chirrup when he wanted you to gallop. He let you know when he wanted you to stop, by the lightest pressure on the bit. It was a lazy work, though. Sometimes when Skipper was just aching for a brisk canter he had to pace soberly through the park driveways--for Skipper, although I don't believe I mentioned it before, was part and parcel of the mounted police force. But there, you could know that by the yellow letters on his saddle blanket. For half an hour at a time he would stand, just on the edge of the roadway and at an exact right angle with it, motionless as the horse ridden by the bronze soldier up near the Mall. "Reddy" would sit as still in the saddle, too. It was hard for Skipper to stand there and see those mincing cobs go by, their pad-housings all a-glitter, crests on their blinders, jingling their pole-chains and switching their absurd little stubs of tails. But it was still more tantalizing to watch the saddle-horses canter past in the soft bridle path on the other side of the roadway. But then, when you are on the force you must do your duty. One afternoon as Skipper was standing post like this he caught a new note that rose above the hum of the park traffic. It was the quick, nervous beat of hoofs which rang sharply on the hard macadam. There were screams, too. It was a runaway. Skipper knew this even before he saw the bell-like nostrils, the straining eyes, and the foam-flecked lips of the horse, or the scared man in the carriage behind. It was a case of broken rein. How the sight made Skipper's blood tingle! Wouldn't he just like to show that crazy roan what real running was! But what was Reddy going to do? He felt him gather up the reins. He felt his knees tighten. What! Yes, it must be so. Reddy was actually going to try a brush with the runaway. What fun! Skipper pranced out into the roadway and gathered himself for the sport. Before he could get into full swing, however, the roan had shot past with a snort of challenge which could not be misunderstood. "Oho! You will, eh?" thought Skipper. "Well now, we'll see about that." Ah, a free rein! That is--almost free. And a touch of the spurs! No need for that, Reddy. How the carriages scatter! Skipper caught hasty glimpses of smart hackneys drawn up trembling by the roadside, of women who tumbled from bicycles into the bushes, and of men who ran and shouted and waved their hats. "Just as though that little roan wasn't scared enough already," thought Skipper. But she did run well; Skipper had to admit that. She had a lead of fifty yards before he could strike his best gait. Then for a few moments he could not seem to gain an inch. But the mare was blowing herself and Skipper was taking it coolly. He was putting the pent-up energy of weeks into his strides. Once he saw he was overhauling her he steadied to the work. Just as Skipper was about to forge ahead, Reddy did a queer thing. With his right hand he grabbed the roan with a nose-pinch grip, and with the left he pulled in on the reins. It was a great disappointment to Skipper, for he had counted on showing the roan his heels. Skipper knew, after two or three experiences of this kind, that this was the usual thing. Those were glorious runs, though. Skipper wished they would come more often. Sometimes there would be two and even three in a day. Then a fortnight or so would pass without a single runaway on Skipper's beat. But duty is duty. During the early morning hours, when there were few people in the park, Skipper's education progressed. He learned to pace around in a circle, lifting each forefoot with a sway of the body and a pawing movement which was quite rhythmical. He learned to box with his nose. He learned to walk sedately behind Reddy and to pick up a glove, dropped apparently by accident. There was always a sugar-plum or a sweet cracker in the glove, which he got when Reddy stopped and Skipper, poking his nose over his shoulder, let the glove fall into his hands. As he became more accomplished he noticed that "Reddy" took more pains with his toilet. Every morning Skipper's coat was curried and brushed and rubbed with chamois until it shone almost as if it had been varnished. His fetlocks were carefully trimmed, a ribbon braided into his forelock, and his hoofs polished as brightly as Reddy's boots. Then there were apples and carrots and other delicacies which Reddy brought him. So it happened that one morning Skipper heard the Sergeant tell Reddy that he had been detailed for the Horse Show squad. Reddy had saluted and said nothing at the time, but when they were once out on post he told Skipper all about it. "Sure an' it's app'arin' before all the swells in town you'll be, me b'y. Phat do ye think of that, eh? An' mebbe ye'll be gettin' a blue ribbon, Skipper, me lad; an' mebbe Mr. Patrick Martin will have a roundsman's berth an' chevrons on his sleeves afore the year's out." The Horse Show was all that Reddy had promised, and more. The light almost dazzled Skipper. The sounds and the smells confused him. But he felt Reddy on his back, heard him chirrup softly, and soon felt at ease on the tanbark. Then there was a great crash of noise and Skipper, with some fifty of his friends on the force, began to move around the circle. First it was fours abreast, then by twos, and then a rush to troop front, when, in a long line, they swept around as if they had been harnessed to a beam by traces of equal length. After some more evolutions a half-dozen were picked out and put through their paces. Skipper was one of these. Then three of the six were sent to join the rest of the squad. Only Skipper and two others remained in the centre of the ring. Men in queer clothes, wearing tall black hats, showing much white shirt-front and carrying long whips, came and looked them over carefully. Skipper showed these men how he could waltz in time to the music, and the people who banked the circle as far up as Skipper could see shouted and clapped their hands until it seemed as if a thunderstorm had broken loose. At last one of the men in tall hats tied a blue ribbon on Skipper's bridle. When Reddy got him into the stable, he fed him four big red apples, one after the other. Next day Skipper knew that he was a famous horse. Reddy showed him their pictures in the paper. For a whole year Skipper was the pride of the force. He was shown to visitors at the stables. He was patted on the nose by the Mayor. The Chief, who was a bigger man than the Mayor, came up especially to look at him. In the park Skipper did his tricks every day for ladies in fine dress who exclaimed, "How perfectly wonderful!" as well as for pretty nurse-maids who giggled and said, "Now did you ever see the likes o' that, Norah?" And then came the spavin. Ah, but that was the beginning of the end! Were you ever spavined? If so, you know all about it. If you haven't, there's no use trying to tell you. Rheumatism? Well, that may be bad; but a spavin is worse. For three weeks Reddy rubbed the lump on the hock with stuff from a brown bottle, and hid it from the inspector. Then, one black morning, the lump was discovered. That day Skipper did not go out on post. Reddy came into the stall, put his arm around his neck and said "Good-by" in a voice that Skipper had never heard him use before. Something had made it thick and husky. Very sadly Skipper saw him saddle one of the newcomers and go out for duty. Before Reddy came back Skipper was led away. He was taken to a big building where there were horses of every kind--except the right kind. Each one had his own peculiar "out," although you couldn't always tell what it was at first glance. But Skipper did not stay here long. He was led into a big ring before a lot of men. A man on a box shouted out a number, and began to talk very fast. Skipper gathered that he was talking about him. Skipper learned that he was still only six years old, and that he had been owned as a saddle-horse by a lady who was about to sail for Europe and was closing out her stable. This was news to Skipper. He wished Reddy could hear it. The man talked very nicely about Skipper. He said he was kind, gentle, sound in wind and limb, and was not only trained to the saddle but would work either single or double. The man wanted to know how much the gentlemen were willing to pay for a bay gelding of this description. Someone on the outer edge of the crowd said, "Ten dollars." At this the man on the box grew quite indignant. He asked if the other man wouldn't like a silver-mounted harness and a lap-robe thrown in. "Fifteen," said another man. Somebody else said "Twenty," another man said, "Twenty-five," and still another, "Thirty." Then there was a hitch. The man on the box began to talk very fast indeed: "Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty--do I hear the five? Thutty-thutty-thutty-thutty--will you make it five?" "Thirty-five," said a red-faced man who had pushed his way to the front and was looking Skipper over sharply. The man on the box said "Thutty-five" a good many times and asked if he "heard forty." Evidently he did not, for he stopped and said very slowly and distinctly, looking expectantly around: "Are you all done? Thirty-five--once. Thirty-five--twice. Third--and last call--sold, for thirty-five dollars!" When Skipper heard this he hung his head. When you have been a $250 blue-ribboner and the pride of the force it is sad to be "knocked down" for thirty-five. The next year of Skipper's life was a dark one. We will not linger over it. The red-faced man who led him away was a grocer. He put Skipper in the shafts of a heavy wagon very early every morning and drove him a long ways through the city to a big down-town market where men in long frocks shouted and handled boxes and barrels. When the wagon was heavily loaded the red-faced man drove him back to the store. Then a tow-haired boy, who jerked viciously on the lines and was fond of using the whip, drove him recklessly about the streets and avenues. But one day the tow-haired boy pulled the near rein too hard while rounding a corner and a wheel was smashed against a lamp-post. The tow-haired boy was sent head first into an ash-barrel, and Skipper, rather startled at the occurrence, took a little run down the avenue, strewing the pavement with eggs, sugar, canned corn, celery, and other assorted groceries. Perhaps this was why the grocer sold him. Skipper pulled a cart through the flat-house district for a while after that. On the seat of the cart sat a leather-lunged man who roared: "A-a-a-a-puls! Nice a-a-a-a-puls! A who-o-ole lot fer a quarter!" Skipper felt this disgrace keenly. Even the cab-horses, on whom he used to look with disdain, eyed him scornfully. Skipper stood it as long as possible and then one day, while the apple fakir was standing on the back step of the cart shouting things at a woman who was leaning half way out of a fourth-story window, he bolted. He distributed that load of apples over four blocks, much to the profit of the street children, and he wrecked the wagon on a hydrant. For this the fakir beat him with a piece of the wreckage until a blue-coated officer threatened to arrest him. Next day Skipper was sold again. Skipper looked over his new owner without joy. The man was evil of face. His long whiskers and hair were unkempt and sun-bleached, like the tip end of a pastured cow's tail. His clothes were greasy. His voice was like the grunt of a pig. Skipper wondered to what use this man would put him. He feared the worst. Far up through the city the man took him and out on a broad avenue where there were many open spaces, most of them fenced in by huge bill-boards. Behind one of these sign-plastered barriers Skipper found his new home. The bottom of the lot was more than twenty feet below the street-level. In the centre of a waste of rocks, ash-heaps, and dead weeds tottered a group of shanties, strangely made of odds and ends. The walls were partly of mud-chinked rocks and partly of wood. The roofs were patched with strips of rusty tin held in place by stones. Into one of these shanties, just tall enough for Skipper to enter and no more, the horse that had been the pride of the mounted park police was driven with a kick as a greeting. Skipper noted first that there was no feed-box and no hayrack. Then he saw, or rather felt--for the only light came through cracks in the walls--that there was no floor. His nostrils told him that the drainage was bad. Skipper sighed as he thought of the clean, sweet straw which Reddy used to change in his stall every night. But when you have a lump on your leg--a lump that throbs, throbs, throbs with pain, whether you stand still or lie down--you do not think much on other things. Supper was late in coming to Skipper that night. He was almost starved when it was served. And such a supper! What do you think? Hay? Yes, but marsh hay; the dry, tasteless stuff they use for bedding in cheap stables. A ton of it wouldn't make a pound of good flesh. Oats? Not a sign of an oat! But with the hay there were a few potato-peelings. Skipper nosed them out and nibbled the marsh hay. The rest he pawed back under him, for the whole had been thrown at his feet. Then he dropped on the ill-smelling ground and went to sleep to dream that he had been turned into a forty-acre field of clover, while a dozen brass bands played a waltz and multitudes of people looked on and cheered. In the morning more salt hay was thrown to him and water was brought in a dirty pail. Then, without a stroke of brush or curry-comb he was led out. When he saw the wagon to which he was to be hitched Skipper hung his head. He had reached the bottom. It was unpainted and rickety as to body and frame, the wheels were unmated and dished, while the shafts were spliced and wound with wire. But worst of all was the string of bells suspended from two uprights above the seat. When Skipper saw these he knew he had fallen low indeed. He had become the horse of a wandering junkman. The next step in his career, as he well knew, would be the glue factory and the boneyard. Now when a horse has lived for twenty years or so, it is sad enough to face these things. But at eight years to see the glue factory close at hand is enough to make a horse wish he had never been foaled. For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart, with its hateful jangle of bells, about the city streets and suburban roads while the man with the faded hair roared through his matted beard: "Buy o-o-o-o-olt ra-a-a-a-ags! Buy o-o-o-o-olt ra-a-a-a-ags! Olt boddles! Olt copper! Olt iron! Vaste baber!" [Illustration: For many weary months Skipper pulled that crazy cart.] The lump on Skipper's hock kept growing bigger and bigger. It seemed as if the darts of pain shot from hoof to flank with every step. Big hollows came over his eyes. You could see his ribs as plainly as the hoops on a pork-barrel. Yet six days in the week he went on long trips and brought back heavy loads of junk. On Sunday he hauled the junkman and his family about the city. Once the junkman tried to drive Skipper into one of the Park entrances. Then for the first time in his life Skipper balked. The junkman pounded and used such language as you might expect from a junkman, but all to no use. Skipper took the beating with lowered head, but go through the gate he would not. So the junkman gave it up, although he seemed very anxious to join the line of gay carriages which were rolling in. Soon after this there came a break in the daily routine. One morning Skipper was not led out as usual. In fact, no one came near him, and he could hear no voices in the nearby shanty. Skipper decided that he would take a day off himself. By backing against the door he readily pushed it open, for the staple was insecure. Once at liberty, he climbed the roadway that led out of the lot. It was late in the fall, but there was still short sweet winter grass to be found along the gutters. For a while he nibbled at this hungrily. Then a queer idea came to Skipper. Perhaps the passing of a smartly groomed saddle-horse was responsible. At any rate, Skipper left off nibbling grass. He hobbled out to the edge of the road, turned so as to face the opposite side, and held up his head. There he stood just as he used to stand when he was the pride of the mounted squad. He was on post once more. Few people were passing, and none seemed to notice him. Yet he was an odd figure. His coat was shaggy and weather-stained. It looked patched and faded. The spavined hock caused one hind quarter to sag somewhat, but aside from that his pose was strictly according to the regulations. Skipper had been playing at standing post for a half-hour, when a trotting dandy who sported ankle-boots and toe-weights, pulled up before him. He was drawing a light, bicycle-wheeled road-wagon in which were two men. "Queer?" one of the men was saying. "Can't say I see anything queer about it, Captain. Some old plug that's got away from a squatter; that's all I see in it." "Well, let's have a look," said the other. He stared hard at Skipper for a moment and then, in a loud, sharp tone, said: "'Ten-shun! Right dress!" Skipper pricked up his ears, raised his head, and side-stepped stiffly. The trotting dandy turned and looked curiously at him. "Forward!" said the man in the wagon. Skipper hobbled out into the road. "Right wheel! Halt! I thought so," said the man, as Skipper obeyed the orders. "That fellow has been on the force. He was standing post. Looks mighty familiar, too--white stockings on two forelegs, white star on forehead. Now I wonder if that can be--here, hold the reins a minute." Going up to Skipper the man patted his nose once or twice, and then pushed his muzzle to one side. Skipper ducked and countered. He had not forgotten his boxing trick. The man turned his back and began to pace down the road. Skipper followed and picked up a riding-glove which the man dropped. "Doyle," said the man, as he walked back to the wagon, "two years ago that was the finest horse on the force--took the blue ribbon at the Garden. Alderman Martin would give $1,000 for him as he stands. He has hunted the State for him. You remember Martin--Reddy Martin--who used to be on the mounted squad! Didn't you hear? An old uncle who made a fortune as a building contractor died about a year ago and left the whole pile to Reddy. He's got a fine country place up in Westchester and is in the city government. Just elected this fall. But he isn't happy because he can't find his old horse--and here's the horse." Next day an astonished junkman stood before an empty shanty which served as a stable and feasted his eyes on a fifty-dollar bank-note. * * * * * If you are ever up in Westchester County be sure to visit the stables of Alderman P. Sarsfield Martin. Ask to see that oak-panelled box-stall with the stained-glass windows and the porcelain feed-box. You will notice a polished brass name-plate on the door bearing this inscription: SKIPPER. You may meet the Alderman himself, wearing an English-made riding-suit, loping comfortably along on a sleek bay gelding with two white forelegs and a white star on his forehead. Yes, high-priced veterinaries can cure spavin--Alderman Martin says so. CALICO WHO TRAVELLED WITH A ROUND TOP Something there was about Calico's markings which stuck in one's mind, as does a haunting memory, intangible but unforgotten. Surely the pattern was obtrusive enough to halt attention; yet its vagaries were so unexpected, so surprising that, even as you looked, you might hesitate at declaring whether it was his withers or his flanks which were carrot-red and if he had four white stockings or only three. It was safer simply to say that he was white where he was not red and red where he was not white. Moreover, his was a vivid coat. Altogether Calico was a horse to be remarked and to be remembered. Yet--and again yet--Calico was not wholly to blame for his many faults. Farm breeding, which was more or less responsible for his bizarre appearance, should also bear the burden of his failings. As a colt he had been the marvel of the county, from Orono to Hermon Centre. He had been petted, teased, humored, exhibited, coddled, fooled with--everything save properly trained and broken. So he grew up a trace shirker and a halter-puller, with disposition, temperament, and general behavior as uneven as his coloring. "The most good-fer-nothin' animal I ever wasted grain on!" declared Uncle Enoch. For the better part of four unproductive years had the life of Calico run to commonplaces. Then, early one June morning, came an hour big with events. Being the nigh horse in Uncle Enoch's pair, Calico caught first glimpse of the weird procession which met them as they turned into the Bangor road at Sherburne's Corners. Now it was Calico's habit to be on the watch for unusual sights, and when he saw them to stick his ears forward, throw his head up, snort nervously and crowd against the pole. Generally he got one leg over a trace. There was a white bowlder at the top of Poorhouse Hill which Calico never passed without going through some of these manoeuvres. "Hi-i-ish there! So-o-o! Dern yer crazy-quilt hide. Body'd think yer never see that stun afore in yer life. Gee-long a-a-ap!" Uncle Enoch would growl, accenting his words by jerking the lines. A scarecrow in the middle of a cornfield, an auction bill tacked to a stump, an old hat stuffing a vacant pane and proclaiming the shiftlessness of the Aroostook Billingses, would serve when nothing else offered excuse for skittishness. Even sober Old Jeff, the off horse, sometimes caught the infection for a moment. He would prick up his ears and look inquiringly at the suspected object, but so soon as he saw what it was down went his head sheepishly, as if he was ashamed of having again been tricked. This morning, however, it was no false alarm. When Old Jeff was roused out of his accustomed jog by Calico's nervous snorts he looked up to see such a spectacle as he had never beheld in all his goings and comings up and down the Bangor road. Looming out of the mist was a six-horse team hitched to the most foreign-looking rig one could well imagine. It had something of the look of a preposterous hay-cart, with the ends of blue-painted poles sticking out in front and trailing behind. Following this was a great, white-swathed wheeled box drawn by four horses. It was certainly a curious affair, whatever it was, but neither Calico nor Old Jeff gave it much heed, nor did they waste a glance on the distant tail of the procession, for behind the wheeled box was a thing which held their gaze. In the gray four o'clock light it seemed like an enormous cow that rolled menacingly forward; not as a cow walks, however, but with a swaying, heaving motion like nothing commonly seen on a Maine highway. Instinctively both horses thrust their muzzles toward the thing and sniffed. Without doubt Old Jeff was frightened. Perhaps not for nine generations had any of his ancestors caught a whiff of that peculiarly terrifying scent of which every horse inherits knowledge and dread. As for Calico, he had no need of such spur as inherited terror. He had fearsomeness enough of his own to send him rearing and pawing the air until the whiffle-trees rapped his knees. Old Jeff did not rear. He stared and snorted and trembled. When he felt his mate spring forward in the traces he went with him, ready to do anything in order to get away from that heaving, swaying thing which was coming toward them. "Whoa, ye pesky fools! Whoa, dod rot ye!" Uncle Enoch, wakened from the half doze which he had been taking on the wagon-seat, now began to saw on the lines. His shouts seemed to have aroused the heaving thing, for it answered with a horrid, soul-chilling noise. By this time Calico was leaping frantically, snorting at every jump and forcing Old Jeff to keep pace. They were at the top of a long grade and down the slope the loaded wagon rattled easily behind them. Uncle Enoch did his best. With feet well braced he tugged at the lines and shouted, all to no purpose. Never before had Calico and Old Jeff met a circus on the move. Neither had they previously come into such close quarters with an elephant. One does not expect such things on the Bangor road. At least they did not. They proposed to get away from such terrors in the shortest possible time. Now the public ways of Maine are seldom macadamized. In places they are laid out straight across and over the granite backbone of the continent. The Bangor road is thus constructed in spots. This slope was one of the spots where the bare ledge, with here and there six-inch shelves and eroded gullies, offered a somewhat uneven surface to the wheels. A well built Studebaker will stand a lot of this kind of banging, but it is not wholly indestructible. So it happened that half-way down the hill the left hind axle snapped at the hub. Thereupon some two hundred dozen ears of early green-corn were strewn along the flinty face of the highway, while Uncle Enoch was hurled, seat and all, accompanied by four dozen eggs and ten pounds of Aunt Henrietta's best butter, into the ditch. When the circus caravan overtook him Uncle Enoch had captured the runaways and was leading them back to where the wrecked wagon lay by the roadside. More or less butter was mixed with the sandy chin whiskers and an inartistic yellow smooch down the front of his coat showed that the eggs had followed him. "Rather lively pair of yours; eh, mister?" commented a red-faced man who dropped off the pole-wagon. "Yes, ruther lively," assented Uncle Enoch, "'Specially when ye don't want 'em to be. The off one's stiddy enough. It's this cantankerous skewbald that started the tantrum. Whoa now, blame ye!" Calico's nose was in the air again and he was snorting excitedly. "Lemme hold him 'till old Ajax goes by," said the circus man. "Thank ye. I'll swap him off fust chance I git, ef I don't fetch back nuthin' but a boneyard skate," declared Uncle Enoch. As Ajax lumbered by, the circus man eyed with interest the dancing Calico. He noted with approval the coat of fantastic design, the springy knees and the fine tail that rippled its white length almost to Calico's heels. "I'll do better'n that by you, mister," said he. "I've got a fourteen-hundred pound Vermont Morgan, sound as a dollar, only eight years old and ain't afraid o' nothin'. I'll swap him even for your skewbald." "Like to see him," said Uncle Enoch. "If he's half what ye say it's a trade." "Here he comes on the band-wagon team;" then, to the driver: "Hey, Bill, pull up!" In less than half an hour from the time Calico had bolted at sight of the circus cavalcade he was part and parcel of it, and helping to pull one of those mysterious sheeted wagons along in the wake of the terrifying Ajax. "The old party don't give you a very good send off," said the boss hostler reflectively to Calico, "but I reckon you'll get used to Ajax and the music-chariot before the season's over. Leastways, you're bound to be an ornament to the grand entry." Calico's life with the Grand Occidental began abruptly and vigorously. The driver of the band-wagon knew his business. Even when half asleep he could see loose traces. After Calico had heard the long lash whistle about his ears a few times he concluded that it was best to do his share of the pulling. And what pulling it was! There were six horses of them, Calico being one of the swings, but on an uphill grade that old chariot was the most reluctant thing he had ever known. Uncle Enoch's stone-boat, which Calico had once held to be merely a heart-breaking instrument of torture, seemed light in retrospect. Often did he look reproachfully at the monstrous combination of gilded wood and iron. Why need band-wagons be made so exasperatingly heavy? The atrociously carved Pans on the corners, with their scarred faces and broken pipes, were cumbersome enough to make a load for one pair of horses, all by themselves. Calico would think of them as he was straining up a long hill. He could almost feel them pulling back on the traces in a sort of wooden stubbornness. And when the team rattled the old chariot down a rough grade how he hoped that two or three of the figures might be jolted off. But in the morning, when the show lot was reached and the travelling wraps taken off the wagons, there he would see the heavy shouldered Pans all in their places as hideous and as permanent as ever. It was a hard and bitter lesson which Calico learned, this matter of keeping one's tugs tight. Uncle Enoch had spared the whip, but in the heart of Broncho Bill, who drove the band-wagon, there was no leniency. Ready and strong was his whip hand, and he knew how to make the blood follow the lash. No effort did he waste on fat-padded flanks when he was in earnest. He cut at the ears, where the skin is tender. He could touch up the leaders as easily as he could the wheel-horses, and when he aimed at the swings he never missed fire. Travelling with a round top Calico found to be no sinecure. The Grand Occidental, being a wagon show, moved wholly by road. The shortest jump was fifteen miles, but often they did thirty between midnight and morning; and thirty miles over country highways make no short jaunt when you have a five-ton chariot behind you. The jump, however, was only the beginning of the day's work. No sooner had you finished breakfast than you were hooked in for the street parade, meaning from two to four miles more. You had a few hours for rest after that before the grand entry. Ah, that grand entry! That was something to live for. No matter how bad the roads or how hard the hills had been Calico forgot it all during those ten delightful minutes when, with his heart beating time to the rat-tat-tat of the snare drum, he swung prancingly around the yellow arena. It all began in the dressing-tent with a period of confusion in which horses were crowded together as thick as they could stand, while the riders dressed and mounted in frantic haste, for to be late meant to be fined. At last the ring-master clapped his hands as sign that all was in readiness. There was a momentary hush. Then a bugle sounded, the flaps were thrown back and to the crashing accompaniment of the band, the seemingly chaotic mass unfolded into a double line as the horses broke into a sharp gallop around the freshly dug ring. The first time Calico did the grand entry he felt as though he had been sucked into a whirlpool and was being carried around by some irresistible force. So dazed was he by the music, by the hum of human voices and by the unfamiliar sights, that he forgot to rear and kick. He could only prance and snort. He went forward because the rider of the outside horse dragged him along by the bridle rein. Around and around he circled until he lost all sense of direction, and when he was finally shunted out through the dressing-tent flaps he was so dizzy he could scarcely stand. For a horse accustomed to shy at his own shadow this was heroic treatment. But it was successful. In a month you could not have startled Calico with a pound of dynamite. He would placidly munch his oats within three feet of the spot where a stake-gang swung the heavy sledges in staccato time. He cared no more for flapping canvas than for the wagging of a mule's ears. As for noises, when one has associated with a steam calliope one ceases to mind anything in that line. Old Ajax, it was true, remained a terror to Calico for weeks, but in the end the horse lost much of his dread for the ancient pachyderm, although he never felt wholly comfortable while those wicked little eyes were turned in his direction. Hereditary instincts, you know, die hard. During those four months in which the Grand Occidental flitted over the New England circuit from Kenduskeag, Me., to Bennington, Vt., there came upon Calico knowledge of many things. The farm-horse to whom Bangor's market-square had been full of strange sights became, in comparison with his former self, most sophisticated. He feared no noise save that sinister whistle made by Broncho Bill's long lash. The roaring sputter of gasoline flares was no more to him than the sound of a running brook. He had learned that it was safe to kick a mere canvasman when you felt like doing so, but that a real artist, such as a tumbler or a trapeze man, was to be respected, and that the person of the ring-master was most sacred. Also he acquired the knack of sleeping at odd times, whenever opportunity offered and under any conditions. When he had grown thus wise, and when he had ceased to stumble over guy-ropes and tent-stakes, Calico received promotion. He was put in as outside horse of the leading pair in the grand entry. He was decorated with a white-braided cord bridle with silk rosettes and he wore between his ears a feather pompon. All this was very fine and grand, but there was so little of it. After it was all over, when the crowds had gone, the top lowered and the stakes pulled, he was hitched to the leaden-wheeled band-wagon to strain and tug at the traces all through the last weary half of the night. But when fame has started your way, be you horse or man, you cannot escape. Just before the season closed Calico was put on the sawdust. This was the way of it. A ninety-foot top, you know, carries neither extra people nor spare horses. The performers must double up their acts. No one is exempt save the autocratic high-bar folk, who own their own apparatus and dictate contracts. So with the horses. The teams that pull the pole-wagon, the chariots and the other wheeled things which a circus needs, must also figure in the grand entry and in the hippodrome races. Even the ring-horses have their share of road-work in a wagon show. To the dappled grays used by Mlle. Zaretti, who was a top-liner on the bills, fell the lot of pulling the ticket-wagon, this being the lightest work. It was Mlle. Zaretti's habit to ride one at the afternoon show, the other in the evening. So when the nigh gray developed a shoulder gall on the day that the off one went lame there arose an emergency. Also there ensued trouble for the driver of the ticket-wagon. First he was tongue lashed by Mademoiselle, then he was fined a week's pay and threatened with discharge by the manager. But when the increasing wrath of the Champion Lady Equestrienne of America led her to demand his instant and painful annihilation the worm turned. The driver profanely declared that he knew his business. He had travelled with Yank Robinson, he had, and no female hair-grabber under canvas should call him down more than once in the same day. There was more of this, added merely for emphasis. Mlle. Zaretti saw the point. She had gone too far. Whereupon she discreetly turned on her high French heels and meekly asked the boss hostler for the most promising animal he had. The boss picked out Calico. No sooner was the top up that day than Calico's training began. Well it was that he had learned obedience, for this was to be his one great opportunity. Many a time had Calico circled around the banked ring's outer circumference, but never had he been within it. Neither had he worn before a broad pad. By dint of leading and coaxing he was made to understand that his part of the act was to canter around the ring with Mlle. Zaretti on his back, where she was to be allowed to go through as many motions as she pleased. For a green horse Calico conducted himself with much credit. He did not stumble. He did not shy at the ring-master's whip. He did not try to dodge the banners or the hoops after he found how harmless they were. "Well, if I cut my act perhaps I can manage, but if I break my neck I hope you'll murder that fool driver," was Mlle. Zaretti's verdict and petition when the lesson ended. Mlle. Zaretti's gyrations that afternoon and evening were somewhat tame when you consider the manner in which she was billed. Calico did his part with only a few excusable blunders, and she was so pleased that he got the apples and sugarplums which usually rewarded the grays. The galled shoulder healed, but the lame leg developed into an incurably stiff joint. Three nights later Calico, to his great joy, left the band-chariot team forever, to find himself on the light ticket-wagon and regularly entered as a ring horse. Nor was this all. When the season closed Mlle. Zaretti bought Calico at an exorbitant price. He was shipped to a strange place, where they put him in a box-stall, fed him with generous regularity and asked him to do absolutely nothing at all. It was a month before Calico saw his mistress again. He had been taken into a great barn-like structure which had many sky-lights and windows. Here was an ideal ring, smooth and springy, with no hidden rocks or soft spots such as one sometimes finds when on the road. Mlle. Zaretti no longer wore her spangled pink dress. Instead she appeared in serviceable knickerbockers and wore wooden-soled slippers on her feet. In the middle of the ring a man who was turning himself into a human pin-wheel stopped long enough to shout: "Hello, Kate; signed yet?" "You bet," said Mlle. Zaretti. "Next spring I go out by rail with a three topper. I'm going to do the real bareback act, too. No more broad pads and wagon shows for Katie. Hey, Jim, rig up your Stokes' mechanic." Jim, a stout man who wore his suspenders outside a blue sweater and talked huskily, arranged a swinging derrick-arm, the purpose of which, it developed, was to keep Mlle. Zaretti off the ground whenever she missed her footing on Calico's back. There was a broad leather belt around her waist and to this was fastened a rope. Very often was this needed during those first three weeks of practice, for, true to her word, Mlle. Zaretti no longer strapped on Calico's back the broad pad to which he had been accustomed. At first the wooden-soles hurt and made him flinch, but in time the skin became toughened and he minded them not at all, although Mlle. Zaretti was no featherweight. Long before the snow was gone Mlle. Zaretti had discarded the derrick-arm. Urging Calico to his best speed she would grasp the cinch handles and with one light bound land on his well-resined back. Then, as he circled around in an even, rythmical lope, she would jump the banners and dive through the hoops. It was more or less fun for Calico, but it all seemed so utterly useless. There were no crowds to see and applaud. He missed the music and the cheering. At last there came a change. Calico and his mistress took a journey. They arrived in the biggest city Calico had ever seen, and one afternoon, to the accompaniment of such a crash of music and such a chorus of "HI! HI! HI's!" as he had never before heard, they burst into a great arena where were not only one ring but three, and about them, tier on tier as far up as one could see, the eager faces and gay clothes of a vast multitude of spectators. Calico, as you will guess, had become a factor in "The Grandest Aggregation." If Calico had longed for music and applause his wishes were surely answered, for, although Mlle. Zaretti had jumped from a wagon-show to a three-ring combination that began its season with an indoor March opening, she was still a top-liner. That is, she had a feature act. Thus it was that just as the Japanese jugglers finished tossing each other on their toes in the upper ring and while the property helpers were making ready the lower one for the elephants, in the centre ring Mlle. Zaretti and Calico alone held the attention of great audiences. "Mem-zelle Zar-ret-ti! Champ-i-on la-dy bare-back ri-der of the wor-r-r-r-ld, on her beaut-i-ful Ar-a-bian steed!" That was the manner in which the megaphone announcer heralded their appearance. Then followed a rattle of drums and a tooting of horns, ending in one tremendous bang as Calico, lifting his feet so high and so daintily you might have thought he was stepping over a row of china vases, and bowing his head so low that his neck arched almost double, came mincing into the arena. In his mouth he champed solid silver bits, and his polished hoofs were rimmed with nickel-plated shoes. The heavy bridle reins were covered with the finest white kid, as was the surcingle which completed his trappings. Rather stout had Calico become in these halcyon days. His back and flanks were like the surface of a well-upholstered sofa. His coat of motley told its own story of daily rubbings and good feeding. The white was dazzlingly white and the carrot-red patches glowed like the inside of a well-burnished copper kettle. So shiny was he that you could see reflected on his sides the black, gold-spangled tights and fluffy black skirts worn by Mlle. Zaretti, who poised on his back as lightly as if she had been an ostrich-plume dropped on a snow-bank and who smilingly kissed her finger-tips to the craning-necked tiers of spectators with charming indiscrimination and admirable impartiality. You may imagine that this picture was not without its effect. Never did it fail to draw forth a mighty volume of "Ohs!" and "Ah-h-h-hs!" especially at the afternoon performances, when the youngsters were out in force. And how Calico did relish this hum of admiration! Perhaps Mlle. Zaretti thought some of it was meant for her. No such idea had Calico. You could see this by the way in which he tossed his head and pawed haughtily as he waited for the band to strike up his music. Oh, yes, _his_ music. You must know that by this time the horse that had once pulled the stone-boat on Uncle Enoch's farm, and had later learned the hard lesson of obedience under Broncho Bill's lash had now become an equine personage. He had his grooms and his box-stall. He had whims which must be humored. One of these had to do with the music which played him through his act. He had discovered that the Blue Danube waltz was exactly to his liking, and to no other tune would he consent to do his best. Sulking was one of his new accomplishments. As for Mlle. Zaretti, she affected no such frills, but she was ever ready to defend those of her horse. A hard-working, frugal, ambitious young person was Mlle. Zaretti, whose few extravagances were mostly on Calico's account. For him she demanded the Blue Danube waltz in the face of the band-master's grumblings. When the Grandest Aggregation finally took the road the satisfaction of Calico was complete. He was under canvas once more. No band-wagon work wearied his nights. He even enjoyed the street parade. In the evening, when his act was over, he left the tents, glowing huge and brilliant against the night, and jogged quietly off to his padded car-stall, where were to be had a full two hours' rest before No. 2 train pulled out. In the gray of the morning he would wake to contentedly look out through his grated window at the flying landscape, remembering with a sigh of satisfaction that no longer was he routed out at cockcrow to be driven afield. Later he could see the curious crowds in the railroad yards as the long lines of cars were shunted back and forth. As he lazily munched his breakfast oats he watched the draught horses patiently drag the huge chariots across the tracks and off to the show lot where _he_ was not due for hours. A life of mild exertion, enjoyable excitement, changing scenes, and considerate treatment was his. No wonder the fat stuck to Calico's ribs. No wonder his eyes beamed contentment. Such are the sweets of high achievement. * * * * * It was to sell early July peas that Uncle Enoch again took the Bangor road one day about three years after his memorable meeting with the Grand Occidental. On his way across the city to Norumbega Market he found his way blocked by a line of waiting people. From an urchin-tossed handbill, Uncle Enoch learned that the Grandest Aggregation was in town and that "the Unparalleled Street Pageant" was about due. So he waited. With grim enjoyment Uncle Enoch watched the brilliant spectacle impassively. Old Jeff merely pricked up his ears in curious interest as the procession moved along in its dazzling course. "Zaretti, Bareback Queen of the World! On her Famous Arabian Steed Abdullah! Presented to her by the Shah of Persia!" Thus read Uncle Enoch as he followed the printed order of parade with toil-grimed forefinger. For a moment Uncle Enoch's gaze was held by the Bareback Queen, who looked languidly into space over the top of the tiger cage. Then he stared hard at the "far-famed Arabian steed," gift of the impulsive Shah. Said steed was caparisoned in a gorgeous saddle-blanket hung with silver fringe. A silver-mounted martingale dangled between his knees. Holding the silk-tasselled bridle rein, and walking in respectful attendance, was a groom in tight-fitting riding breeches and a cockaded hat which rested mainly on his ears. The horse was of white, mottled with carrot-red in such striking pattern that, having once seen it, one could hardly forget. "Gee whilikins!" said Uncle Enoch softly to himself, as if fearful of betraying some newly discovered secret. But Old Jeff was moved to no such reticence. Lifting his head over the shoulders of the crowd he pointed his ears and gave vent to a quick, glad whinny of recognition. The "far-famed Arabian," turning so sharply that the unwary groom was knocked sprawling, looked hard at the humble farm-horse, and then, with an answering high-pitched neigh, dashed through the quickly scattering spectators. It was a moment of surprises. The Bareback Queen of the World was startled out of her day-dream to find her "Arabian steed" rubbing noses with a ragged-coated horse hitched to a battered farm-wagon, in which sat a chin-whiskered old fellow who grinned expansively and slyly winked at her over the horses' heads. "It's all right, ma'am, I won't let on," he said. Before she could reply, the groom, who had rescued his cockaded hat and his presence of mind, rushed in and dragged the far-famed steed back into the line of procession. "Wall, I swan to man, ef Old Jeff didn't know that air Calicker afore I did," declared Uncle Enoch, as he described the affair to Aunt Henrietta; "an' me that raised him from a colt. I do swan to man!" Mlle. Zaretti did not "swan to man," whatever that may be, but to this day she marvels concerning the one and only occasion when her trusted Calico disturbed the progress of the Grandest Aggregation's unparalleled street pageant. OLD SILVER A STORY OF THE GRAY HORSE TRUCK Down in the heart of the skyscraper district, keeping watch and ward over those presumptuous, man-made cliffs around which commerce heaps its Fundy tides, you will find, unhandsomely housed on a side street, a hook and ladder company, known unofficially and intimately throughout the department as the Gray Horse Truck. Much like a big family is a fire company. It has seasons of good fortune, when there are neither sick leaves nor hospital cases to report; and it has periods of misfortune, when trouble and disaster stalk abruptly through the ranks. Gray Horse Truck company is no exception. Calm prosperity it has enjoyed, and of swift, unexpected tragedy it has had full measure. Yet its longest mourning and most sincere, was when it lost Old Silver. Although some of the men of Gray Horse Truck had seen more than ten years' continuous service in the house, not one could remember a time when Old Silver had not been on the nigh side of the poles. Mikes and Petes and Jims there had been without number. Some were good and some were bad, some had lasted years and some only months, some had been kind and some ugly, some stupid and some clever; but there had been but one Silver, who had combined all their good traits as well as many of their bad ones. Horses and men, Silver had seen them come and go. He had seen probationers rise step by step to battalion and deputy chiefs, win shields and promotion or meet the sudden fate that is their lot. All that time Silver's name-board had swung over his old stall, and when the truck went out Silver was to be found in his old place on the left of the poles. Driver succeeded driver, but one and all they found Silver first under the harness when a station hit, first to jump forward when the big doors rolled back, and always as ready to do his bit on a long run as he was to demand his four quarts when feeding-time came. Before the days of the Training Stable, where now they try out new material, Silver came into the service. That excellent institution, therefore, cannot claim the credit of his selection. Perhaps he was chosen by some shrewd old captain, who knew a fire-horse when he saw one, even in the raw; perhaps it was only a happy chance which put him in the business. At any rate, his training was the work of a master hand. Silver was not one of the fretting kind, so at the age of fifteen he was apple-round, his legs were straight and springy, and his eyes as full and bright as those of a school-boy at a circus. The dapples on his gray flanks were as distinct as the under markings on old velours, while his tail had the crisp whiteness of a polished steel bit on a frosty morning. Unless you had seen how shallow were his molar cups or noted the length of his bridle teeth, would you have guessed him not more than six. As for the education of Silver, its scope and completeness, no outsider would have given credence to the half of it. When Lannigan had driven the truck for three years, and had been cronies with Silver for nearly five, it was his habit to say, wonderingly: "He beats me, Old Silver does. I git onto some new wrinkle of his every day. No; 'taint no sorter use to tell his tricks; you wouldn't believe, nor would I an' I hadn't seen with me two eyes." In the way of mischief Silver was a star performer. What other fire-horse ever mastered the intricacies of the automatic halter release? It was Silver, too, that picked from the Captain's hip-pocket a neatly folded paper and chewed the same with malicious enthusiasm. The folded paper happened to be the Company's annual report, in the writing of which the Captain had spent many weary hours. Other things besides mischief however, had Silver learned. Chief of these was to start with the jigger. Sleeping or waking, lying or standing, the summons that stirred the men from snoring ease to tense, rapid action, never failed to find Silver alert. As the halter shank slipped through the bit-ring that same instant found Silver gathered for the rush through the long narrow lane leading from his open stall to the poles, above which, like great couchant spiders, waited the harnesses pendant on the hanger-rods. It was unwise to be in Silver's way when that little brazen voice was summoning him to duty. More than one man of Gray Horse Truck found that out. Once under the harness Silver was like a carved statue until the trip-strap had been pulled, the collar fastened and the reins snapped in. Then he wanted to poke the poles through the doors, so eager was he to be off. It was no fault of Silver's that his team could not make a two-second hitch. With the first strain at the traces his impatience died out. A sixty-foot truck starts with more or less reluctance. Besides, Silver knew that before anything like speed could be made it was necessary either to mount the grade to Broadway or to ease the machine down to Greenwich Street. It was traces or backing-straps for all that was in you, and at the end a sharp turn which never could have been made had not the tiller-man done his part with the rear wheels. But when once the tires caught the car-tracks Silver knew what to expect. At the turn he and his team mates could feel Lannigan gathering in the reins as though for a full stop. Next came the whistle of the whip. It swept across their flanks so quickly that it was practically one stroke for them all. At the same moment Lannigan leaned far forward and shot out his driving arm. The reins went loose, their heads went forward and, as if moving on a pivot, the three leaped as one horse. Again the reins tightened for a second, again they were loosened. When the bits were pulled back up came three heads, up came three pairs of shoulders and up came three pairs of forelegs; for at the other end of the lines, gripped vice-like in Lannigan's big fist, was swinging a good part of Lannigan's one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Left to themselves each horse would have leaped at a different instant. It was that one touch of the lash and the succeeding swing of Lannigan's bulk which gave them the measure, which set the time, which made it possible for less than four thousand pounds of horse-flesh to jump a five-ton truck up the street at a four-minute clip. For Silver all other minor pleasures in life were as nothing to the fierce joy he knew when, with a dozen men clinging to the hand-rails, the captain pulling the bell-rope and Lannigan, far up above them all, swaying on the lines, the Gray Horse Truck swept up Broadway to a first call-box. It was like trotting to music, if you've ever done that. Possibly you could have discovered no harmony at all in the confused roar of the apparatus as it thundered past. But to the ears of Silver there were many sounds blended into one. There were the rhythmical beat of hoofs, the low undertone of the wheels grinding the pavement, the high note of the forged steel lock-opener as it hammered the foot-board, the mellow ding-dong of the bell, the creak of the forty-and fifty-foot extensions, the rattle of the iron-shod hooks, the rat-tat-tat of the scaling ladders on the bridge and the muffled drumming of the leather helmets as they jumped in the basket. With the increasing speed all these sounds rose in pitch until, when the team was at full-swing, they became one vibrant theme--thrilling, inspiring, exultant--the action song of the Truck. To enjoy such music, to know it at its best, you must leap in the traces, feel the swing of the poles, the pull of the whiffle-trees, the slap of the trace-bearers; and you must see the tangled street-traffic clear before you as if by the wave of a magician's wand. Of course it all ended when, with heaving flanks and snorting nostrils you stopped before a building, where thin curls of smoke escaped from upper windows. Generally you found purring beside a hydrant a shiny steamer which had beaten the truck by perhaps a dozen seconds. Then you watched your men snatch the great ladders from the truck, heave them up against the walls and bring down pale-faced, staring-eyed men and women. You saw them tear open iron shutters, batter down doors, smash windows and do other things to make a path for the writhing, white-bodied, yellow-nosed snakes that uncoiled from the engine and were carried wriggling in where the flames lapped along baseboard and floor-beams. You saw the little ripples of smoke swell into huge, cream-edged billows that tumbled out and up so far above that you lost sight of them. Sometimes there came dull explosions, when smoke and flame belched out about you. Sometimes stones and bricks and cornices fell near you. But you were not to flinch or stir until Lannigan, who watched all these happenings with critical and unwinking eyes, gave the word. And after it was all over--when the red and yellow flames had ceased to dance in the empty window spaces, when only the white steam-smoke rolled up through the yawning roof-holes--the ladders were re-shipped, you left the purring engines to drown out the last hidden spark, and you went prancing back to your House, where the lonesome desk-man waited patiently for your return. No loping rush was the homeward trip. The need for haste had passed. Now came the parade. You might toss your head, arch your neck, and use all your fancy steps: Lannigan didn't care. In fact, he rather liked to have you show off a bit. The men on the truck, smutty of face and hands, joked across the ladders. The strain was over. It was a time of relaxing, for behind was duty well done. Then came the nice accuracy of swinging a sixty-foot truck in a fifty-foot street and of backing through a fourteen-foot door wheels which spanned thirteen feet from hub rim to hub rim. After unhooking there was the rubbing and the extra feeding of oats that always follows a long run. How good it was to be bedded down after this lung stretching, leg limbering work. Such was the life which Old Silver was leading when there arrived disaster. It came in the shape of a milk leg. Perhaps it was caused by over-feeding, but more likely it resulted from much standing in stall during a fortnight when the runs had been few and short. It behaved much as milk legs usually do. While there was no great pain the leg was unhandsome to look upon, and it gave to Old Silver a clumsiness of movement he had never known before. Industriously did Lannigan apply such simple remedies as he had at hand. Yet the swelling increased until from pastern to hock was neither shape nor grace. Worst of all, in getting on his feet one morning, Silver barked the skin with a rap from his toe calks. Then it did look bad. Of course this had to happen just before the veterinary inspector's monthly visit. "Old Silver, eh?" said he. "Well, I've been looking for him to give out. That's a bad leg there, a very bad leg. Send him up to the hospital in the morning, and I'll have another gray down here. It's time you had a new horse in his place." Lannigan stepped forward to protest. It was only a milk leg. He had cured such before. He could cure this one. Besides, he couldn't spare Silver, the best horse on his team. But the inspector often heard such pleas. "You drivers," said he, "would keep a horse going until he dropped through the collar. To hear you talk anyone would think there wasn't another horse in the Department. What do you care so long as you get another gray?" Very much did Lannigan care, but he found difficulty in putting his sentiments into words. Besides, of what use was it to talk to a blind fool who could say that one gray horse was as good as another. Hence Lannigan only looked sheepish and kept his tongue between his teeth until the door closed behind the inspector. Then he banged a ham-like fist into a broad palm and relieved his feelings in language both forceful and picturesque. This failed to mend matters, so Lannigan, putting an arm around the old gray's neck, told Silver all about it. Probably Silver misunderstood, for he responded by reaching over Lannigan's shoulder and chewing the big man's leather belt. Only when Lannigan fed to him six red apples and an extra quart of oats did Silver mistrust that something unusual was going to happen. Next morning, sure enough, it did happen. Some say Lannigan wept. As to that none might be sure, for he sat facing the wall in a corner of the bunk-room. No misunderstanding could there have been about his remarks, muttered though they were. They were uncomplimentary to all veterinary inspectors in general, and most pointedly uncomplimentary to one in particular. Below they were leading Old Silver away to the hospital. Perhaps it was that Silver's milk leg was stubborn in yielding to treatment. Perhaps the folks at the horse hospital deemed it unwise to spend time and effort on a horse of his age. At any rate, after less than a week's stay, he was cast into oblivion. They took away the leaden number medal, which for more than ten years he had worn on a strap around his neck, and they turned him over to a sales-stable as carelessly as a battalion chief would toss away a half-smoked cigar. Now a sales-stable is a place where horse destinies are shuffled by reckless and unthinking hands. Also its doors open on the four corners of the world's crossed highways. You might go from there to find your work waiting between the shafts of a baker's cart just around the corner, or you might be sent across seas to die miserably of tsetse stings on the South African veldt. Neither of these things happened to Silver. It occurred that his arrival at the sales-stable was coincident with a rush order from the Street Cleaning Department. So there he went. Fate, it seemed, had marked him for municipal service. There was no delay about his initiation. Into his forehoofs they branded this shameful inscription: D. S. C. 937, on his back they flung a forty-pound single harness with a dirty piece of canvas as a blanket. They hooked him to an iron dump-cart, and then, with a heavy lashed whip, they haled him forth at 5.30 a.m. to begin the inglorious work of removing refuse from the city streets. Perhaps you think Old Silver could not feel the disgrace, the ignominy of it all. Could you have seen the lowered head, the limp-hung tail, the dulled eyes and the dispirited sag of his quarters, you would have thought differently. It is one thing to jump a hook and ladder truck up Broadway to the relief of a fire-threatened block, and quite another to plod humbly along the curb from ash-can to ash-can. How Silver did hate those cans. Each one should have been for him a signal to stop. But it was not. In consequence, he was yanked to a halt every two minutes. Sometimes he would crane his neck and look mournfully around at the unsightly leg which he had come to understand was the cause of all his misery. There would come into his great eyes a look of such pitiful melancholy that one might almost fancy tears rolling out. Then he would be roused by an exasperated driver, who jerked cruelly on the lines and used his whip as if it had been a flail. When the cart was full Silver must drag it half across the city to the riverfront, and up a steep runway from the top of which its contents were dumped into the filthy scows that waited below. At the end of each monotonous, wearisome day he jogged stiffly to the uninviting stables, where he was roughly ushered into a dark, damp stall. To another horse, unused to anything better, the life would not have seemed hard. Of oats and hay there were fair quantities, and there was more or less hasty grooming. But to Silver, accustomed to such little amenities as friendly pats from men, and the comradeship of his fellow-workers, it was like a bad dream. He was not even cheered by the fact that his leg, intelligently treated by the stable-boss, was growing better. What did that matter? Had he not lost his caste? Express and dray horses, the very ones that had once scurried into side streets at sound of his hoofs, now insolently crowded him to the curb. When he had been on the truck Silver had yielded the right of way to none, he had held his head high; now he dodged and waited, he wore a blind bridle, and he wished neither to see nor to be seen. For three months Silver had pulled that hateful refuse chariot about the streets, thankful only that he traversed a section of the city new to him. Then one day he was sent out with a new driver whose route lay along familiar ways. The thing Silver dreaded, that which he had long feared, did not happen for more than a week after the change. It came early one morning. He had been backed up in front of a big office-building where a dozen bulky cans cumbered the sidewalk. The driver was just lifting one of them to the tail-board when, from far down the street, there reached Silver's ears a well-known sound. Nearer it swept, louder and louder it swelled. The old gray lifted his lowered head in spite of his determination not to look. The driver, too, poised the can on the cart-edge, and waited, gazing. In a moment the noise and its cause were opposite. Old Silver hardly needed to glance before knowing the truth. It was his old company, the Gray Horse Truck. There was his old driver, there were his old team mates. In a flash there passed from Silver's mind all memory of his humble condition, his wretched state. Tossing his head and giving his tail a swish, he leaped toward the apparatus, neatly upsetting the filled ash-can over the head and shoulders of the bewildered driver. By a supreme effort Silver dropped into the old lope. A dozen bounds took him abreast the nigh horse, and, in spite of Lannigan's shouts, there he stuck, littering the newly swept pavement most disgracefully at every jump. Thus strangely accompanied, the Gray Horse Truck thundered up Broadway for ten blocks, and when it stopped, before a building in which a careless watchman's lantern had set off the automatic, Old Silver was part of the procession. It was Lannigan who, in the midst of an eloquent flow of indignant abuse, made this announcement: "Why, boys--it's--it's our Old Silver; jiggered if it ain't!" Each member of the crew having expressed his astonishment in appropriate words, Lannigan tried to sum it all up by saying: "Silver, you old sinner! So they've put you in a blanked ash-cart, have they? Well, I'll--I'll be----" But there speech failed him. His wits did not. There was a whispered council of war. Lannigan made a daring proposal, at which all grinned appreciatively. "Sure, they'd never find out," said one. "An' see, his game leg's most as good as new again," suggested another. It was an unheard-of, audacious, and preposterous proceeding; one which the rules and regulations of the Fire Department, many and varied as they are, never anticipated. But it was adopted. Meanwhile the Captain found it necessary to inspect the interior of the building, the Lieutenant turned his back, and the thing was done. That same evening an ill-tempered and very dirty ash-cart driver turned up at the stables with a different horse from the one he had driven out that morning, much to the mystification of himself and certain officials of the Department of Street Cleaning. Also, there pranced back as nigh horse of the truck a big gray with one slightly swollen hind leg. By the way he held his head, by the look in his big, bright eyes, and by his fancy stepping one might have thought him glad to be where he was. And it was so. As for the rest, Lannigan will tell you in strict confidence that the best mode of disguising hoof-brands until they are effaced by new growth is to fill them with axle-grease. It cannot be detected. Should you ever chance to see, swinging up lower Broadway, a hook-and-ladder truck drawn by three big grays jumping in perfect unison, note especially the nigh horse--that's the one on the left side looking forward. It will be Old Silver who, although now rising sixteen, seems to be good for at least another four years of active service. BLUE BLAZES AND THE MARRING OF HIM Those who should know say that a colt may have no worse luck than to be foaled on a wet Friday. On a most amazingly wet Friday--rain above, slush below, and a March snorter roaring between--such was the natal day of Blue Blazes. And an unhandsome colt he was. His broomstick legs seemed twice the proper length, and so thin you would hardly have believed they could ever carry him. His head, which somehow suggested the lines of a boot-jack, was set awkwardly on an ewed neck. For this pitiful, ungainly little figure only two in all the world had any feeling other than contempt. One of these, of course, was old Kate, the sorrel mare who mothered him. She gazed at him with sad old eyes blinded by that maternal love common to all species, sighed with huge content as he nuzzled for his breakfast, and believed him to be the finest colt that ever saw a stable. The other was Lafe, the chore boy, who, when Farmer Perkins had stirred the little fellow roughly with his boot-toe as he expressed his deep dissatisfaction, made reparation by gently stroking the baby colt and bringing an old horse-blanket to wrap him in. Old Kate understood. Lafe read gratitude in the big, sorrowful mother eyes. Months later, when the colt had learned to balance himself on the spindly legs, the old sorrel led him proudly about the pasture, showing him tufts of sweet new spring grass, and taking him to the brook, where were tender and juicy cowslips, finely suited to milk-teeth. In time the slender legs thickened, the chest deepened, the barrel filled out, the head became less ungainly. As if to make up for these improvements, the colt's markings began to set. They took the shapes of a saddle-stripe, three white stockings, and an irregular white blaze covering one side of his face and patching an eye. On chest and belly the mother sorrel came out rather sharply, but on the rest of him was that peculiar blending which gives the blue roan shade, a color unpleasing to the critical eye, and one that lowers the market value. Lafe, however, found the colt good to look upon. But Lafe himself had no heritage of beauty. He had not even grown up to his own long, thin legs. Possibly no boy ever had hair of such a homely red. Certainly few could have been found with bigger freckles. But it was his eyes which accented the plainness of his features. You know the color of a ripe gooseberry, that indefinable faint purplish tint; well, that was it. If Lafe found no fault with Blue Blazes, the colt found no fault with Lafe. At first the colt would sniff suspiciously at him from under the shelter of the old sorrel's neck, but in time he came to regard Lafe without fear, and to suffer a hand on his flank or the chore boy's arm over his shoulder. So between them was established a gentle confidence beautiful to see. Fortunate it would have been had Lafe been master of horse on the Perkins farm. But he was not. Firstly, there are no such officials on Michigan peach-farms; secondly, Lafe would not have filled the position had such existed. Lafe, you see, did not really belong. He was an interloper, a waif who had drifted in from nowhere in particular, and who, because of a willingness to do a man's work for no wages at all, was allowed a place at table and a bunk over the wagon-shed. Farmer Perkins, more jealous of his reputation for shrewdness than of his soul's salvation, would point to Lafe and say, knowingly: "He's a bad one, that boy is; look at them eyes." And surely, if Lafe's soul-windows mirrored the color of his mental state, he was indeed in a bad way. In like manner Farmer Perkins judged old Kate's unhandsome colt. "Look at them ears," he said, really looking at the unsightly nose-blaze. "We'll have a circus when it comes to breakin' that critter." Sure enough, it _was_ more or less of a circus. Perhaps the colt was at fault, perhaps he was not. Olsen, a sullen-faced Swede farm-hand, whose youth had been spent in a North Sea herring-boat, and whose disposition had been matured by sundry second mates on tramp steamers, was the appropriate person selected for introducing Blue Blazes to the uses of a halter. Judging all humans by the standard established by the mild-mannered Lafe, the colt allowed himself to be caught after small effort. But when the son of old Kate first felt a halter he threw up his head in alarm. Abruptly and violently his head was jerked down. Blue Blazes was surprised, hurt, angered. Something was bearing hard on his nose; there was something about his throat that choked. Had he, then, been deceived? Here he was, wickedly and maliciously trapped. He jerked and slatted his head some more. This made matters worse. He was cuffed and choked. Next he tried rearing. His head was pulled savagely down, and at this point Olsen began beating him with the slack of the halter rope. Ah, now Blue Blazes understood! They got your head and neck into that arrangement of straps and rope that they might beat you. Wild with fear he plunged desperately to right and left. Blindly he reared, pawing the air. Just as one of his hoofs struck Olsen's arm a buckle broke. The colt felt the nose-strap slide off. He was free. A marvellous tale of fierce encounter with a devil-possessed colt did Olsen carry back to the farm-house. In proof he showed a broken halter, rope-blistered hands, and a bruised arm. "I knew it!" said Farmer Perkins. "Knew it the minute I see them ears. He's a vicious brute, that colt, but we'll tame him." So four of them, variously armed with whips and pitchforks, went down to the pasture and tried to drive Blue Blazes into a fence corner. But the colt was not to be cornered. From one end of the pasture to the other he raced. He had had enough of men for that day. Next morning Farmer Perkins tried familiar strategy. Under his coat he hid a stout halter and a heavy bull whip. Then, holding a grain measure temptingly before him, he climbed the pasture fence. In the measure were oats which he rattled seductively. Also he called mildly and persuasively. Blue Blazes was suspicious. Four times he allowed the farmer to come almost within reaching distance only to turn and bolt with a snort of alarm just at the crucial moment. At last he concluded that he must have just one taste of those oats. "Come coltie, nice coltie," cooed the man in a strained but conciliating voice. Blue Blazes planted himself for a sudden whirl, stretched his neck as far as possible and worked his upper lip inquiringly. The smell of the oats lured him on. Hardly had he touched his nose to the grain before the measure was dropped and he found himself roughly grabbed by the forelock. In a moment he saw the hated straps and ropes. Before he could break away the halter was around his neck and buckled firmly. Farmer Perkins changed his tone: "Now, you damned ugly little brute, I've got you! [Jerk] Blast your wicked hide! [Slash] You will, will you? [Yank] I'll larn you!" [Slash.] Man and colt were almost exhausted when the "lesson" was finished. It left Blue Blazes ridged with welts, trembling, fright sickened. Never again would he trust himself within reach of those men; no, not if they offered him a whole bushel of oats. But it was a notable victory. Vauntingly Farmer Perkins told how he had haltered the vicious colt. He was unconscious that a pair of ripe gooseberry eyes turned black with hate, that behind his broad back was shaken a futile fist. The harness-breaking of Blue Blazes was conducted on much the same plan as his halter-taming, except that during the process he learned to use his heels. One Olsen, who has since walked with a limp, can tell you that. Another feature of the harness-breaking came as an interruption to further bull-whip play by Farmer Perkins. It was a highly melodramatic episode in which Lafe, gripping the handle of a two-tined pitchfork, his freckled-face greenish-white and the pupils of his eyes wide with the fear of his own daring, threatened immediate damage to the person of Farmer Perkins, unless the said Perkins dropped the whip. This Perkins did. More than that, he fled with ridiculous haste, and in craven terror; while Lafe, having given the trembling colt a parting caress, quitted the farm abruptly and for all time. As for Blue Blazes, two days later he was sold to a travelling horse-dealer, and departed without any sorrow of farewells. In the weeks during which he trailed over the fruit district of southern Michigan in the wake of the horse-buyer, Blue Blazes learned nothing good and much that was ill. He finished the trip with raw hocks, a hoof-print on his flank, and teeth-marks on neck and withers. Horses led in a bunch do not improve in disposition. Some of the scores the blue-roan colt paid in kind, some he did not, but he learned the game of give and take. Men and horses alike, he concluded, were against him. If he would hold his own he must be ready with teeth and hoofs. Especially he carried with him always a black, furious hatred of man in general. So he went about with ears laid back, the whites of his eyes showing, and a bite or a kick ready in any emergency. Day by day the hate in him deepened until it became the master-passion. A quick foot-fall behind him was enough to send his heels flying as though they had been released by a hair-trigger. He kicked first and investigated afterward. The mere sight of a man within reaching distance roused all his ferocity. He took a full course in vicious tricks. He learned how to crowd a man against the side of a stall, and how to reach him, when at his head, by an upward and forward stroke of the forefoot. He could kick straight behind with lightning quickness, or give the hoof a sweeping side-movement most comprehensive and unexpected. The knack of lifting the bits with the tongue and shoving them forward of the bridle-teeth came in time. It made running away a matter of choice. When it became necessary to cause diversion he would balk. He no longer cared for whips. Physically and mentally he had become hardened to blows. Men he had ceased to fear, for most of them feared him and he knew it. He only despised and hated them. One exception Blue Blazes made. This was in favor of men and boys with red hair and freckles. Such he would not knowingly harm. A long memory had the roan. Toward his own kind Blue Blazes bore himself defiantly. Double harness was something he loathed. One was not free to work his will on the despised driver if hampered by a pole and mate. In such cases he nipped manes and kicked under the traces until released. He had a special antipathy for gray horses and fought them on the smallest provocation, or upon none at all. As a result Blue Blazes, while knowing no masters, had many owners, sometimes three in a single week. He began his career by filling a three months' engagement as a livery horse, but after he had run away a dozen times, wrecked several carriages, and disabled a hostler, he was sold for half his purchase price. Then did he enter upon his wanderings in real earnest. He pulled street-cars, delivery wagons, drays and ash-carts. He was sold to unsuspecting farmers, who, when his evil traits cropped out, swapped him unceremoniously and with ingenious prevarication by the roadside. In the natural course of events he was much punished. Up and across the southern peninsula of Michigan he drifted contentiously, growing more vicious with each encounter, more daring after each victory. In Muskegon he sent the driver of a grocery wagon to the hospital with a shoulder-bite requiring cauterization and four stitches. In Manistee he broke the small bones in the leg of a baker's large boy. In Cadillac a boarding-stable hostler struck him with an iron shovel. Blue Blazes kicked the hostler quite accurately and very suddenly through a window. Between Cadillac and Kalaska he spent several lively weeks with farmers. Most of them tried various taming processes. Some escaped with bruises and some suffered serious injury. At Alpena he found an owner who, having read something very convincing in a horse-trainer's book, elaborately strapped the roan's legs according to diagram, and then went into the stall to wreak vengeance with a riding-whip. Blue Blazes accepted one cut, after which he crushed the avenger against the plank partition until three of the man's ribs were broken. The Alpena man was fished from under the roan's hoofs just in time to save his life. This incident earned Blue Blazes the name of "man-killer," and it stuck. He even figured in the newspaper dispatches. "Blue Blazes, the Michigan Man-Killer," "The Ugliest Horse Alive," "Alpena's Equine Outlaw"; these were some of the head-lines. The Perkins method had borne fruit. When purchasers for a four-legged hurricane could no longer be found, Blue Blazes was sent up the lake to an obscure little port where they have only a Tuesday and Friday steamer, and where the blue roan's record was unknown. Horses were in demand there. In fact, Blue Blazes was sold almost before he had been led down the gang-plank. "Look out for him," warned the steam-boat man; "he's a wicked brute." "Oh, I've got a little job that'll soon take the cussedness out of him," said the purchaser, with a laugh. Blue Blazes was taken down into the gloomy fore-hold of a three-masted lake schooner, harnessed securely between two long capstan bars, and set to walking in an aimless circle while a creaking cable was wound about a drum. At the other end of the cable were fastened, from time to time, squared pine-logs weighing half a ton each. It was the business of Blue Blazes to draw these timbers into the hold through a trap-door opening in the stern. There was nothing to kick save the stout bar, and there was no one to bite. Well out of reach stood a man who cracked a whip and, when not swearing forcefully, shouted "Ged-a-a-ap!" For several uneventful days he was forced to endure this exasperating condition of affairs with but a single break in the monotony. This came on the first evening, when they tried to unhook him. The experiment ended with half a blue-flannel shirt in the teeth of Blue Blazes and a badly scared lumber-shover hiding in the fore-peak. After that they put grain and water in buckets, which they cautiously shoved within his reach. Of course there had to be an end to this. In due time the Ellen B. was full of square timbers. The Captain notified the owner of Blue Blazes that he might take his blankety-blanked horse out of the Ellen B.'s fore-hold. The owner declined, and entrenched himself behind a pure technicality. The Captain had hired from him the use of a horse; would the Captain kindly deliver said horse to him, the owner, on the dock? It was a spirited controversy, in which the horse-owner scored several points. But the schooner captain by no means admitted defeat. "The Ellen B. gets under way inside of a half hour," said he. "If you want your blankety-blanked horse you've got that much time to take him away." "I stand on my rights," replied the horse-owner. "You sail off with my property if you dare. Go ahead! Do it! Next time the Ellen B. puts in here I'll libel her for damages." Yet in the face of this threat the Ellen B. cast off her hawsers, spread her sails, and stood up the lake bound Chicagoward through the Straits with Blue Blazes still on board. Not a man-jack of the crew would venture into the fore-hold, where Blue Blazes was still harnessed to the capstan bars. When he had been without water or grain for some twelve hours the wrath in him, which had for days been growing more intense, boiled over. Having voiced his rage in raucous squeals, he took to chewing the bridle-strap and to kicking the whiffle-tree. The deck watch gazed down at him in awe. The watch below, separated from him only by a thin partition, expressed profane disapproval of shipping such a passenger. There was no sleep on the Ellen B. that night. About four in the morning the continued effort of Blue Blazes met with reward. The halter-strap parted, and the stout oak whiffle-tree was splintered into many pieces. For some minutes Blue Blazes explored the hold until he found the gang-plank leading upward. His appearance on the deck of the Ellen B. caused something like a panic. The man at the wheel abandoned his post, and as he started for the cross-trees let loose a yell which brought up all hands. Blue Blazes charged them with open mouth. Not a man hesitated to jump for the rigging. The schooner's head came up into the wind, the jib-sheet blocks rattled idly and the booms swung lazily across the deck, just grazing the ears of Blue Blazes. How long the roan might have held the deck had not his thirst been greater than his hate cannot be told. Water was what he needed most, for his throat seemed burning, and just overside was an immensity of water. So he leaped. Probably the crew of the Ellen B. believe to this day that they escaped by a miracle from a devil-possessed horse who, finding them beyond his reach, committed suicide. But Blue Blazes had no thought of self-destruction. After swallowing as much lake water as was good for him he struck out boldly for the shore, which was not more than half a mile distant, swimming easily in the slight swell. Gaining the log-strewn beach, he found himself at the edge of one of those ghostly, fire-blasted tamarack forests which cover great sections of the upper end of Michigan's southern peninsula. At last he had escaped from the hateful bondage of man. Contentedly he fell to cropping the coarse beach-grass which grew at the forest's edge. For many long days Blue Blazes revelled in his freedom, sometimes wandering for miles into the woods, sometimes ranging the beach in search of better pasturage. Water there was aplenty, but food was difficult to find. He even browsed bushes and tree-twigs. At first he expected momentarily to see appear one of his enemies, a man. He heard imaginary voices in the beat of the waves, the creaking of wind-tossed tree-tops, the caw of crows, or in the faint whistlings of distant steamers. He began to look suspiciously behind knolls and stumps. But for many miles up and down the coast was no port, and the only evidences he had of man were the sails of passing schooners, or the trailing smoke-plumes of steam-boats. Not since he could remember had Blue Blazes been so long without feeling a whip laid over his back. Still, he was not wholly content. He felt a strange uneasiness, was conscious of a longing other than a desire for a good feed of oats. Although he knew it not, Blue Blazes, who hated men as few horses have ever hated them, was lonesome. He yearned for human society. When at last a man did appear on the beach the horse whirled and dashed into the woods. But he ran only a short distance. Soon he picked his way back to the lake shore and gazed curiously at the intruder. The man was making a fire of driftwood. Blue Blazes approached him cautiously. The man was bending over the fire, fanning it with his hat. In a moment he looked up. A half minute, perhaps more, horse and man gazed at each other. Probably it was a moment of great surprise for them both. Certainly it was for the man. Suddenly Blue Blazes pricked his ears forward and whinnied. It was an unmistakable whinny of friendliness if not of glad recognition. The man on the beach had red hair--hair of the homeliest red you could imagine. Also he had eyes of the color of ripe gooseberries. * * * * * "You see," said Lafe, in explaining the matter afterward, "I was hunting for burls. I had seen 'em first when I was about sixteen. It was once when a lot of us went up on the steamer from Saginaw after black bass. We landed somewhere and went up a river into Mullet Lake. Well, one day I got after a deer, and he led me off so far I couldn't find my way back to camp. I walked through the woods for more'n a week before I came out on the lake shore. It was while I was tramping around that I got into a hardwood swamp where I saw them burls, not knowing what they were at the time. "When I showed up at home my stepfather was tearing mad. He licked me good and had me sent to the reform school. I ran away from there after a while and struck the Perkins farm. That's where I got to know Blue Blazes. After my row with Perkins I drifted about a lot until I got work in this very furniture factory," whereupon Lafe swept a comprehensive hand about, indicating the sumptuously appointed office. "Well, I worked here until I saw them take off the cars a lot of those knots just like the ones I'd seen on the trees up in that swamp. 'What are them things?' says I to the foreman. "'Burls,' says he. "'Worth anything?' says I. "'Are they?' says he. 'They're the most expensive pieces of wood you can find anywhere in this country. Them's what we saw up into veneers.' "That was enough for me. I had a talk with the president of the company. 'If you can locate that swamp, young man,' says he, 'and it's got in it what you say it has, I'll help you to make your fortune." "So I started up the lake to find the swamp. That's how I come to run across Blue Blazes again. How he came to be there I couldn't guess and didn't find out for months. He was as glad to see me as I was to see him. They told me afterward that he was a man-killer. Man-killer nothing! Why, I rode that horse for over a hundred miles down the lake-shore with not a sign of a bridle on him. "Of course, he don't seem to like other men much, and he did lay up one or two of my hostlers before I understood him. You see"--here Mr. Lafe, furniture magnate, flushed consciously--"I can't have any but red-headed men--red-headed like me, you know--about my stable, on account of Blue Blazes. Course, it's foolish, but I guess the old fellow had a tough time of it when he was young, same as I did; and now--well, he just suits me, Blue Blazes does. I'd rather ride or drive him than any thoroughbred in this country; and, by jinks, I'm bound he gets whatever he wants, even if I have to lug in a lot of red-headed men from other States." CHIEFTAIN A STORY OF THE HEAVY DRAUGHT SERVICE He was a three-quarter blood Norman, was Chieftain. You would have known that by his deep, powerful chest, his chunky neck, his substantial, shaggy-fetlocked legs. He had a family tree, registered sires, you know, and, had he wished, could have read you a pedigree reaching back to Sir Navarre (6893). Despite all this, Chieftain was guilty of no undue pride. Eight years in the trucking business takes out of one all such nonsense. True, as a three-year-old he had given himself some airs. There was small wonder in that. He had been the boast of Keokuk County for a whole year. "We'll show 'em what we can do in Indiana," the stockmaster had said as Chieftain, his silver-white tail carefully done up in red flannel, was led aboard the cars for shipment East. They are not unused to ton-weight horses in the neighborhood of the Bull's Head, where the great sales-stables are. Still, when Chieftain was brought out, his fine dappled coat shining like frosted steel in the sunlight, and his splendid tail, which had been done up in straw crimps over night, rippling and waving behind him, there was a great craning of necks among the buyers of heavy draughts. "Gentlemen," the red-faced auctioneer had shouted, "here's a buster; one of the kind you read about, wide as a wagon, with a leg on each corner. There's a ton of him, a whole ton. Who'll start him at three hundred? Why, he's as good as money in the bank." That had been Chieftain's introduction to the metropolis. But the triple-hitch is a great leveller. In single harness, even though one does pull a load, there is chance for individuality. One may toss one's head; aye, prance a bit on a nipping morning. But get between the poles of a breast-team, with a horse on either side, and a twelve-ton load at the trace-ends, and--well, one soon forgets such vanities as pride of champion sires, and one learns not to prance. In his eight years as inside horse of breast-team No. 47, Chieftain had forgotten much about pedigree, but he had learned many other things. He had come to know the precise moment when, in easing a heavy load down an incline, it was safe to slacken away on the breeching and trot gently. He could tell, merely by glancing at a rise in the roadway, whether a slow, steady pull was needed, or if the time had come to stick in his toe-calks and throw all of his two thousand pounds on the collar. He had learned not to fret himself into a lather about strange noises, and not to be over-particular as to the kind of company in which he found himself working. Even though hitched up with a vicious Missouri Modoc on one side and a raw, half collar-broken Kanuck on the other, he would do his best to steady them down to the work. He had learned to stop at crossings when a six-foot Broadway-squad officer held up one finger, and to give way for no one else. He knew by heart all the road rules of the crowded way, and he stood for his rights. [Illustration: He would do his best to steady them down to the work.] So, in stress of storm or quivering summer heat, did Chieftain toil between the poles, hauling the piled-up truck, year in and year out, up and down and across the city streets. And in time he had forgotten his Norman blood, had forgotten that he was the great-grandson of Sir Navarre. Some things there were, however, which Chieftain could not wholly forget. These memories were not exactly clear, but, vague as they were, they stuck. They had to do with fields of new grass, with the elastic feel of dew-moistened turf under one's hoofs, with the enticing smell of sweet clover in one's nostrils, the sound of gently moving leaves in one's ears, and the sense that before, as well as behind, were long hours of delicious leisure. It was only in the afternoons that these memories troubled Chieftain. In the morning one feels fresh and strong and contented, and, when one has time for any thought at all, there are comforting reflections that in the nose-bags, swung under the truck-seat, are eight quarts of good oats, and that noon must come some time or other. But along about three o'clock of a July day, with stabling time too far away to be thought of, when there was nothing to do but to stand patiently in the glare of the sun-baked freight-yard, while Tim and his helper loaded on case after case and barrel after barrel, then it was that Chieftain could not help thinking about the fields of new grass, and other things connected with his colt days. Sometimes, when he was plodding doggedly over the hard pavements, with every foot-fall jarring tired muscles, he would think how nice it would be, just for a week or so, to tread again that yielding turf he had known such a long, long time ago. Then, perhaps, he would slacken just a bit on the traces, and Tim would give that queer, shrill chirrup of his, adding, sympathetically: "Come, me bye, come ahn!" Then Chieftain would tighten the traces in an instant, giving his whole attention to the business of keeping them taut and of placing each iron-shod hoof just where was the surest footing. In this last you may imagine there is no knack. Perhaps you think it is done off-hand. Well, it isn't. Ask any experienced draught-horse used to city trucking. He will tell you that wet cobble-stones, smoothed by much wear and greased with street slime, cannot be travelled heedlessly. Either the heel or the toe calks must find a crevice somewhere. If they do not, you are apt to go on your knees or slide on your haunches. Flat-rail car-tracks give you unexpected side slips. So do the raised rims of man-hole covers. But when it comes to wet asphalt--your calks will not help you there. It's just a case of nice balancing and trusting to luck. Much, of course, depends on the man at the other end of the lines. In this particular Chieftain was fortunate, for a better driver than Tim Doyle did not handle leather for the company. Even "the old man"--the stable-boss--had been known to say as much. Chieftain had taken a liking to Tim the first day they turned out together, when Chieftain was new to the city and to trucking. Driver Doyle's fondness for Chieftain was of slower growth. In those days there were other claimants for Tim's affections than his horses. There was a Mrs. Doyle, for instance. Sometimes Chieftain saw her when Tim drove the truck anywhere in the vicinity of the flat-house in which he lived. She would come out and look at the team, and Tim would tell what fine horses he had. There was a young Tim, too, a big, growing boy, who would now and then ride on the truck with his father. One day--it was during Chieftain's fifth year in the service--something had happened to Mrs. Doyle. Tim had not driven for three days that time, and when he did come back he was a very sober Tim. He told Chieftain all about it, because he had no one else to tell. Soon after this young Tim, who had grown up, went away somewhere, and from that time on the friendship between old Tim and Chieftain became closer than ever. Tim spent more and more of his time at the stable, until at the end, he fixed himself a bunk in the night watchman's office and made it his home. So, for three years or more Chieftain had always had a good-night pat on the flank from Tim, and in the morning, after the currying and rubbing, they had a little friendly banter, in the way of love-slaps from Tim and good-natured nosings from Chieftain. Perhaps many of Tim's confidences were given half in jest, and perhaps Chieftain sometimes thought that Tim was a bit slow in perception, but, all in all, each understood the other, even better than either realized. Of course, Chieftain could not tell Tim of all those vague longings which had to do with new grass and springy turf, nor could he know that Tim had similar longings. These thoughts each kept to himself. But if Chieftain was of Norman blood, a horse whose noble sires had ranged pasture and paddock free from rein or trace, Tim was a Doyle whose father and grandfather had lived close to the good green sod, and had done their toil in the open, with the cool and calm of the country to soothe and revive them. Of such delights as these both Chieftain and Tim had tasted scantily, hurriedly, in youth; and for them, in the lapses of the daily grind, both yearned, each after his own fashion. And, each in his way, Tim and Chieftain were philosophers. As the years had come and gone, toil-filled and uneventful, the character of the man had ripened and mellowed, the disposition of the horse had settled and sweetened. In his earlier days Tim had been ready to smash a wheel or lose one, to demand right of way with profane unction, and to back his word with whip, fist, or bale-hook. But he had learned to yield an inch on occasion and to use the soft word. Chieftain, too, in his first years between the poles, had sometimes been impatient with the untrained mates who from time to time joined the team. He had taken part in mane-biting and trace-kicking, especially on days when the loads were heavy and the flies thick, conditions which try the best of horse tempers. But he had steadied down into a pole-horse who could set an example that was worth more than all the six-foot lashes ever tied to a whip-stock. It was during the spring of Chieftain's eighth year with the company that things really began to happen. First there came rheumatism to Tim. Trucking uses up men as well as horses, you know. While it is the hard work and the heavy feeding of oats which burn out the animal, it is generally the exposure and the hard drinking which do for the men. Tim, however, was always moderate in his use of liquor, so he lasted longer than most drivers. But at one-and-forty the wearing of rain-soaked clothes called for reprisal. One wet May morning, after vainly trying to hobble about the stable, Tim, with a bottle of horse liniment under his arm, gave it up and went back to his bunk. Team No. 47 went out that day with a new driver, a cousin of the stable-boss, who had never handled anything better than common, light-weight express horses. How Chieftain did miss Tim those next few days! The new man was slow at loading, and, to make up the time, he cut short their dinner-hour. Now it is not the wise thing to hurry horses who have just eaten eight quarts of oats. The team finished the day well blown, and in a condition generally bad. Next day the new man let the off horse stumble, and there was a pair of barked knees to be doctored. Matters went from bad to worse, until on the fourth day came the climax. Sludge acid is an innocent-appearing liquid which sometimes stands in pools near gas-works. Good drivers know enough to avoid it. It is bad for the hoofs. The new man still had many things to learn, and this happened to be one of them. In the morning Team 47 was disabled. The company's veterinary looked at the spongy hoofs and remarked to the stable-boss: "About three weeks on the farm will fix 'em all right, I guess; but I should advise you to chuck that new driver out of the window; he's too expensive for us." That was how Chieftain's yearnings happened to be gratified at last. The company, it seems, has a big farm, somewhere "up State," to which disabled horses are sent for rest and recuperation. Invalided drivers must look out for themselves. You can get a hundred truck drivers by hanging out a sign: good draught horses are to be had only for a price. Chieftain and Tim parted with mutual misgivings. To a younger horse the long ride in the partly open stock-car might have been a novelty, but to Chieftain, accustomed to ferries and the sight of all manner of wheeled things, it was without new sensations. At the end of the ride--ah, that was different. There were the sweet, fresh fields, the springy green turf, the trees--all just as he had dreamed a hundred times. Halterless and shoe-freed, Chieftain pranced about the pasture for all the world like a two-year-old. With head and tail up he ranged the field. He even tried a roll on the grass. Then, when he was tired, he wandered about, nibbling now and then at a tempting bunch of grass, but mainly exulting in his freedom. There were other company horses in the field, but most of them were busy grazing. Each was disabled in some way. One was half foundered, one had a leg-sprain, another swollen joints; but hoof complaints, such as toe-cracks, quarter-cracks, brittle feet, and the like, were the most frequent ills. They were not a cheerful lot, and they were unsociable. Chieftain went ambling off by himself, and in due time made acquaintance with a rather gaunt, weather-beaten sorrel who hung his head lonesomely over the fence from an adjoining pasture. He seemed grateful for the notice taken of him by the big Norman, and soon they were the best of friends. For hours they stood with their muzzles close together or their necks crossed in fraternal fashion, swapping horse gossip after the manner of their kind. The sorrel, it appeared, was farm-bred and farm-reared. He knew little or nothing of pavements and city hauling. All his years had been spent in the country. In spite of his bulging ribs and unkempt coat Chieftain almost envied him. What a fine thing it must be to live as the sorrel lived, to crop the new grass, to feel the turf under your feet, and to drink, instead of the hard stuff one gets from the hydrant, the soft sweet brook water, to drink it standing fetlock deep in the hoof-soothing mud! But the sorrel was lacking in enthusiasm for country life. About the fifth day of his rustication the sharp edge of Chieftain's appreciation became dulled. He discovered that pasture life was wanting in variety. Also he missed his oats. When one has been accustomed to twenty-four quarts a day, and hay besides, grass seems a mild substitute. Graze industriously as he would, it was hard to get enough. The sorrel, however, was sure Chieftain would get used to all that. In time, of course, the talk turned to the pulling of heavy loads. The sorrel mentioned the yanking of a hay-rick, laden with two tons of clover, from the far meadow lot to the barn. Two tons! Chieftain snorted in mild disdain. Had not his team often swung down Broadway with sixteen tons on the truck? To be sure, narrow tires and soft-going made a difference. The country horse suggested that dragging a breaking plough through old sod was strenuous employment. Yes, it might be, but had the sorrel ever tightened the traces for a dash up a ferry bridgeway when the tide was out? No, the sorrel had done his hauling on land. He had never ridden on boats. He had heard them, though. They were noisy things, almost as noisy as an old Buckeye mower going over a stony field. [Illustration: Then let him snake a truck down West Street.] Noise! Would the sorrel like to know what noise really was? Then let him be hooked into a triple Boston backing hitch and snake a truck down West Street, with the whiffle-trees slatting in front of him, the spreader-bar rapping jig time on the poles, and the gongs of street-cars and automobiles and fire-engines and ambulances all going at once. Noise? Let him mix in a Canal Street jam or back up for a load on a North River pier! And as Chieftain recalled these things the contrast of the pasture's oppressive stillness to the lively roar of the familiar streets came home to him. Who was taking his place between the poles of Team 47? Had they put one of those cheeky Clydes in his old stall? He would not care to lose that stall. It was the best on the second floor. It had a window in it, and Sundays he could see everything that went on in the street below. He could even look into the front rooms of the tenements across the way. There was a little girl over there who interested Chieftain greatly. She was trying to raise some sort of a flower in a tin can which she kept on the window-ledge. She often waved her hand at Chieftain. Then there was poor Tim Doyle. Good old Tim! Where was another driver like him? He made you work, Tim did, but he looked out for you all the time. Always on the watch, was Tim, for galled spots, chafing sores, hoof-pricks, and things like that. If he could get them he would put on fresh collar-pads every week. And how carefully he would cover you up when you were on the forward end of a ferryboat in stormy weather. No tossing the blanket over your back from Tim. No, sir! It was always doubled about your neck and chest, just where you most need protection when you're steaming hot and the wind is raw. How many drivers warmed the bits on a cold morning or rinsed out your mouth in hot weather? Who, but Tim could drive a breast team through a---- But just here Chieftain heard a shrill, familiar whistle, and in a moment, with as much speed as his heavy build allowed, he was making his way across the field to where a short, stocky man with a broad grin cleaving his face, was climbing the pasture-fence. It was Tim Doyle himself. Tim, it seems, had so bothered the stable-boss with questions about the farm, its location, distance from the city, and general management, that at last that autocrat had said: "See here, Doyle, if you want to go up there just say so and I'll send you as car hostler with the next batch. I'll give you a note to the farm superintendent. Guess he'll let you hang around for a week or so." "I'll go up as hostler," said Tim, "but you just say in that there note that Tim Doyle pays his own way after he gets there." In that way it was settled. For some four days Tim appeared to enjoy it greatly. Most of his time he spent sitting on the pasture-fence, smoking his pipe and watching the grazing horses. To Chieftain alone he brought great bunches of clover. About the fifth day Tim grew restive. He had examined Chieftain's hoofs and pronounced them well healed, but the superintendent said that it would be a week before he should be ready to send another lot of horses back to the city. "How far is it by road?" asked Tim. "Oh, two hundred miles or so," said the superintendent. "Why not let me take Chieftain down that way? It'd be cheaper'n shippin' him, an' do him good." The superintendent only laughed and said he would ship Chieftain with the others, when he was ready. That evening Tim sat on the bench before the farm-house and smoked his pipe until everyone else had gone to bed. The moon had risen, big and yellow. In a pond behind the stables it seemed as if ten thousand frogs had joined in one grand chorus. They were singing their mating song, if you know what that is. It is not altogether a cheerful or harmonious effort. Next to the soughing of a November wind it is, perhaps, the most dismally lonesome sound in nature. For two hours Tim Doyle smoked and thought and listened. Then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and decided that he had been long enough in the country. He would walk to the station, two miles away, and take the midnight train to the city. As he went down the farm road skirting the pasture he saw in the moonlight the sheds where the horses went at night for shelter. Moved by some sudden whim, he stopped and whistled. A moment later a big horse appeared from under the shed and came toward him, neighing gratefully. It was Chieftain. "Well, Chieftain, me bye, I'll be lavin' ye for a spell. But I'll have yer old stall ready against yer comin' back. Good-by, laddie," and with this Tim patted Chieftain on the nose and started down the road. He had gone but a few steps when he heard Chieftain whinny. Tim stopped irresolutely, and then went on. Again came the call of the horse. There was no misunderstanding its meaning. Tim walked back to the fence. In the morning the farm superintendent found on the door-sill a roughly pencilled note which read: "Hav goan bak to the sitty P S chefetun warnted to goe so I tuk him. Tim Doyle." They were ten days on the road, ten delightful days of irresponsible vagabondism. Sometimes Tim rode on Chieftain's back and sometimes he walked beside him. At night they took shelter in any stable that was handy. Tim invested in a bridle and saddle blanket. Also he bought oats and hay for Chieftain. The big Norman followed his own will, stopping to graze by the roadside whenever he wished. Together they drank from brooks and springs. Between them was perfect comradeship. Each was in holiday mood and each enjoyed the outing to the fullest. As they passed through towns they attracted no little attention, for outside of the city 2,000-pound horses are seldom seen, and there were many admirers of Chieftain's splendid proportions. Tim had many offers from shrewd horse-dealers. "Ye would, eh? A whole hundred dollars!" Tim would answer with fine sarcasm. "Now, wouldn't that be too much, don't ye think? My, my, what a generous mon it is! G'wan, Chieftain, er Mister Car-na-gy here'll be after givin' us a lib'ry." Chieftain, and Tim, too, for that matter, were nearer actual freedom than ever before. For years the big Norman had used his magnificent muscles only for straining at the traces. He had trod only the hard pavements. Now, he put forth his glorious strength at leisure, moving along the pleasant country roads at his own gait, and being guided only when a turning was to be made. Fine as it all was, however, as they drew near to the city both horse and driver became eager to reach their old quarters. Tim was, for he has said so. As for Chieftain--let the stable-boss, who knows horse-nature better than most men know themselves, tell that part of the story. "Bigger lunatics than them two, Tim Doyle and old Chieftain, I never set eyes on," he says. "I was standin' down here by the double doors watchin' some of the day-teams unhook when I looks up the street on a sudden. An' there, tail an' head up like he was a 'leven-hundred-pound Kentucky hunter 'stead of heavy-weight draught, comes that old Chieftain, a whinnyin' like a three-year-old. An' on his back, mind you, old Tim Doyle, grinnin' away 'sif he was Tod Sloan finishin' first at the Brooklyn Handicap. Tickled? I never see a horse show anything so plain in all my life. He just streaked it up that runway and into his old stall like he was a prodigal son come back from furren parts. "Yes, Tim he's out on the truck with his old team. Tim don't have to drive nowadays, you know. Brother of his that was in the contractin' business died about three months ago an' left Tim quite a pile. Tim, he says he guesses the money won't take no hurt in the bank and that some day, when he an' Chieftain git ready to retire, maybe it'll come in handy." BARNACLES WHO MUTINIED FOR GOOD CAUSE With his coming to Sculpin Point there was begun for Barnacles the most surprising period of a more or less useful career which had been filled with unusual equine activities. For Barnacles was a horse, a white horse of unguessed breed and uncertain age. Most likely it was not, but it may have been, Barnacles's first intimate connection with an affair of the heart. Said affair was between Captain Bastabol Bean, owner and occupant of Sculpin Point, and Mrs. Stashia Buckett, the unlamenting relict of the late Hosea Buckett. Mrs. Buckett it was who induced Captain Bastabol Bean to purchase a horse. Captain Bean, you will understand, had just won the affections of the plump Mrs. Buckett. Also he had, with a sailor's ignorance of feminine ways, presumed to settle off-hand the details of the coming nuptials. "I'll sail over in the dory Monday afternoon," said he, "and take you back with me to Sculpin Point. You can have your dunnage sent over later by team. In the evenin' we'll have a shore chaplain come 'round an' make the splice." "Cap'n Bean," replied the rotund Stashia, "we won't do any of them things, not one." "Wha-a-at!" gasped the Captain. "Have you ever been married, Cap'n Bean?" "N-n-no, my dear." "Well, I have, and I guess I know how it ought to be done. You'll have the minister come here, and here _you'll_ come to marry me. You won't come in no dory, either. Catch me puttin' my two hundred an' thirty pounds into a little boat like that. You'll drive over here with a horse, like a respectable person, and you'll drive back with me, by land and past Sarepta Tucker's house so's she can see." Now for more than thirty years Bastabol Bean, as master of coasting schooners up and down the Atlantic seaboard, had given orders. He had taken none, except the formal directions of owners. He did not propose to begin taking them now, not even from such an altogether charming person as Stashia Buckett. This much he said. Then he added: "Stashia, I give in about coming here to marry you; that seems no more than fair. But I'll come in a dory and you'll go back in a dory." "Then you needn't come at all, Cap'n Bastabol Bean." Argue and plead as he might, this was her ultimatum. "But, Stashia, I 'ain't got a horse, never owned one an' never handled one, and you know it," urged the Captain. "Then it's high time you had a horse and knew how to drive him. Besides, if I go to Sculpin Point I shall want to come to the village once in a while. I sha'n't sail and I sha'n't walk. If I can't ride like a lady I don't go to the Point." The inevitable happened. Captain Bean promised to buy a horse next day. Hence his visit to Jed Holden and his introduction to Barnacles, as the Captain immediately named him. As one who inspects an unfamiliar object, Captain Bean looked dazedly at Barnacles. At the same time Barnacles inspected the Captain. With head lowered to knee level, with ears cocked forward, nostrils sniffing and under-lip twitching almost as if he meant to laugh, Barnacles eyed his prospective owner. In common with most intelligent horses, he had an almost human way of expressing curiosity. Captain Bean squirmed under the gaze of Barnacles's big, calm eyes for a moment, and then shifted his position. "What in time does he want anyway, Jed?" demanded the Captain. "Wants to git acquainted, that's all, Cap'n. Mighty knowin' hoss, he is. Now some hosses don't take notice of anything. They're jest naturally dumb. Then agin you'll find hosses that seem to know every blamed word you say. Them's the kind of hosses that's wuth havin." "S'pose he knows all the ropes, Jed?" "I should say he did, Cap'n. If there's anything that hoss ain't done in his day I don't know what 'tis. Near's I can find out he's tried every kind of work, in or out of traces, that you could think of." "Sho!" The Captain was now looking at the old white horse in an interested manner. "Yes, sir, that's a remarkable hoss," continued the now enthusiastic Mr. Holden. "He's been in the cavalry service, for he knows the bugle calls like a book. He's travelled with a circus--ain't no more afraid of elephants than I be. He's run on a fire engine--know that 'cause he wants to chase old Reliance every time she turns out. He's been a street-car hoss, too. You jest ring a door gong behind him twice an' see how quick he'll dig in his toes. The feller I got him off'n said he knew of his havin' been used on a milk wagon, a pedler's cart and a hack. Fact is, he's an all round worker." "Must be some old by your tell," suggested the Captain. "Sure his timbers are all sound?" "Dun'no' 'bout his timbers, Cap'n, but as fer wind an' limb you won't find a sounder hoss, of his age, in this county. Course, I'm not sellin' him fer a four-year-old. But for your work, joggin' from the P'int into the village an' back once or twice a week, I sh'd say he was jest the ticket; an' forty-five, harness an' all as he stands, is dirt cheap." Again Captain Bean tried to look critically at the white horse, but once more he met that calm, curious gaze and the attempt was hardly a success. However, the Captain squinted solemnly over Barnacles's withers and remarked: "Yes, he has got some good lines, as you say, though you wouldn't hardly call him clipper built. Not much sheer for'ard an' a leetle too much aft, eh?" At this criticism Jed snorted mirthfully. "Oh, I s'pose he's all right," quickly added the Captain. "Fact is, I ain't never paid much attention to horses, bein' on the water so much. You're sure he'll mind his helm, Jed?" "Oh, he'll go where you p'int him." "Won't drag anchor, will he?" "Stand all day if you'll let him." "Well, Jed, I'm ready to sign articles, I guess." It was about noon that a stable-boy delivered Barnacles at Sculpin Point. His arrival caused Lank Peters to suspend peeling the potatoes for dinner and demand explanation. "Who's the hoss for, Cap'n?" asked Lank. It was a question that Captain Bean had been dreading for two hours. When he had given up coasting, bought the strip of Massachusetts seashore known as Sculpin Point, built a comfortable cottage on it and settled down within sight and sound of the salt water, he had brought with him Lank Peters, who for a dozen years had presided over the galley in the Captain's ship. More than a mere sea-cook was Lank Peters to Captain Bean. He was confidential friend, advising philosopher, and mate of Sculpin Point. Yet from Lank had the Captain carefully concealed all knowledge of his affair with the Widow Buckett. The time of confession was at hand. In his own way and with a directness peculiar to all his acts, did Captain Bean admit the full sum of his rashness, adding, thoughtfully: "I s'pose you won't have to do much cookin' after Stashia comes; but you'll still be mate, Lank, and there'll be plenty to keep you busy on the P'int." Quietly and with no show of emotion, as befitted a sea-cook and a philosopher, Melankthon Peters heard these revelations. If he had his prejudices as to the wisdom or folly of marrying widows, he said no word. But in the matter of Barnacles he felt more free to express something of his uneasiness. "I didn't ship for no hostler, Cap'n, an' I guess I'll make a poor fist at it, but I'll do my best," he said. "Guess we'll manage him between us, Lank," cheerfully responded the Captain. "I ain't got much use for horses myself; but as I said, Stashia, she's down on boats." "Kinder sot in her idees, ain't she, Cap'n?" insinuated Lank. "Well, kinder," the Captain admitted. Lank permitted himself to chuckle guardedly. Captain Bastabol Bean, as an innumerable number of sailor-men had learned, was a person who generally had his own way. Intuitively the Captain understood that Lank had guessed of his surrender. A grim smile was barely suggested by the wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. "Lank," he said, "the Widow Buckett an' me had some little argument over this horse business an'--an'--I give in. She told me flat she wouldn't come to the P'int if I tried to fetch her by water in the dory. Well, I want Stashia mighty bad; for she's a fine woman, Lank, a mighty fine woman, as you'll say when you know her. So I promised to bring her home by land and with a horse. I'm bound to do it, too. But by time!" Here the Captain suddenly slapped his knee. "I've just been struck with a notion. Lank, I'm going to see what you think of it." For an hour Captain and mate sat in the sun, smoked their pipes and talked earnestly. Then they separated. Lank began a close study of Barnacles's complicated rigging. The Captain tramped off toward the village. Late in the afternoon the Captain returned riding in a sidebar buggy with a man. Behind the buggy they towed a skeleton lumber wagon--four wheels connected by an extension pole. The man drove away in the sidebar leaving the Captain and the lumber wagon. Barnacles, who had been moored to a kedge-anchor, watched the next day's proceedings with interest. He saw the Captain and Lank drag up from the beach the twenty-foot dory and hoist it up between the wheels. Through the forward part of the keelson they bored a hole for the king-bolt. With nut-bolts they fastened the stern to the rear axle, adding some very seamanlike lashings to stay the boat in place. As finishing touches they painted the upper strakes of the dory white, giving to the lower part and to the running-gear of the cart a coat of sea-green. Barnacles was experienced, but a vehicle such as this amphibious product of Sculpin Point he had never before seen. With ears pointed and nostrils palpitating from curiosity, he was led up to the boat-bodied wagon. Reluctantly he backed under the raised shafts. The practice-hitch was enlivened by a monologue, on the part of Captain Bean, which ran something like this: "Now, Lank, pass aft that backstay [the trace] and belay; no, not there! Belay to that little yard-arm [whiffle-tree]. Got it through the lazy-jack [trace-bearer]? Now reeve your jib-sheets [lines] through them dead-eyes [hame rings] and pass 'em aft. Now where in Tophet does this thingumbob [holdback] go? Give it a turn around the port bowsprit [shaft]. There, guess everything's taut." The Captain stood off to take an admiring glance at the turnout. "She's down by the bow some, Lank, but I guess she'll lighten when we get aboard. See what you think." Lank's inspection caused him to meditate and scratch his head. Finally he gave his verdict: "From midships aft she looks as trim as a liner, but from midships for'ard she looks scousy, like a Norwegian tramp after a v'yage round The Horn." "Color of old Barnacles don't suit, eh? No, it don't, that's so. But I couldn't find no green an' white horse, Lank." "Couldn't we paint him up a leetle, Cap'n?" "By Sancho, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Captain Bean. "Course we can; git a string an' we'll strike a water-line on him." With no more ado than as if the thing was quite usual, the preparations for carrying out this indignity were begun. Perhaps the victim thought it a new kind of grooming, for he made no protest. Half an hour later old Barnacles, from about the middle of his barrel down to his shoes, was painted a beautiful sea-green. Like some resplendent marine monster shone the lower half of him. It may have been a trifle bizarre, but, with the sun on the fresh paint, the effect was unmistakably striking. Besides, his color now matched that of the dory's with startling exactness. "That's what I call real ship-shape," declared Captain Bean, viewing the result. "Got any more notions, Lank?" "Strikes me we ought to ship a mast so's we could rig a sprit-sail in case the old horse should give out, Cap'n." "We'll do it, Lank; fust rate idee!" So a mast and sprit-sail were rigged in the dory. Also the lines were lengthened with rope, that the Captain might steer from the stern sheets. "She's as fine a land-goin' craft as ever I see anywhere," said the Captain, which was certainly no extravagant statement. How Captain Bean and his mate steered the equipage from Sculpin Point to the village, how they were cheered and hooted along the route, how they ran into the yard of the Metropolitan Livery Stable as a port of refuge, how the Captain escaped to the home of Widow Buckett, how the "splicin'" was accomplished--these are details which must be slighted. The climax came when the newly made Mrs. Bastabol Buckett Bean, her plump hand resting affectionately on the sleeve of the Captain's best blue broadcloth coat, said, cooingly: "Now, Cap'n, I'm ready to drive to Sculpin Point." "All right, Stashia, Lank's waitin' for us at the front door with the craft." At first sight of the boat on wheels Mrs. Bean could do no more than attempt, by means of indistinct ejaculation, to express her obvious emotion. She noted the grinning crowd of villagers, Sarepta Tucker among them. She saw the white and green dory with its mast, and with Lank, villainously smiling, at the top of a step-ladder which had been leaned against the boat; she saw the green wheels, and the verdant gorgeousness of Barnacles's lower half. For a moment she gazed at the fantastic equipage and spoke not. Then she slammed the front door with an indignant bang, marched back into the sitting-room and threw herself on the haircloth sofa with an abandon that carried away half a dozen springs. For the first hour she reiterated, between vast sobs, that Captain Bean was a soulless wretch, that she would never set foot on Sculpin Point, and that she would die there on the sofa rather than ride in such an outlandish rig. Many a time had Captain Bean weathered Hatteras in a southeaster, but never had he met such a storm of feminine fury as this. However, he stood by like a man, putting in soothing words of explanation and endearment whenever a lull gave opportunity. Toward evening the storm spent itself. The disturbed Stashia became somewhat calm. Eventually she laughed hysterically at the Captain's arguments, and in the end she compromised. Not by day would she enter the dory wagon, but late in the evening she would swallow her pride and go, just to please the Captain. Thus it was that soon after ten o'clock, when the village folks had laughed their fill and gone away, the new Mrs. Bean climbed the step-ladder, bestowed herself unhandily on the midship thwart and, with Lank on lookout in the bow, and Captain Bean handling the reins from the stern sheets, the honeymoon chariot got under way. By the time they reached the Shell Road the gait of the dejected Barnacles had dwindled to a deliberate walk which all of Lank's urgings could not hasten. It was a soft July night with a brisk offshore breeze and the moon had come up out of the sea to silver the highway and lay a strip of milk-white carpet over the waves. "Ahoy there, Lank!" shouted the bridegroom. "Can't we do better'n this? Ain't hardly got steerage-way on her." "Can't budge him, Cap'n. Hadn't we better shake-out the sprit-sail; wind's fair abeam." "Yes, shake it out, Lank." Mrs. Bean's feeble protest was unheeded. As the night wind caught the sail and rounded it out the flapping caused old Barnacles to cast an investigating glance behind him. One look at the terrible white thing which loomed menacingly above him was enough. He decided to bolt. Bolt he did to the best of his ability, all obstacles being considered. A down grade in the Shell Road, where it dipped toward the shore, helped things along. Barnacles tightened the traces, the sprit-sail did its share, and in an amazingly short time the odd vehicle was spinning toward Sculpin Point at a ten-knot gait. Desperately Mrs. Bean gripped the gunwale and lustily she screamed: "Whoa, whoa! Stop him, Captain, stop him! He'll smash us all to pieces!" "Set right still, Stashia, an' trim ship. I've got the helm," responded the Captain, who had set his jaws and was tugging at the rope lines. "Breakers ahead, sir!" shouted Lank at this juncture. Sure enough, not fifty yards ahead, the Shell Road turned sharply away from the edge of the beach to make a detour by which Sculpin Point was cut off. "I see 'em, Lank." "Think we can come about, Cap'n?" asked Lank, anxiously. "Ain't goin to try, Lank. I'm layin' a straight course for home. Stand by to bail." How they could possibly escape capsizing Lank could not understand until, just as Barnacles was about to make the turn, he saw the Captain tighten the right-hand rein until it was as taut as a weatherstay. Of necessity Barnacles made no turn, and there was no upset. Something equally exciting happened, though. Leaving the road with a speed which he had not equalled since the days when he had figured in the "The Grand Hippodrome Races," his sea-green legs quickened by the impetus of the affair behind him, Barnacles cleared the narrow strip of beach-grass at a jump. Another leap and he was hock deep in the surf. Still another, and he split a roller with his white nose. With a dull chug, a resonant thump, and an impetuous splash the dory entered its accustomed element, lifting some three gallons of salt water neatly over the bows. Lank ducked. The unsuspecting Stashia did not, and the flying brine struck fairly under her ample chin. "Ug-g-g-gh! Oh! Oh! H-h-h-elp!" spluttered the startled bride, and tried to get on her feet. "Sit down!" roared Captain Bean. Vehemently Stashia sat. "W-w-w-we'll all b-b-be d-d-drowned, drowned!" she wailed. "Not much we won't, Stashia. We're all right now, and we ain't goin' to have our necks broke by no fool horse, either. Trim in the sheet, Lank, an' then take that bailin' scoop." The Captain was now calmly confident and thoroughly at home. Drenched, cowed and trembling, the newly made Mrs. Bean clung despairingly to the thwart, fully as terrified as the plunging Barnacles, who struck out wildly with his green legs, and snorted every time a wave hit him. But the lines held up his head and kept his nose pointing straight for the little beach on Sculpin Point, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. Somewhat heavy weather the deep-laden dory made of it, and in spite of Lank's vigorous bailing the water sloshed around Mrs. Bean's boot-tops, yet in time the sail and Barnacles brought them safely home. "'Twa'n't exactly the kind of honeymoon trip I'd planned, Stashia," commented the Captain, as he and Lank steadied the bride's dripping bulk down the step-ladder, "and we did do some sailin', spite of ourselves; but we had a horse in front an' wheels under us all the way, just as I promised." BLACK EAGLE WHO ONCE RULED THE RANGES Of his sire and dam there is no record. All that is known is that he was raised on a Kentucky stock farm. Perhaps he was a son of Hanover, but Hanoverian or no, he was a thoroughbred. In the ordinary course of events he would have been tried out with the other three-year olds for the big meet on Churchill Downs. In the hands of a good trainer he might have carried to victory the silk of some great stable and had his name printed in the sporting almanacs to this day. But there was about Black Eagle nothing ordinary, either in his blood or in his career. He was born for the part he played. So at three, instead of being entered in his class at Louisville, it happened that he was shipped West, where his fate waited. No more comely three year old ever took the Santa Fé trail. Although he stood but thirteen hands and tipped the beam at scarcely twelve hundred weight, you might have guessed him to be taller by two hands. The deception lay in the way he carried his shapely head and in the manner in which his arched neck tapered from the well-placed shoulders. A horseman would have said that he had a "perfect barrel," meaning that his ribs were well rounded. His very gait was an embodied essay on graceful pride. As for his coat, save for a white star just in the middle of his forehead, it was as black and sleek as the nap on a new silk hat. After a good rubbing he was so shiny that at a distance you might have thought him starched and ironed and newly come from the laundry. His arrival at Bar L Ranch made no great stir, however. They were not connoisseurs of good blood and sleek coats at the Bar L outfit. They were busy folks who most needed tough animals that could lope off fifty miles at a stretch. They wanted horses whose education included the fine art of knowing when to settle back on the rope and dig in toes. It was not a question as to how fast you could do your seven furlongs. It was more important to know if you could make yourself useful at a round-up. "'Nother bunch o' them green Eastern horses," grumbled the ranch boss as the lot was turned into a corral. "But that black fellow'd make a rustler's mouth water, eh, Lefty?" In answer to which the said Lefty, being a man little given to speech, grunted. "We'll brand 'em in the mornin'," added the ranch boss. Now most steers and all horses object to the branding process. Even the spiritless little Indian ponies, accustomed to many ingenious kinds of abuse, rebel at this. A meek-eyed mule, on whom humility rests as an all-covering robe, must be properly roped before submitting. In branding they first get a rope over your neck and shut off your wind. Then they trip your feet by roping your forelegs while you are on the jump. This brings you down hard and with much abruptness. A cowboy sits on your head while others pin you to the ground from various vantage-points. Next someone holds a red-hot iron on your rump until it has sunk deep into your skin. That is branding. Well, this thing they did to the black thoroughbred, who had up to that time felt not so much as the touch of a whip. They did it, but not before a full dozen cow-punchers had worked themselves into such a fury of exasperation that no shred of picturesque profanity was left unused among them. Quivering with fear and anger, the black, as soon as the ropes were taken off, dashed madly about the corral looking in vain for a way of escape from his torturers. Corrals, however, are built to resist just such dashes. The burn of a branding iron is supposed to heal almost immediately. Cowboys will tell you that a horse is always more frightened than hurt during the operation, and that the day after he feels none the worse. All this you need not credit. A burn is a burn, whether made purposely with a branding iron or by accident in any other way. The scorched flesh puckers and smarts. It hurts every time a leg is moved. It seems as if a thousand needles were playing a tattoo on the exposed surface. Neither is this the worst of the business. To a high-strung animal the roping, throwing, and burning is a tremendous nervous shock. For days after branding a horse will jump and start, quivering with expectant agony, at the slightest cause. It was fully a week before the black thoroughbred was himself again. In that time he had conceived such a deep and lasting hatred for all men, cowboys in particular, as only a high-spirited, blue-blooded horse can acquire. With deep contempt he watched the scrubby little cow ponies as they doggedly carried about those wild, fierce men who threw their circling, whistling, hateful ropes, who wore such big, sharp spurs and who were viciously handy in using their rawhide quirts. So when a cowboy put a breaking-bit into the black's mouth there was another lively scene. It was somewhat confused, this scene, but at intervals one could make out that the man, holding stubbornly to mane and forelock, was being slatted and slammed and jerked, now with his feet on the ground, now thrown high in the air and now dangling perilously and at various angles as the stallion raced away. In the end, of course, came the whistle of the choking, foot-tangling ropes, and the black was saddled. For a fierce half hour he took punishment from bit and spur and quirt. Then, although he gave it up, it was not that his spirit was broken, but because his wind was gone. Quite passively he allowed himself to be ridden out on the prairie to where the herds were grazing. Undeceived by this apparent docility, the cowboy, when the time came for him to bunk down under the chuck wagon for a few hours of sleep, tethered his mount quite securely to a deep-driven stake. Before the cattleman had taken more than a round dozen of winks the black had tested his tether to the limit of his strength. The tether stood the test. A cow pony might have done this much. There he would have stopped. But the black was a Kentucky thoroughbred, blessed with the inherited intelligence of noble sires, some of whom had been household pets. So he investigated the tether at close range. Feeling the stake with his sensitive upper lip he discovered it to be firm as a rock. Next he backed away and wrenched tentatively at the halter until convinced that the throat strap was thoroughly sound. His last effort must have been an inspiration. Attacking the taut buckskin rope with his teeth he worked diligently until he had severed three of the four strands. Then he gathered himself for another lunge. With a snap the rope parted and the black dashed away into the night, leaving the cowboy snoring confidently by the camp-fire. All night he ran, on and on in the darkness, stopping only to listen tremblingly to the echo of his own hoofs and to sniff suspiciously at the crouching shadows of innocent bushes. By morning he had left the Bar L outfit many miles behind, and when the red sun rolled up over the edge of the prairie he saw that he was alone in a field that stretched unbroken to the circling sky-line. Not until noon did the runaway black scent water. Half mad with thirst he dashed to the edge of a muddy little stream and sucked down a great draught. As he raised his head he saw standing poised above him on the opposite bank, with ears laid menacingly flat and nostrils aquiver in nervous palpitation, a buckskin-colored stallion. Snorting from fright the black wheeled and ran. He heard behind him a shrill neigh of challenge and in a moment the thunder of many hoofs. Looking back he saw fully a score of horses, the buckskin stallion in the van, charging after him. That was enough. Filling his great lungs with air he leaped into such a burst of speed that his pursuers soon tired of the hopeless chase. Finding that he was no longer followed the black grew curious. Galloping in a circle he gradually approached the band. The horses had settled down to the cropping of buffalo grass, only the buckskin stallion, who had taken a position on a little knoll, remaining on guard. The surprising thing about this band was that each and every member seemed riderless. Not until he had taken long up-wind sniffs was the thoroughbred convinced of this fact. When certain on this point he cantered toward the band, sniffing inquiringly. Again the buckskin stallion charged, ears back, eyes gleaming wickedly and snorting defiantly. This time the black stood his ground until the buckskin's teeth snapped savagely within a few inches of his throat. Just in time did he rear and swerve. Twice more--for the paddock-raised black was slow to understand such behavior--the buckskin charged. Then the black was roused into aggressiveness. There ensued such a battle as would have brought delight to the brute soul of a Nero. With fore-feet and teeth the two stallions engaged, circling madly about on their hind legs, tearing up great clods of turf, biting and striking as opportunity offered. At last, by a quick, desperate rush, the buckskin caught the thoroughbred fairly by the throat. Here the affair would have ended had not the black stallion, rearing suddenly on his muscle-ridged haunches and lifting his opponent's forequarters clear of the ground, showered on his enemy such a rain of blows from his iron-shod feet that the wild buckskin dropped to the ground, dazed and vanquished. Standing over him, with all the fierce pride of a victorious gladiator showing in every curve of his glistening body, the black thoroughbred trumpeted out a stentorian call of defiance and command. The band, that had watched the struggle from a discreet distance, now came galloping in, whinnying in friendly fashion. Black Eagle had won his first fight. He had won the leadership. By right of might he was now chief of this free company of plains rangers. It was for him to lead whither he chose, to pick the place and hour of grazing, the time for watering, and his to guard his companions from all dangers. As for the buckskin stallion, there remained for him the choice of humbly following the new leader or of limping off alone to try to raise a new band. Being a worthy descendant of the chargers which the men of Cortez rode so fearlessly into the wilds of the New World he chose the latter course, and, having regained his senses, galloped stiffly toward the north, his bruised head lowered in defeat. Some months later Arizona stockmen began to hear tales of a great band of wild horses, led by a magnificent black stallion which was fleeter than a scared coyote. There came reports of much mischief. Cattle were stampeded by day, calves trampled to death, and steers scattered far and wide over the prairie. By night bunches of tethered cow ponies disappeared. The exasperated cowboys could only tell that suddenly out of the darkness had swept down on their quiet camps an avalanche of wild horses. And generally they caught glimpses of a great black branded stallion who led the marauders at such a pace that he seemed almost to fly through the air. This stallion came to be known as Black Eagle, and to be thoroughly feared and hated from one end of the cattle country to the other. The Bar L ranch appeared to be the heaviest loser. Time after time were its picketed mares run off, again and again were the Bar L herds scattered by the dash of this mysterious band. Was it that Black Eagle could take revenge? Cattlemen have queer notions. They put a price on his head. It was worth six months wages to any cowboy who might kill or capture Black Eagle. About this time Lefty, the silent man of the Bar L outfit, disappeared. Weeks went by and still the branded stallion remained free and unhurt, for no cow horse in all the West could keep him in sight half an hour. Black Eagle had been the outlaw king of the ranges for nearly two years when one day, as he was standing at lookout while the band cropped the rich mesa grass behind him, he saw entering the cleft end of a distant arroyo a lone cowboy mounted on a dun little pony. With quick intelligence the stallion noted that this arroyo wound about until its mouth gave upon the side of the mesa not a hundred yards from where he stood. Promptly did Black Eagle act. Calling his band he led it at a sharp pace to a sheltered hollow on the mesa's back slope. There he left it and hurried away to take up his former position. He had not waited long before the cowboy, riding stealthily, reappeared at the arroyo's mouth. Instantly the race was on. Tossing his fine head in the air and switching haughtily his splendid tail, Black Eagle laid his course in a direction which took him away from his sheltered band. Pounding along behind came the cowboy, urging to utmost endeavor the tough little mustang which he rode. Had this been simply a race it would have lasted but a short time. But it was more than a race. It was a conflict of strategists. Black Eagle wished to do more than merely out-distance his enemy. He meant to lead him far away and then, under cover of night, return to his band. Also the cowboy had a purpose. Well knowing that he could neither overtake nor tire the black stallion, he intended to ride him down by circling. In circling, the pursuer rides toward the pursued from an angle, gradually forcing his quarry into a circular course whose diameter narrows with every turn. This, however, was a trick Black Eagle had long ago learned to block. Sure of his superior speed he galloped away in a line straight as an arrow's flight, paying no heed at all to the manner in which he was followed. Before midnight he had rejoined his band, while far off on the prairie was a lone cowboy moodily frying bacon over a sage-brush fire. But this pursuer was no faint heart. Late the next day he was sighted creeping cunningly up to windward. Again there was a race, not so long this time, for the day was far spent, but with the same result. When for the third time there came into view this same lone cowboy, Black Eagle was thoroughly aroused to the fact that this persistent rider meant mischief. Having once more led the cowboy a long and fruitless chase the great black gathered up his band and started south. Not until noon of the next day did he halt, and then only because many of the mares were in bad shape. For a week the band was moved on. During intervals of rest a sharp lookout was kept. Watering places, where an enemy might lurk, were approached only after the most careful scouting. Despite all caution, however, the cowboy finally appeared on the horizon. Unwilling to endanger the rest of the band, and perhaps wishing a free hand in coping with this evident Nemesis, Black Eagle cantered boldly out to meet him. Just beyond gun range the stallion turned sharply at right angles and sped off over the prairie. There followed a curious chase. Day after day the great black led his pursuer on, stopping now and then to graze or take water, never allowing him to cross the danger line, but never leaving him wholly out of sight. It was a course of many windings which Black Eagle took, now swinging far to the west to avoid a ranch, now circling east along a water-course, again doubling back around the base of a mesa, but in the main going steadily northward. Up past the brown Maricopas they worked, across the turgid Gila, skirting Lone Butte desert; up, up and on until in the distance glistened the bald peaks of Silver range. Never before did a horse play such a dangerous game, and surely none ever showed such finesse. Deliberately trailing behind him an enemy bent on taking either his life or freedom, not for a moment did Black Eagle show more than imperative caution. At the close of each day when, by a few miles of judicious galloping, he had fully winded the cowboy's mount, the sagacious black would circle to the rear of his pursuer and often, in the gloom of early night, walk recklessly near to the camp of his enemy just for the sake of sniffing curiously. But each morning, as the cowboy cooked his scant breakfast, he would see, standing a few hundred rods away, Black Eagle, patiently waiting for the chase to be resumed. Day after day was the hunted black called upon to foil a new ruse. Sometimes it was a game of hide and seek among the buttes, and again it was an early morning sally by the cowboy. Once during a mid-day stop the dun mustang was turned out to graze. Black Eagle followed suit. A half mile to windward he could see the cow pony, and beside it, evidently sitting with his back toward his quarry, the cowboy. For a half hour, perhaps, all was peace and serenity. Then, as a cougar springing from his lair, there blazed out of the bushes on the bank of a dry water-course to leeward a rifle shot. Black Eagle felt a shock that stretched him on the grass. There arrived a stinging at the top of his right shoulder and a numbing sensation all along his backbone. Madly he struggled to get on his feet, but he could do no more than raise his fore quarters on his knees. As he did so he saw running toward him from the bushes, coatless and hatless, his relentless pursuer. Black Eagle had been tricked. The figure by the distant mustang then, was only a dummy. He had been shot from ambush. Human strategy had won. With one last desperate effort, which sent the red blood spurting from the bullet hole in his shoulder, Black Eagle heaved himself up until he sat on his haunches, braced by his fore-feet set wide apart. Then, just as the cowboy brought his rifle into position for the finishing shot, the stallion threw up his handsome head, his big eyes blazing like two stars, and looked defiantly at his enemy. Slowly, steadily the cowboy took aim at the sleek black breast behind which beat the brave heart of the wild thoroughbred. With finger touching the trigger he glanced over the sights and looked into those big, bold eyes. For a full minute man and horse faced each other thus. Then the cowboy, in an uncertain, hesitating manner, lowered his rifle. Calmly Black Eagle waited. But the expected shot never came. Instead, the cowboy walked cautiously toward the wounded stallion. No move did Black Eagle make, no fear did he show. With a splendid indifference worthy of a martyr he sat there, paying no more heed to his approaching enemy than to the red stream which trickled down his shoulder. He was helpless and knew it, but his noble courage was unshaken. Even when the man came close enough to examine the wound and pat the shining neck that for three years had known neither touch of hand nor bridle-rein, the great stallion did no more than follow with curious, steady gaze. It is an odd fact that a feral horse, although while free even wilder and fiercer than those native to the prairies, when once returned to captivity resumes almost instantly the traits and habits of domesticity. So it was with Black Eagle. With no more fuss than he would have made when he was a colt in paddock he allowed the cowboy to wash and dress his wounded shoulder and to lead him about by the halter. By a little stream that rounded the base of a big butte, Lefty--for it was he--made camp, and every day for a week he applied to Black Eagle's shoulder a fresh poultice of pounded cactus leaves. In that time the big stallion and the silent man buried distrust and hate and enmity. No longer were they captive and captor. They came nearer to being congenial comrades than anything else, for in the calm solitudes of the vast plains such sentiments may thrive. So, when the wound was fully healed, the black permitted himself to be bridled and saddled. With the cow pony following as best it might they rode toward Santa Fé. With Black Eagle's return to the cramped quarters of peopled places there came experiences entirely new to him. Every morning he was saddled by Lefty and ridden around a fence-enclosed course. At first he was allowed to set his own gait, but gradually he was urged to show his speed. This was puzzling but not a little to his liking. Also he enjoyed the oats twice a day and the careful grooming after each canter. He became accustomed to stall life and to the scent and voices of men about him, although as yet he trusted none but Lefty. Ever kind and considerate he had found Lefty. There were times, of course, when Black Eagle longed to be again on the prairie at the head of his old band, but the joy of circling the track almost made up for the loss of those wild free dashes. One day when Lefty took him out Black Eagle found many other horses on the track, while around the enclosure he saw gathered row on row of men and women. A band was playing and flags were snapping in the breeze. There was a thrill of expectation in the air. Black Eagle felt it, and as he pranced proudly down the track there was lifted a murmur of applause and appreciation which made his nerves tingle strangely. Just how it all came about the big stallion did not fully understand at the time. He heard a bell ring sharply, heard also the shouts of men, and suddenly found himself flying down the course in company with a dozen other horses and riders. They had finished half the circle before Black Eagle fully realized that a gaunt, long-barrelled bay was not only leading him but gaining with every leap. Tossing his black mane in the wind, opening his bright nostrils and pointing his thin, close set ears forward he swung into the long prairie stride which he was wont to use when leading his wild band. A half dozen leaps brought him abreast the gaunt bay, and then, feeling Lefty's knees pressing his shoulders and hearing Lefty's voice whispering words of encouragement in his ears, Black Eagle dashed ahead to rush down through the lane of frantically shouting spectators, winner by a half dozen lengths. That was the beginning of Black Eagle's racing career. How it progressed, how he won races and captured purses in a seemingly endless string of victories unmarred by a single defeat, that is part of the turf records of the South and West. There had to be an end, of course. Owners of carefully bred running horses took no great pleasure, you may imagine, in seeing so many rich prizes captured by a half-wild branded stallion of no known pedigree, and ridden by a silent, square-jawed cowboy. So they sent East for a "ringer." He came from Chicago in a box-car with two grooms and he was entered as an unknown, although in the betting ring the odds posted were one to five on the stranger. Yet it was a grand race. This alleged unknown, with a suppressed record of victories at Sheepshead, Bennings, and The Fort, did no more than shove his long nose under the wire a bare half head in front of Black Eagle's foam-flecked muzzle. It was sufficient. The once wild stallion knew when he was beaten. He had done his best and he had lost. His high pride had been humbled, his fierce spirit broken. No more did the course hold for him any pleasure, no more could he be thrilled by the cries of spectators or urged into his old time stride by Lefty's whispered appeals. Never again did Black Eagle win a race. His end, however, was not wholly inglorious. Much against his will the cowboy who had so relentlessly followed Black Eagle half way across the big territory of Arizona to lay him low with a rifle bullet, who had spared his life at the last moment and who had ridden him to victory in so many glorious races--this silent, square-jawed man had given him a final caress and then, saying a husky good-by, had turned him over to the owner of a great stud-farm and gone away with a thick roll of bank-notes in his pocket and a guilty feeling in his breast. Thus it happens that to-day throughout the Southwest there are many black-pointed fleet-footed horses in whose veins runs the blood of a noble horse. Some of them you will find in well-guarded paddocks, while some still roam the prairies in wild bands which are the menace of stockmen and the vexation of cowboys. As for their sire, he is no more. This is the story of Black Eagle. Although some of the minor details may be open to dispute, the main points you may hear recited by any cattleman or horse-breeder west of Omaha. For Black Eagle really lived and, as perhaps you will agree, lived not in vain. BONFIRE BROKEN FOR THE HOUSE OF JERRY I Down in Maine or up in Vermont, anywhere, in fact, save on a fancy stud-farm, his color would have passed for sorrel. Being a high-bred hackney, and the pick of the Sir Bardolph three-year-olds, he was put down as a strawberry roan. Also he was the pride of Lochlynne. "'Osses, women, and the weather, sir, ain't to be depended on; but, barrin' haccidents, that 'ere Bonfire'll fetch us a ribbon if any does, sir." Hawkins, the stud-groom, made this prophecy, not in haste or out of hand, but as one who has a reputation to maintain and who speaks by the card. So the word was passed among the under-grooms and stable-boys that Bonfire was the best of the Sir Bardolph get, and that he was going to the Garden for the honor and profit of the farm. Well, Bonfire had come to the Garden. He had been there two days. It was within a few hours of the time when the hackneys were to take the ring--and look at him! His eyes were dull, his head was down, his nostrils wept, his legs trembled. About his stall was gathered a little group of discouraged men and boys who spoke in low tones and gazed gloomily through the murky atmosphere at the blanket-swathed, hooded figure that seemed about to collapse on the straw. "'E ain't got no more life in 'im than a sick cat," said one. "The Bellair folks will beat us 'oller; every one o' their blooming hentries is as fit as fiddles." "Ain't we worked on 'im for four mortal hours?" demanded another. "Wot more can we do?" "Send for old 'Awkins an' tell 'im, that's all." A shudder seemed to shake the group in the stall. It was clear that Mr. Hawkins would be displeased, and that his displeasure was something to be dreaded. Bonfire, too, was seen to shudder, but it was not from fear of Hawkins's wrath. Little did Bonfire care just then for grooms, head or ordinary. He shuddered because of certain aches that dwelt within him. In his stomach was a queer feeling which he did not at all understand. In his head was a dizziness which made him wish that the stall would not move about so. Streaks of pain shot along his backbone and slid down his legs. Hot and cold flashes swept over his body. For Bonfire had a bad case of car-sickness--a malady differing from sea-sickness largely in name only--also a well-developed cold complicated by nervous indigestion. Tuned to the key, he had left the home stables. Then they had led him into that box on wheels and the trouble had begun. Men shouted, bells clanged, whistles shrieked. Bonfire felt the box start with a jerk, and, thumping, rumbling, jolting, swaying, move somewhere off into the night. In an agony of apprehension--neck stretched, eyes staring, ears pointed, nostrils quivering, legs stiffened, Bonfire waited for the end. But of end there seemed to be none. Shock after shock Bonfire withstood, and still found himself waiting. What it all meant he could not guess. There were the other horses that had been taken with him into the box, some placidly munching hay, others looking curiously about. There were the familiar grooms who talked soothingly in his ear and patted his neck in vain. The terror of the thing, this being whirled noisily away in a box, had struck deep into Bonfire's brain, and he could not get it out. So he stood for many hours, neither eating nor sleeping, listening to the noises, feeling the motion, and trembling as one with ague. Of course it was absurd for Bonfire to go to pieces in that fashion. You can ship a Missouri Modoc around the world and he will finish almost as sound as he started. But Bonfire had blood and breeding and a pedigree which went back to Lady Alice of Burn Brae, Yorkshire. His coltdom had been a sort of hothouse existence; for Lochlynne, you know, is the toy of a Pennsylvania coal baron, who breeds hackneys, not for profit, but for the joy there is in it; just as other men grow orchids and build cup defenders. At the Lochlynne stables they turn on the steam heat in November. On rainy days you are exercised in a glass-roofed tanbark ring, and hour after hour you are handled over deep straw to improve your action. You breathe outdoor air only in high-fenced grass paddocks around which you are driven in surcingle rig by a Cockney groom imported with the pigskin saddles and British condition powders. From the day your name is written in the stud-book until you leave, you have balanced feed, all-wool blankets, fly-nettings, and coddling that never ceases. Yet this is the method that rounds you into perfect hackney form. All this had been done for Bonfire and with apparent success, but a few hours of railroad travel had left him with a set of nerves as tensely strung as those of a high-school girl on graduation-day. That is why a draught of cold air had chilled him to the bone; that is why, after reaching the Garden, he had gone as limp as a cut rose at a ball. II Hawkins, who had jumped into his clothes and hurried to the scene from a nearby hotel, behaved disappointingly. He cursed no one, he did not even kick a stable boy. He just peeled to his undershirt and went to work. He stripped blankets and hood from the wretched Bonfire, grabbed a bunch of straw in either hand and began to rub. It was no chamois polishing. It was a raking, scraping, rib-bending rub, applied with all the force in Hawkins's sinewy arms. It sent the sluggish blood pounding through every artery of Bonfire's congested system and it made the perspiration ooze from the red face of Hawkins. At the end of forty minutes' work Bonfire half believed he had been skinned alive. But he had stopped trembling and he held up his head. Next he saw Hawkins shaking something in a thick, long-necked bottle. Suddenly two grooms held Bonfire's jaws apart while Hawkins poured a liquid down his throat. It was fiery stuff that seemed to burn its way, and its immediate effect was to revive Bonfire's appetite. Hour after hour Hawkins worked and watched the son of Sir Bardolph, and when the get-ready bell sounded he remarked: "Now, blarst you, we'll see if you're goin' to go to heverlastin' smash in the ring. Tommy, dig out a pair o' them burrs." Not until he reached the tanbark did Bonfire understand what burrs were. Then, as a rein was pulled, he felt a hundred sharp points pricking the sensitive skin around his mouth. With a bound he leaped into the ring. It was a very pretty sight presented to the horse experts lining the rail and to persons in boxes and tier seats. They saw a blockily built strawberry roan, his chiselled neck arched in a perfect crest, his rigid thigh muscles rippling under a shiny coat as he swung his hocks, his slim forelegs sweeping up and out, and every curve of his rounded body, from the tip of his absurd whisk-broom tail to the white snip on the end of his tossing nose, expressing that exuberance of spirits, that jaunty abandon of motion which is the very apex of hackney style. Behind him a short-legged groom bounced through the air at the end of the reins, keeping his feet only by means of most amazing strides. It was a woman in one of the promenade boxes, a young woman wearing a stunning gown and a preposterous picture-hat, who started the applause. Her hand-clapping was echoed all around the rail, was taken up in the boxes and finally woke a rattling chorus from the crowded tiers above. The three judges, men with whips and long-tailed coats, looked earnestly at the strawberry roan. Bonfire heard, too, but vaguely. There was a ringing in his ears. Flashes of light half blinded his eyes. The concoction from the long-necked bottle was doing its work. Also the jaw-stinging burrs kept his mind busy. On he danced in a mad effort to escape the pain, and only by careful manoeuvring could the grooms get him to stand still long enough for the judges to use the tape. And when it was all over, after the judges had grouped and regrouped the entries, compared figures and whispered in the ring centre; out of sheer defiance to the preference of the spectators they gave the blue to a chestnut filly with black points--at which the tier seats hissed mightily--and tied a red ribbon to Bonfire's bridle. Thereupon the strawberry roan, who had looked fit for a girthsling three hours before, tossed his head and pranced daintily out of the arena amid a ringing round of applause. Hardly had Bonfire's docked tail disappeared before the woman in the stunning gown turned eagerly to a man beside her and asked, "Can't I have him, Jerry? He'll be such a perfect cross-mate for Topsy. Please, now." To be sure Jerry grumbled some, but inside of a quarter of an hour he had found Hawkins and paid the price; a price worthy of Sir Bardolph and quite in keeping with Lochlynne reckonings. "'E's been car sick an' show sick," said Hawkins warningly, "an' it'll be a good two weeks afore 'e's in proper condition, sir; but you'll find 'im as neat a bit of 'oss flesh as you hever owned, sir." Nor was Hawkins wrong. When the burrs were taken off and the effect of the doses from the long-necked bottle had died out, Bonfire looked anything but a ribbon-getter. Luckily Mr. Jerry had a coachman who knew his business. Dan was his name, County Antrim his birthplace. He fed Bonfire hot mixtures, he rubbed, he nursed, until he had coaxed the cold out and had quieted the jangled nerves. Then, one crisp December morning, Bonfire, once more in the pink of condition, was hooked up with Topsy to the pole of a shining, rubber-tired brougham and taken around to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Jerry. "Oh, isn't he a beauty, Dan!" squealed Mrs. Jerry delightedly, as Bonfire danced up to the curb. "Isn't he?" Dan, trained to silence, touched his hat. Mrs. Jerry patted Bonfire's rounded quarter, tried to rub his impatient nose and squandered on him a bewildering variety of superlatives. Then she was handed to her seat, the footman swung up beside Dan, the reins were slackened and away they whirled toward the Park, stepping as if they were going over hurdles. III For three years Bonfire had been in leather and he had found the life far different from the dull routine of coddling that he had known at the Lochlynne Farm. There was little monotony about it, for the Jerrys were no stay-at-homes. Of his oak-finished stable, with its sanded floors and plaited straw stall-mats, Bonfire saw almost as little as did Mrs. Jerry of her white and gold rooms on the Avenue. In the morning it would be a trip down town, where Topsy and Bonfire would wait before the big stores, watching the traffic and people, until Mrs. Jerry reappeared. After luncheon they generally took her through the Park or up and down the Avenue to teas and receptions. In the evening they were often harnessed again to take Mr. and Mrs. Jerry to dinner, theatre, or ball. Late at night they might be turned out to fetch them home. What long, cold waits they had, standing in line sometimes for hours, stamping their hoofs and shivering under heavy blankets; for a stylish hackney, you know, must be kept closely clipped, no matter what the weather. Why, even Dan, muffled in his big coat and bear-skin shoulder-cape, was half frozen. But Dan could leave the footman on the box and go to warm himself in the glittering corner saloons, and when he came back it would be the footman's turn. For Topsy and Bonfire there was no such relief. Chilled, tired, and hungry, they must stamp and wait until at last, far down the street, could be heard the shouting of the strong-lunged carriage-caller. When Dan got his number they were quite ready for the homeward dash. Seeing them come down the street, heads tossing, pole-chains jingling, the crest and monogram of the house of Jerry glistening on quarter cloth and rosette, their polished hoofs seeming barely to touch the asphalt, you might have thought their lot one to be envied. But Bonfire and Topsy knew better. It was altogether too heavy work for high-bred hackneys, of course. Mr. Jerry pointed this out, but to no use. Mrs. Jerry asked pertinently what good horses were for if not to be used. No, she wanted no livery teams for the night work. When she rode she wished to ride behind Topsy and Bonfire. They were her horses, anyway. She would do as she pleased. And she did. Summer brought neither rest nor relief. Early in July horses, servants, and carriages would be shipped off to Newport or Saratoga, there to begin again the unceasing whirl. And fly time, to a docktailed horse, is a season of torment. Of Mrs. Jerry, who had once roused the Garden for his sake, Bonfire caught but glimpses. After that first day, when he was a novelty, he heard no more compliments, received no more pats from her gloved hands. But of slight or neglect Bonfire knew nothing. He curved his neck and threw his hoofs high, whether his muscles ached or no; in winter he stamped to keep warm, in summer to dislodge the flies; he did his work faithfully, early or late, in cold and in heat; and all this because he was a son of Sir Bardolph and for the reason that it was his nature to. Had it been put upon him he would have worked in harness until he dropped, prancing his best to the last. No supreme test, however, was ever brought to the endurance and willingness of Bonfire. They just kept him on the pole, nerves tense, muscles strained, until he began to lose form. His action no longer had that grace and abandon which so pleased Mrs. Jerry when she first saw him. Long standing in the cold numbs the muscles. It robs the legs of their spring. Sudden starts, such as are made when you are called from line after an hour's waiting, finish the business. Try as he might, Bonfire could not step so high, could not carry a perfect crest. His neck had lost its roundness, in his rump a crease had appeared. To Dan also, came tribulation of his own making. He carried a flat brown flask under the box and there were times when his driving was more a matter of muscular habit than of mental acuteness. Twice he was threatened with discharge and twice he solemnly promised reform. At last the inevitable happened. Dan came one morning to Bonfire's stall, very sober and very sad. He patted Bonfire and said good-by. Then he disappeared. Less than a week later two young hackneys, plump of neck, round of quarter, springy of knee and hock, were brought to the stable. Bonfire and Topsy were led out of their old stalls to return no more. They had been worn out in the service and cast aside like a pair of old gloves. Then did Bonfire enter upon a period of existence in which box-stalls, crested quarter blankets, rubber-tired wheels and liveried drivers had no part. It was a varied existence, filled with toil and hardship and abuse; an existence for which the coddling one gets at Lochlynne Farm is no fit preparation. IV Just where Broadway crosses Sixth Avenue at Thirty-third Street is to be found a dingy, triangular little park plot in which a few gas-stunted, smoke-stained trees make a brave attempt to keep alive. On two sides of the triangle surface-cars whirl restlessly, while overhead the elevated trains rattle and shriek. This part of the metropolis knows little difference between day and night, for the cars never cease, the arc-lights blaze from dusk until dawn and the pavements are never wholly empty. Locally the section is sometimes called "the Cabman's Graveyard." During any hour of the twenty-four you may find waiting along the curb a line of public carriages. By day you will sometimes see smartly kept hansoms, well-groomed horses, and drivers in neat livery. But at night the character of the line changes. The carriages are mostly one-horse closed cabs, rickety as to wheels, with torn and faded cushions, license numbers obscured by various devices and rate-cards always missing. The horses are dilapidated, too; and the drivers, whom you will generally find nodding on the box or sound asleep inside their cabs, harmonize with their rigs. These are the Nighthawkers of the Tenderloin. The name is not an assuring one, but it is suspected that it has been aptly given. One bleak midnight in late November a cab of this description waited in the lee of the elevated stairs. The cab itself was weather-beaten, scratched, and battered. The driver, who sat half inside and half outside the vehicle, with his feet on the sidewalk and his back propped against the seat-cushion, puffed a short pipe and watched with indolent but discriminating eye those who passed. He wore a coachman's coat of faded green which seemed to have acquired a stain for every button it had lost. On his head sat jauntily a rusty beaver and his face, especially the nose, was of a rich crimson hue. The horse, that seemed to lean on rather than stand in the patched shafts, showed many well-defined points and but few curves. His thin neck was ewed, there were deep hollows over the eyes, the number of his ribs was revealed with startling frankness and the sagging of one hind-quarter betrayed a bad leg. His head he held in spiritless fashion on a level with his knees. As if to add a note of irony, his tail had been docked to the regulation of absurd brevity and served only to tag him as one fallen from a more reputable state. Suddenly, up and across the intersecting thoroughfares, with a sharp clatter of hoofs, rolled a smart closed brougham. The dispirited bobtail looked up as a well-mated pair pranced past. Perhaps he noted their sleek quarters, the glittering trappings on their backs and their gingery action. As he dropped his head again something very like a sigh escaped him. It might have been regret, perhaps it was only a touch of influenza. The driver, too, saw the turnout and gazed after it. But he did not sigh. He puffed away at his pipe as if entirely satisfied with his lot. He was still watching the brougham when a surface-car came gliding swiftly around a curve. There was a smash of splintering wood and breaking glass. The car had struck the brougham a battering-ram blow, crushing a rear wheel and snapping the steel axle at the hub. From somewhere or other a crowd of curious persons appeared and circled about to watch while the driver held the plunging horses and the footman hauled from the overturned carriage a man and a woman in evening dress. The couple seemed unhurt and, although somewhat rumpled as to attire, remarkably unconcerned. "Keb, sir! Have a keb, sir?" The Nighthawker was on the scene, like a longshore wrecker, and waving an inviting arm toward his shabby vehicle. The man coolly restored to shape his misused opera hat, adjusted his necktie, whispered some orders to his coachman and then asked of the Nighthawker: "Where's your carriage, my man?" Eagerly the green-coated cabby led the way until the rescued couple stood before it. The woman inspected the battered vehicle doubtfully before stepping inside. The man eyed the sorry nag for a moment and then said, with a laugh: "Good frame you have there; got the parts all numbered?" But the Nighthawker was not sensitive. The intimation that his horse might fall apart he answered only with a good-natured chuckle and asked: "Where shall it be; home, sir?" "Why, yes, drive us to number----" "Oh, we know the house well enough, sir, Bonfire and me." "Bonfire! Bonfire, did you say?" Incredulously the fare looked first at the horse and then at the driver. "Why, 'pon my word, it's old Dan! And this relic in the shafts is Bonfire, is it?" "It's him, sir; leastways, all there's left of him." "Well, I'll be hanged! Kitty! Kitty!" he shouted into the cab where my lady was nervously pulling her skirts closer about her and sniffing the tobacco-laden atmosphere with evident disapproval. "Here's Dan, our old coachman." "Really?" was the unenthusiastic reply from the cab. "Yes, and he's driving Bonfire. You remember Bonfire, the hackney I bought for you at the Garden the year we were married." "Indeed? Why, how odd? But do come in, Jerry, and let's get on home. I'm so-o-o-o tired." Mr. Jerry stifled his sentiment and shut the cab-door with a bang. Dan pulled Bonfire's head into position and lightly laid the whip over the all too obvious ribs. Bonfire, his head bobbing ludicrously on his thin neck and his stubby tail keeping time at the other end of him, moved uncertainly up the avenue at a jerky hobble. And there let us leave him. Poor old Bonfire! Bred to win a ribbon at the Garden--ended as the drudge of a Tenderloin Nighthawker. PASHA THE SON OF SELIM Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha, son of Selim, remained untold. The great Selim, you know, was brought from far across the seas, where he had been sold for a heavy purse by a venerable sheik, who tore his beard during the bargain and swore by Allah that without Selim there would be for him no joy in life. Also he had wept quite convincingly on Selim's neck--but he finished by taking the heavy purse. That was how Selim, the great Selim, came to end his days in Fayette County, Kentucky. Of his many sons, Pasha was one. In almost idyllic manner were spent the years of Pasha's coltdom. They were years of pasture roaming and bluegrass cropping. When the time was ripe, began the hunting lessons. Pasha came to know the feel of the saddle and the voice of the hounds. He was taught the long, easy lope. He learned how to gather himself for a sail through the air over a hurdle or a water-jump. Then, when he could take five bars clean, when he could clear an eight-foot ditch, when his wind was so sound that he could lead the chase from dawn until high noon, he was sent to the stables of a Virginia tobacco-planter who had need of a new hunter and who could afford Arab blood. In the stalls at Gray Oaks stables were many good hunters, but none better than Pasha. Cream-white he was, from the tip of his splendid, yard-long tail to his pink-lipped muzzle. His coat was as silk plush, his neck as supple as a swan's, and out of his big, bright eyes there looked such intelligence that one half expected him to speak. His lines were all long, graceful curves, and when he danced daintily on his slender legs one could see the muscles flex under the delicate skin. Miss Lou claimed Pasha for her very own at first sight. As no one at Gray Oaks denied Miss Lou anything at all, to her he belonged from that instant. Of Miss Lou, Pasha approved thoroughly. She knew that bridle-reins were for gentle guidance, not for sawing or jerking, and that a riding-crop was of no use whatever save to unlatch a gate or to cut at an unruly hound. She knew how to rise on the stirrup when Pasha lifted himself in his stride, and how to settle close to the pigskin when his hoofs hit the ground. In other words, she had a good seat, which means as much to the horse as it does to the rider. Besides all this, it was Miss Lou who insisted that Pasha should have the best of grooming, and she never forgot to bring the dainties which Pasha loved, an apple or a carrot or a sugar-plum. It is something, too, to have your nose patted by a soft gloved hand and to have such a person as Miss Lou put her arm around your neck and whisper in your ear. From no other than Miss Lou would Pasha permit such intimacy. No paragon, however, was Pasha. He had a temper, and his whims were as many as those of a school-girl. He was particular as to who put on his bridle. He had notions concerning the manner in which a curry-comb should be used. A red ribbon or a bandanna handkerchief put him in a rage, while green, the holy color of the Mohammedan, soothed his nerves. A lively pair of heels he had, and he knew how to use his teeth. The black stable-boys found that out, and so did the stern-faced man who was known as "Mars" Clayton. This "Mars" Clayton had ridden Pasha once, had ridden him as he rode his big, ugly, hard-bitted roan hunter, and Pasha had not enjoyed the ride. Still, Miss Lou and Pasha often rode out with "Mars" Clayton and the parrot-nosed roan. That is, they did until the coming of Mr. Dave. In Mr. Dave, Pasha found a new friend. From a far Northern State was Mr. Dave. He had come in a ship to buy tobacco, but after he had bought his cargo he still stayed at Gray Oaks, "to complete Pasha's education," so he said. Many ways had Mr. Dave which Pasha liked. He had a gentle manner of talking to you, of smoothing your flanks and rubbing your ears, which gained your confidence and made you sure that he understood. He was firm and sure in giving commands, yet so patient in teaching one tricks, that it was a pleasure to learn. So, almost before Pasha knew it, he could stand on his hind legs, could step around in a circle in time to a tune which Mr. Dave whistled, and could do other things which few horses ever learn to do. His chief accomplishment, however, was to kneel on his forelegs in the attitude of prayer. A long time it took Pasha to learn this, but Mr. Dave told him over and over again, by word and sign, until at last the son of the great Selim could strike a pose such as would have done credit to a Mecca pilgrim. "It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Lou. But it was nothing of the sort. Mr. Dave had been teaching tricks to horses ever since he was a small boy, and never had he found such an apt pupil as Pasha. Many a glorious gallop did Pasha and Miss Lou have while Mr. Dave stayed at Gray Oaks, Dave riding the big bay gelding that Miss Lou, with all her daring, had never ventured to mount. It was not all galloping though, for Pasha and the big bay often walked for miles through the wood lanes, side by side and very close together, while Miss Lou and Mr. Dave talked, talked, talked. How they could ever find so much to say to each other Pasha wondered. But at last Mr. Dave went away, and with his going ended good times for Pasha, at least for many months. There followed strange doings. There was much excitement among the stable-boys, much riding about, day and night, by the men of Gray Oaks, and no hunting at all. One day the stables were cleared of all horses save Pasha. "Some time, if he is needed badly, you may have Pasha, but not now," Miss Lou had said. And then she had hidden her face in his cream-white mane and sobbed. Just what the trouble was Pasha did not understand, but he was certain "Mars" Clayton was at the bottom of it. No longer did Miss Lou ride about the country. Occasionally she galloped up and down the highway, to the Pointdexters and back, just to let Pasha stretch his legs. Queer sights Pasha saw on these trips. Sometimes he would pass many men on horses riding close together in a pack, as the hounds run when they have the scent. They wore strange clothing, did these men, and they carried, instead of riding-crops, big shiny knives that swung at their sides. The sight of them set Pasha's nerves tingling. He would sniff curiously after them and then prick forward his ears and dance nervously. Of course Pasha knew that something unusual was going on, but what it was he could not guess. There came a time, however, when he found out all about it. Months had passed when, late one night, a hard-breathing, foam-splotched, mud-covered horse was ridden into the yard and taken into the almost deserted stable. Pasha heard the harsh voice of "Mars" Clayton swearing at the stable-boys. Pasha heard his own name spoken, and guessed that it was he who was wanted. Next came Miss Lou to the stable. "I'm very sorry," he heard "Mars" Clayton say, "but I've got to get out of this. The Yanks are not more than five miles behind." "But you'll take good care of him, won't you?" he heard Miss Lou ask eagerly. "Oh, yes; of course," replied "Mars" Clayton, carelessly. A heavy saddle was thrown on Pasha's back, the girths pulled cruelly tight, and in a moment "Mars" Clayton was on his back. They were barely clear of Gray Oaks driveway before Pasha felt something he had never known before. It was as if someone had jabbed a lot of little knives into his ribs. Roused by pain and fright, Pasha reared in a wild attempt to unseat this hateful rider. But "Mars" Clayton's knees seemed glued to Pasha's shoulders. Next Pasha tried to shake him off by sudden leaps, side-bolts, and stiff-legged jumps. These manoeuvres brought vicious jerks on the wicked chain-bit that was cutting Pasha's tender mouth sorrily and more jabs from the little knives. In this way did Pasha fight until his sides ran with blood and his breast was plastered thick with reddened foam. In the meantime he had covered miles of road, and at last, along in the cold gray of the morning, he was ridden into a field where were many tents and horses. Pasha was unsaddled and picketed to a stake. This latter indignity he was too much exhausted to resent. All he could do was to stand, shivering with cold, trembling from nervous excitement, and wait for what was to happen next. It seemed ages before anything did happen. The beginning was a tripping bugle-blast. This was answered by the voice of other bugles blown here and there about the field. In a moment men began to tumble out of the white tents. They came by twos and threes and dozens, until the field was full of them. Fires were built on the ground, and soon Pasha could scent coffee boiling and bacon frying. Black boys began moving about among the horses with hay and oats and water. One of them rubbed Pasha hurriedly with a wisp of straw. It was little like the currying and rubbing with brush and comb and flannel to which he was accustomed and which he needed just then, oh, how sadly. His strained muscles had stiffened so much that every movement gave him pain. So matted was his coat with sweat and foam and mud that it seemed as if half the pores of his skin were choked. He had cooled his parched throat with a long draught of somewhat muddy water, but he had eaten only half of the armful of hay when again the bugles sounded and "Mars" Clayton appeared. Tightening the girths, until they almost cut into Pasha's tender skin, he jumped into the saddle and rode off to where a lot of big black horses were being reined into line. In front of this line Pasha was wheeled. He heard the bugles sound once more, heard his rider shout something to the men behind, felt the wicked little knives in his sides, and then, in spite of aching legs, was forced into a sharp gallop. Although he knew it not, Pasha had joined the Black Horse Cavalry. The months that followed were to Pasha one long, ugly dream. Not that he minded the hard riding by day and night. In time he became used to all that. He could even endure the irregular feeding, the sleeping in the open during all kinds of weather, and the lack of proper grooming. But the vicious jerks on the torture-provoking cavalry bit, the flat sabre blows on the flank which he not infrequently got from his ill-tempered master, and, above all, the cruel digs of the spur-wheels--these things he could not understand. Such treatment he was sure he did not merit. "Mars" Clayton he came to hate more and more. Some day, Pasha told himself, he would take vengeance with teeth and heels, even if he died for it. In the meantime he had learned the cavalry drill. He came to know the meaning of each varying bugle-call, from reveille, when one began to paw and stamp for breakfast, to mournful taps, when lights went out, and the tents became dark and silent. Also, one learned to slow from a gallop into a walk; when to wheel to the right or to the left, and when to start on the jump as the first notes of a charge were sounded. It was better to learn the bugle-calls, he found, than to wait for a jerk on the bits or a prod from the spurs. No more was he terror-stricken, as he had been on his first day in the cavalry, at hearing behind him the thunder of many hoofs. Having once become used to the noise, he was even thrilled by the swinging metre of it. A kind of wild harmony was in it, something which made one forget everything else. At such times Pasha longed to break into his long, wind-splitting lope, but he learned that he must leave the others no more than a pace or two behind, although he could have easily outdistanced them all. Also, Pasha learned to stand under fire. No more did he dance at the crack of carbines or the zipp-zipp of bullets. He could even hold his ground when shells went screaming over him, although this was hardest of all to bear. One could not see them, but their sound, like that of great birds in flight, was something to try one's nerves. Pasha strained his ears to catch the note of each shell that came whizzing overhead, and, as it passed, looked inquiringly over his shoulder as if to ask, "Now what on earth was that?" But all this experience could not prepare him for the happenings of that never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There had been a period full of hard riding and ending with a long halt. For several days hay and oats were brought with some regularity. Pasha was even provided with an apology for a stall. It was made by leaning two rails against a fence. Some hay was thrown between the rails. This was a sorry substitute for the roomy box-stall, filled with clean straw, which Pasha always had at Gray Oaks, but it was as good as any provided for the Black Horse Cavalry. And how many, many horses there were! As far as Pasha could see in either direction the line extended. Never before had he seen so many horses at one time. And men! The fields and woods were full of them; some in brown butternut, some in homespun gray, and many in clothes having no uniformity of color at all. "Mars" Clayton was dressed better than most, for on his butternut coat were shiny shoulder-straps, and it was closed with shiny buttons. Pasha took little pride in this. He knew his master for a cruel and heartless rider, and for nothing more. One day there was a great parade, when Pasha was carefully groomed for the first time in months. There were bands playing and flags flying. Pasha, forgetful of his ill-treatment and prancing proudly at the head of a squadron of coal-black horses, passed in review before a big, bearded man wearing a slouch hat fantastically decorated with long plumes and sitting a great black horse in the midst of a little knot of officers. Early the next morning Pasha was awakened by the distant growl of heavy guns. By daylight he was on the move, thousands of other horses with him. Nearer and nearer they rode to the place where the guns were growling. Sometimes they were on roads, sometimes they crossed fields, and again they plunged into the woods where the low branches struck one's eyes and scratched one's flanks. At last they broke clear of the trees to come suddenly upon such a scene as Pasha had never before witnessed. Far across the open field he could see troop on troop of horses coming toward him. They seemed to be pouring over the crest of a low hill, as if driven onward by some unseen force behind. Instantly Pasha heard, rising from the throats of thousands of riders, on either side and behind him, that fierce, wild yell which he had come to know meant the approach of trouble. High and shrill and menacing it rang as it was taken up and repeated by those in the rear. Next the bugles began to sound, and in quick obedience the horses formed in line just on the edge of the woods, a line which stretched and stretched on either flank until one could hardly see where it ended. From the distant line came no answering cry, but Pasha could hear the bugles blowing and he could see the fronts massing. Then came the order to charge at a gallop. This set Pasha to tugging eagerly at the bit, but for what reason he did not know. He knew only that he was part of a great and solid line of men and horses sweeping furiously across a field toward that other line which he had seen pouring over the hill-crest. He could scarcely see at all now. The thousands of hoofs had raised a cloud of dust that not only enveloped the onrushing line, but rolled before it. Nor could Pasha hear anything save the thunderous thud of many feet. Even the shrieking of the shells was drowned. But for the restraining bit Pasha would have leaped forward and cleared the line. Never had he been so stirred. The inherited memory of countless desert raids, made by his Arab ancestors, was doing its work. For what seemed a long time this continued, and then, in the midst of the blind and frenzied race, there loomed out of the thick air, as if it had appeared by magic, the opposing line. Pasha caught a glimpse of something which seemed like a heaving wall of tossing heads and of foam-whitened necks and shoulders. Here and there gleamed red, distended nostrils and straining eyes. Bending above was another wall, a wall of dusty blue coats, of grim faces, and of dust-powdered hats. Bristling above all was a threatening crest of waving blades. What would happen when the lines met? Almost before the query was thought there came the answer. With an earth-jarring crash they came together. The lines wavered back from the shock of impact and then the whole struggle appeared to Pasha to centre about him. Of course this was not so. But it was a fact that the most conspicuous figure in either line had been that of the cream-white charger in the very centre of the Black Horse regiment. For one confused moment Pasha heard about his ears the whistle and clash of sabres, the spiteful crackle of small arms, the snorting of horses, and the cries of men. For an instant he was wedged tightly in the frenzied mass, and then, by one desperate leap, such as he had learned on the hunting field, he shook himself clear. Not until some minutes later did Pasha notice that the stirrups were dangling empty and that the bridle-rein hung loose on his neck. Then he knew that at last he was free from "Mars" Clayton. At the same time he felt himself seized by an overpowering dread. While conscious of a guiding hand on the reins Pasha had abandoned himself to the fierce joy of the charge. But now, finding himself riderless in the midst of a horrid din, he knew not what to do, nor which way to turn. His only impulse was to escape. But where? Lifting high his fine head and snorting with terror he rushed about, first this way and then that, frantically seeking a way out of this fog-filled field of dreadful pandemonium. Now he swerved in his course to avoid a charging squad, now he was turned aside by prone objects at sight of which he snorted fearfully. Although the blades still rang and the carbines still spoke, there were no more to be seen either lines or order. Here and there in the dust-clouds scurried horses, some with riders and some without, by twos, by fours, or in squads of twenty or more. The sound of shooting and slashing and shouting filled the air. To Pasha it seemed an eternity that he had been tearing about the field when he shied at the figure of a man sitting on the ground. Pasha was about to wheel and dash away when the man called to him. Surely the tones were familiar. With wide-open, sniffing nostrils and trembling knees, Pasha stopped and looked hard at the man on the ground. "Pasha! Pasha!" the man called weakly. The voice sounded like that of Mr. Dave. "Come, boy! Come, boy!" said the man in a coaxing tone, which recalled to Pasha the lessons he had learned at Gray Oaks years before. Still Pasha sniffed and hesitated. "Come here, Pasha, old fellow. For God's sake, come here!" There was no resisting this appeal. Step by step Pasha went nearer. He continued to tremble, for this man on the ground, although his voice was that of Mr. Dave, looked much different from the one who had taught him tricks. Besides, there was about him the scent of fresh blood. Pasha could see the stain of it on his blue trousers. "Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground, holding out an encouraging hand. Slowly Pasha obeyed until he could sniff the man's fingers. Another step and the man was smoothing his nose, still speaking gently and coaxingly in a faint voice. In the end Pasha was assured that the man was really the Mr. Dave of old, and glad enough Pasha was to know it. "Now, Pasha," said Mr. Dave, "we'll see if you've forgotten your tricks, and may the good Lord grant you haven't. Down, sir! Kneel, Pasha, kneel!" [Illustration: "Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground.] It had been a long time since Pasha had been asked to do this, a very long time; but here was Mr. Dave asking him, in just the same tone as of old, and in just the same way. So Pasha, forgetting his terror under the soothing spell of Mr. Dave's voice, forgetting the fearful sights and sounds about him, remembering only that here was the Mr. Dave whom he loved, asking him to do his old trick--well, Pasha knelt. "Easy now, boy; steady!" Pasha heard him say. Mr. Dave was dragging himself along the ground to Pasha's side. "Steady now, Pasha; steady, boy!" He felt Mr. Dave's hand on the pommel. "So-o-o, boy; so-o-o-o!" Slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt Mr. Dave crawling into the saddle, and although Pasha's knees ached from the unfamiliar strain, he stirred not a muscle until he got the command, "Up, Pasha, up!" Then, with a trusted hand on the bridle-rein, Pasha joyfully bounded away through the fog, until the battle-field was left behind. Of the long ride that ensued only Pasha knows, for Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force of muscular habit than anything else. A man who has learned to sleep on horseback does not easily fall off, even though he has not the full command of his senses. Only for the first hour or so did Pasha's rider do much toward guiding their course. In hunting-horses, however, the sense of direction is strong. Pasha had it--especially for one point of the compass. This point was south. So, unknowing of the possible peril into which he might be taking his rider, south he went. How Pasha ever did it, as I have said, only Pasha knows; but in the end he struck the Richmond Pike. [Illustration: Mr. Dave kept his seat in the saddle more by force of muscular habit than anything else.] It was a pleading whinny which aroused Miss Lou at early daybreak. Under her window she saw Pasha, and on his back a limp figure in a blue, dust-covered, dark-stained uniform. And that was how Pasha's cavalry career came to an end. That one fierce charge was his last. * * * * * In the Washington home of a certain Maine Congressman you may see, hung in a place of honor and lavishly framed, the picture of a horse. It is very creditably done in oils, is this picture. It is of a cream-white horse, with an arched neck, clean, slim legs, and a splendid flowing tail. Should you have any favors of state to ask of this Maine Congressman, it would be the wise thing, before stating your request, to say something nice about the horse in the picture. Then the Congressman will probably say, looking fondly at the picture: "I must tell Lou--er--my wife, you know, what you have said. Yes, that was Pasha. He saved my neck at Brandy Station. He was one-half Arab, Pasha was, and the other half, sir, was human." 
21742	----	JARWIN AND CUFFY, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. ADRIFT ON THE OCEAN. On a certain morning, not very long ago, the sun, according to his ancient and admirable custom, rose at a very early hour, and casting his bright beams far and wide over the Pacific, lighted up the yellow sands and the verdant hills of one of the loveliest of the islands of that mighty sea. It was early morning, as we have said, and there was plenty of life-- animal as well as vegetable--to be seen on land and sea, and in the warm, hazy atmosphere. But there were no indications of man's presence in that beautiful scene. The air was perfectly calm, yet the gentle swell of the ocean terminated in great waves, which came rolling in like walls of glass, and fell on the coral-reef like rushing snow-wreaths with a roar as loud as thunder. Thousands of sea-birds screamed and circled in the sky. Fish leaped high out of their native element into the air, as if they wished to catch the gulls, while the gulls, seemingly smitten with a similar desire, dived into the water as if they wished to catch the fish. It might have been observed, however, that while the fish never succeeded in catching the gulls, the latter very frequently caught the fish, and, without taking the trouble to kill them, bolted them down alive. Cocoanut-palms cast the shadows of their long stems and graceful tops upon the beach, while, farther inland, a dense forest of tropical plants--bread-fruit trees, bananas, etcetera--rose up the mountain-sides. Here and there open patches might be seen, that looked like fields and lawns, but there were no cottages or villas. Droves of pigs rambled about the valleys and on the hill-sides, but they were wild pigs. No man tended them. The bread-fruits, the cocoanuts, the bananas, the plantains, the plums, all were beautiful and fit for food, but no man owned them or used them, for, like many other spots in that sea of coral isles and savage men, the island was uninhabited. In all the wide expanse of ocean that surrounded that island, there was nothing visible save one small, solitary speck on the far-off horizon. It might have been mistaken for a seagull, but it was in reality a raft--a mass of spars and planks rudely bound together with ropes. A boat's mast rose from the centre of it, on which hung a rag of sail, and a small red flag drooped motionless from its summit. There were a few casks on the highest part of the raft, but no living soul was visible. Nevertheless, it was not without tenants. In a hollow between two of the spars, under the shadow of one of the casks, lay the form of a man. The canvas trousers, cotton shirt, blue jacket, and open necktie, bespoke him a sailor, but it seemed as though there were nothing left save the dead body of the unfortunate tar, so pale and thin and ghastly were his features. A terrier dog lay beside him, so shrunken that it looked like a mere scrap of door-matting. Both man and dog were apparently dead, but they were not so in reality, for, after lying about an hour quite motionless, the man slowly opened his eyes. Ah, reader, it would have touched your heart to have seen those eyes! They were so deep set, as if in dark caverns, and so unnaturally large. They gazed round in a vacant way for a few moments, until they fell on the dog. Then a gleam of fire shot through them, and their owner raised his large, gaunt, wasted frame on one elbow, while he gazed with a look of eagerness, which was perfectly awful, at his dumb companion. "Not dead _yet_!" he said, drawing a long sigh. There was a strange, incongruous mixture of satisfaction and discontent in the remark, which was muttered in a faint whisper. Another gleam shot through the large eyes. It was not a pleasant look. Slowly, and as if with difficulty, the man drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and opened it. As he did so, his brows lowered and his teeth became clenched. It was quite plain what he meant to do. As he held the open knife over the dog's head, he muttered, "Am I to die for the sake of a _dog_!" Either the terrier's slumbers had come to an end naturally, at a fortunate moment, or the master's voice had awakened it, for it opened its eyes, raised its head, and looked up in the sailor's face. The hand with the knife drooped a little. The dog rose and licked it. Hunger had done its work on the poor creature, for it could hardly stand, yet it managed to look in its master's face with that grave, simple gaze of self-forgetting love, which appears to be peculiar to the canine race. The savage glare of the seaman's eyes vanished. He dropped the knife. "Thanks, Cuffy; thanks for stoppin' me. It would have been _murder_! No, no, my doggie, you and I shall die together." His voice sank into a murmur, partly from weakness and partly from the ideas suggested by his concluding words. "Die together!" he repeated, "surely it ain't come to that _yet_. Wot, John Jarwin, you're not goin' to give in like that, are you? to haul down your colours on a fine day with a clear sky like this overhead? Come, cheer up, lad; you're young and can hold out a good while yet. Hey, old dog, wot say _you_?" The dog made a motion that would, in ordinary circumstances, have resulted in the wagging of its tail, but the tail was powerless to respond. At that moment a gull flew towards the raft; Jarwin watched it eagerly as it approached. "Ah," he muttered, clasping his bony hand as tightly over his heart as his strength would allow and addressing the gull, "if I only had hold of _you_, I'd tear you limb from limb, and drink your blood!" He watched the bird intently as it flew straight over him. Leaning back, he continued slowly to follow its flight, until his head rested on the block of wood which had served him for a pillow. The support felt agreeable, he forgot the gull, closed his eyes, and sank with a deep sigh into a slumber that strongly resembled death. Presently he awoke with a start, and, once more raising himself, gazed round upon the sea. No ship was to be seen. How often he had gazed round the watery circle with the same anxious look only to meet with disappointment! The hills of the coral island were visible like a blue cloud on the horizon, but Jarwin's eyes were too dim and worn out to observe them. "Come," he exclaimed, suddenly, scrambling to his feet, "rouse up, Cuffy; you an' I ain't a-goin' to die without a good fight for life. Come along, my hearty; we'll have another glass of grog--Adam's grog it is, but it has been good grog to you an' me, doggie--an' then we shall have another inspection o' the locker; mayhap there's the half of a crumb left." The comparatively cheery tone in which the sailor said this seemed to invigorate the dog, for it rose and actually succeeded in wriggling its tail as it staggered after its master--indubitable sign of hope and love not yet subdued! Jarwin went to a cask which still contained a small quantity of fresh water. Three weeks before the point at which we take up his story, a storm had left him and his dog the sole survivors on the raft of the crew of a barque which had sprung a leak, and gone to the bottom. His provision at the time was a very small quantity of biscuit and a cask of fresh water. Several days before this the last biscuit had been consumed but the water had not yet failed. Hitherto John Jarwin had husbanded his provisions, but now, feeling desperate, he drank deeply of the few remaining drops of that liquid which, at the time, was almost as vital to him as his life-blood. He gave a full draught also to the little dog. "Share and share alike, doggie," he said, patting its head, as it eagerly lapped up the water; "but there's no wittles, Cuffy, an' ye don't care for baccy, or ye should be heartily welcome to a quid." So saying, the sailor supplied his own cheek with a small piece of his favourite weed, and stood up on the highest part of the raft to survey the surrounding prospect. He did so without much hope, for "hope deferred" had at last made his heart sick. Suddenly his wandering gaze became fixed and intense. He shaded his eyes with one hand, and steadied himself against the mast with the other. There could be no doubt of it! "Land ho!" he shouted, with a degree of strength that surprised himself, and even drew from Cuffy the ghost of a bark. On the strength of the discovery Jarwin and his dumb friend immediately treated themselves to another glass of Adam's grog. But poor Jarwin had his patience further tried. Hours passed away, and still the island seemed as far off as ever. Night drew on, and it gradually faded from his view. But he had unquestionably seen land; so, with this to comfort him, the starving tar lay down beside his dog to spend another night--as he had already spent many days and nights--a castaway on the wide ocean. Morning dawned, and the sailor rose with difficulty. He had forgotten, for a moment, the discovery of land on the previous night, but it was brought suddenly to his remembrance by the roar of breakers near at hand. Turning in the direction whence the sound came, he beheld an island quite close to him, with heavy "rollers" breaking furiously on the encircling ring of the coral-reef. The still water between the reef and the shore, which was about a quarter of a mile wide, reflected every tree and crag of the island, as if in a mirror. It was a grand, a glorious sight, and caused Jarwin's heart to swell with emotions that he had never felt before; but his attention was quickly turned to a danger which was imminent, and which seemed to threaten the total destruction of his raft, and the loss of his life. A very slight breeze--a mere zephyr--which had carried him during the night towards the island, was now bearing him straight, though slowly, down on the reef, where, if he had once got involved in the breakers, the raft must certainly have been dashed to pieces; and he knew full well, that in his weak condition, he was utterly incapable of contending with such a surf. Being a man of promptitude, his first act, on making this discovery, was to lower the sail. This was, fortunately, done in time; had he kept it up a few minutes longer, he must inevitably have passed the only opening in the reef that existed on that side of the island. This opening was not more than fifty yards wide. To the right and left of it the breakers on the reef extended, in lines of seething foam. Already the raft was rolling in the commotion caused by these breakers, as it drifted towards the opening. Jarwin was by no means devoid of courage. Many a time, in days gone by, when his good ship was tossing on the stormy sea, or scudding under bare poles, had he stood on the deck with unshaken confidence and a calm heart, but now he was face to face with the seaman's most dreaded enemy--"breakers ahead!"--nay, worse, breakers around him everywhere, save at that one narrow passage, which appeared so small, and so involved in the general turmoil, as to afford scarcely an element of hope. For the first time in his life Jarwin's heart sank within him--at least so he said in after years while talking of the event--but we suspect that John was underrating himself. At all events, he showed no symptoms of fear as he sat there calmly awaiting his fate. As the raft approached the reef, each successive roller lifted it up and dropped it behind more violently, until at last the top of one of the glittering green walls broke just as it passed under the end of the raft nearest the shore. Jarwin now knew that the next billow would seal his fate. There was a wide space between each of those mighty waves. He looked out to sea, and beheld the swell rising and taking form, and increasing in speed as it came on. Calmly divesting himself of his coat and boots, he sat down beside his dog, and awaited the event. At that moment he observed, with intense gratitude to the Almighty, that the raft was drifting so straight towards the middle of the channel in the reef, that there seemed every probability of being carried through it; but the hope thus raised was somewhat chilled by the feeling of weakness which pervaded his frame. "Now, Cuffy," said he, patting the terrier gently, "rouse up, my doggie; we must make a brave struggle for life. It's neck or nothing this time. If we touch that reef in passing, Cuff, you an' I shall be food for the sharks to-night, an' it's my opinion that the shark as gits us won't have much occasion to boast of his supper." The sailor ceased speaking abruptly. As he looked back at the approaching roller he felt solemnised and somewhat alarmed, for it appeared so perpendicular and so high from his low position, that it seemed as if it would fall on and overwhelm the raft. There was, indeed, some danger of this. Glancing along its length, Jarwin saw that here and there the edge was lipping over, while in one place, not far off, the thunder of its fall had already begun. Another moment, and it appeared to hang over his head; the raft was violently lifted at the stern, caught up, and whirled onward at railway speed, like a cork in the midst of a boiling cauldron of foam. The roar was deafening. The tumultuous heaving almost overturned it several times. Jarwin held on firmly to the mast with his right arm, and grasped the terrier with his left hand, for the poor creature had not strength to resist such furious motion. It all passed with bewildering speed. It seemed as if, in one instant, the raft was hurled through the narrows, and launched into the calm harbour within. An eddy, at the inner side of the opening, swept it round, and fixed the end of one of the largest spars of which it was composed on the beach. There were fifty yards or so of sandy coral-reef between the beach outside, that faced the sea, and the beach inside, which faced the land; yet how great the difference! The one beach, buffeted for ever, day and night, by the breakers--in calm by the grand successive rollers that, as it were, symbolised the ocean's latent power--in storm by the mad deluge of billows which displayed that power in all its terrible grandeur. The other beach, a smooth, sloping circlet of fair white sand, laved only by the ripples of the lagoon, or by its tiny wavelets, when a gale chanced to sweep over it from the land. Jarwin soon gained this latter beach with Cuffy in his arms, and sat down to rest, for his strength had been so much reduced that the mere excitement of passing through the reef had almost exhausted him. Cuffy, however, seemed to derive new life from the touch of earth again, for it ran about in a staggering drunken sort of way; wagged its tail at the root,--without, however, being able to influence the point,--and made numerous futile efforts to bark. In the midst of its weakly gambols the terrier chanced to discover a dead fish on the sands. Instantly it darted forward and began to devour it with great voracity. "Halo! Cuffy," shouted Jarwin, who observed him; "ho! hold on, you rascal! share and share alike, you know. Here, fetch it here!" Cuffy had learned the first great principle of a good and useful life-- whether of man or beast--namely, prompt obedience. That meek but jovial little dog, on receiving this order, restrained its appetite, lifted the fish in its longing jaws, and, carrying it to his master, humbly laid it at his feet. He was rewarded with a hearty pat on the head, and a full half of the coveted fish--for Jarwin appeared to regard the "share-and-share-alike" principle as a point of honour between them. The fish was not good, neither was it large, and of course it was raw, besides being somewhat decayed; nevertheless, both man and dog ate it, bones and all, with quiet satisfaction. Nay, reader, do not shudder! If you were reduced to similar straits, you would certainly enjoy, with equal gusto, a similar meal, supposing that you had the good fortune to get it. Small though it was, it sufficed to appease the appetite of the two friends, and to give them a feeling of strength which they had not experienced for many a day. Under the influence of this feeling, Jarwin remarked to Cuffy, that "a man could eat a-most anything when hard put to it," and that "it wos now high time to think about goin' ashore." To which Cuffy replied with a bark, which one might imagine should come from a dog in the last stage of whooping-cough, and with a wag of his tail--not merely at the root thereof, but a distinct wag--that extended obviously along its entire length to the extreme point. Jarwin observed the successful effort, laughed feebly, and said, "Brayvo, Cuffy," with evident delight; for it reminded him of the days when that little shred of a door-mat, in the might of its vigour, was wont to wag its tail so violently as to convulse its whole body, insomuch that it was difficult to decide whether the tail wagged the body, or the body the tail! But, although Jarwin made light of his sufferings, his gaunt, wasted frame would have been a sad sight to any pitiful spectator, as with weary aspect and unsteady gait he moved about on the sandy ridge in search of more food, or gazed with longing eyes on the richly-wooded island. For it must be remembered that our castaway had not landed on the island itself, but on that narrow ring of coral-reef which almost encircled it, and from which it was separated by the lagoon, or enclosed portion of the sea, which was, as we have said, about a quarter of a mile wide. John Jarwin would have thought little of swimming over that narrow belt of smooth water in ordinary circumstances, but now he felt that his strength was not equal to such a feat. Moreover, he knew that there were sharks in these waters, so he dismissed the idea of swimming, and cast about in his mind how he should manage to get across. With Jarwin, action soon followed thought. He resolved to form a small raft out of portions of the large one. Fortunately his clasp-knife had been attached, as seamen frequently have it, to his waist-belt, when he forsook his ship. This was the only implement that he possessed, but it was invaluable. With it he managed to cut the thick ropes that he could not have untied, and, in the course of two hours--for he laboured with extreme difficulty--a few broken planks and spars were lashed together. Embarking on this frail vessel with his dog, he pushed off, and using a piece of plank for an oar, sculled himself over the lagoon. It was touching, even to himself, to observe the slowness of his progress. All the strength that remained in him was barely sufficient to move the raft. But the lagoon was as still as a mill-pond. Looking down into its clear depths, he could see the rich gardens of coral and sea-weed, among which fish, of varied and brilliant colours, sported many fathoms below. The air, too, was perfectly calm. Very slowly he left the reef astern; the middle of the lagoon was gained; then, gradually, he neared the island-shore, but oh! it was a long, weary pull, although the space was so short, and, to add to the poor man's misery, the fish which he had eaten caused him intolerable thirst. But he reached the shore at last. The first thing that greeted his eye as he landed was the sparkle of a clear spring at the foot of some cocoanut-trees. He staggered eagerly towards it, and fell down beside a hollow in the rock, like a large cup or bowl, which had been scooped out by it. Who shall presume to describe the feelings of that shipwrecked sailor as he and his dog drank from the same cup at that sparkling crystal fountain? Delicious odours of lime and citron trees, and well-nigh forgotten herbage, filled his nostrils, and the twitter of birds thrilled his ears, seeming to bid him welcome to the land, as he sank down on the soft grass, and raised his eyes in thanksgiving to heaven. An irresistible tendency to sleep then seized him. "If there's a heaven upon earth, I'm in it now," he murmured, as he laid down his head and closed his eyes. Cuffy, nestling into his breast, placed his chin on his neck, and heaved a deep, contented sigh. This was the last sound the sailor recognised, as he sank into profound repose. CHAPTER TWO. ISLAND LIFE. There are few of the minor sweets of life more agreeable than to awake refreshed, and to become gradually impressed with the conviction that you are a perfectly free agent,--that you may rise when you choose, or lie still if you please, or do what you like, without let or hindrance. So thought our hero, John Jarwin, when he awoke, on the same spot where he had thrown himself down, after several hours of life-giving slumber. He was still weak, but his weakness did not now oppress him. The slight meal, the long draught, and the deep sleep, had restored enough of vigour to his naturally robust frame to enable him, while lying on his back, to enjoy his existence once more. He was, on first awaking, in that happy condition of mind and body in which the former does not care to think and the latter does not wish to move--yet both are pleased to be largely conscious of their own identity. That he had not moved an inch since he lay down, became somewhat apparent to Jarwin from the fact that Cuffy's chin still rested immovable on his neck, but his mind was too indolent to pursue the thought. He had not the most remote idea as to where he was, but he cared nothing for that. He was in absolute ignorance of the time of day, but he cared, if possible, still less for that. Food, he knew, was necessary to his existence, but the thought gave him no anxiety. In short, John and his dog were in a state of quiescent felicity, and would probably have remained so for some hours to come, had not the setting sun shone forth at that moment with a farewell gleam so intense, that it appeared to set the world of clouds overhead on fire, converting them into hills and dales, and towering domes and walls and battlements of molten glass and gold. Even to the wearied seaman's sleepy vision the splendour of the scene became so fascinating, that he shook off his lethargy, and raised himself on one elbow. "Why, Cuffy!" he exclaimed, to the yawning dog, "seems to me that the heavens is a-fire! Hope it won't come on dirty weather before you an' I get up somethin' in the shape o' a hut. That minds me, doggie," he added, glancing slowly round him, "that we must look after prokoorin' of our supper. I do believe we've bin an' slep away a whole day! Well, well, it don't much matter, seein' that we hain't got no dooty for to do--no trick at the wheel, no greasin' the masts--wust of all, no splicin' the main brace, and no grub." This latter remark appeared to reach the understanding of the dog, for it uttered a melancholy howl as it gazed into its master's eyes. "Ah, Cuffy!" continued the sailor with a sigh, "you've good reason to yowl, for the half of a rotten fish ain't enough for a dog o' your appetite. Come, let's see if we can't find somethin' more to our tastes." Saying this the man rose, stretched himself, yawned, looked helplessly round for a few seconds, and then, with a cheery "Hallo! Cuff, come along, my hearty," went down to the beach in quest of food. In this search he was not unsuccessful, for the beach abounded with shell-fish of various kinds; but Jarwin ate sparingly of these, having been impressed, in former years, by some stories which he had heard of shipwrecked sailors having been poisoned by shell-fish. For the same reason he administered a moderate supply to Cuffy, telling him that "it warn't safe wittles, an' that if they was to be pisoned, it was as well to be pisoned in moderation." The dog, however, did not appear to agree with its master on this point, for it went picking up little tit-bits here and there, and selfishly ignoring the "share-and-share-alike" compact, until it became stuffed alarmingly, and could scarcely follow its master back to the fountain. Arrived there, the two slaked their thirst together, and then Jarwin sat down to enjoy a pipe, and Cuffy lay down to suffer the well-merited reward of gluttony. We have said that Jarwin sat down to enjoy a pipe, but he did _not_ enjoy it that night, for he discovered that the much-loved little implement, which he had cherished tenderly while on the raft, was broken to atoms in his coat-pocket! In his eagerness to drink on first landing, he had thrown himself down on it, and now smoking was an impossibility, at least for that night. He reflected, however, that it would not be difficult to make a wooden pipe, and that cigarettes might perhaps be made by means of leaves, or bark, while his tobacco lasted; so he consoled himself in the meantime with hopeful anticipations, and a quid. Being still weak and weary, he lay down again beside the fountain, and almost immediately fell into a sleep, which was not at all disturbed by the starts and groans and frequent yelps of Cuffy, whose sufferings could scarcely have been more severe if he had supped on turtle-soup and venison, washed down with port and claret. Thus did those castaways spend the first night on their island. It must not be supposed, however, that we are going to trace thus minutely every step and sensation in the career of our unfortunate friends. We have too much to tell that is important to devote our "valuable space" to everyday incidents. Nevertheless, as it is important that our readers should understand our hero thoroughly, and the circumstances in which we find him, it is necessary that we should draw attention to some incidents--trifling in themselves, but important in their effects--which occurred to John Jarwin soon after his landing on the island. The first of these incidents was, that John one day slipped his foot on a tangle-covered rock, and fell into the sea. A small matter this, you will say, to a man who could swim, and in a climate so warm that a dip, with or without clothes, was a positive luxury. Most true; and had the wetting been all, Jarwin would have had nothing to annoy him; for at the time the accident occurred he had been a week on the island, had managed to pull and crack many cocoa-nuts, and had found various excellent wild-fruits, so that his strength, as well as Cuffy's, had been much restored. In fact, when Jarwin's head emerged from the brine, after his tumble, he gave vent to a shout of laughter, and continued to indulge in hilarious demonstrations all the time he was wringing the water out of his garments, while the terrier barked wildly round him. But suddenly, in the very midst of a laugh, he became grave and pale,-- so pale, that a more obtuse creature than Cuffy might have deemed him ill. While his mouth and eyes slowly opened wider and wider, his hands slapped his pockets, first his trousers, then his vest, then his coat, after which they fell like pistol-shots on his thighs, and he exclaimed, in a voice of horror--"Gone!" Ay, there could be no doubt about it; every particle of his tobacco was gone! It had never been much, only three or four plugs; but it was strong, and he had calculated that, what with careful husbanding, and mixing it with other herbs, it would last him for a considerable length of time. In a state bordering on frenzy, the sailor rushed back to the rock from which he had fallen. The "baccy" was not there. He glanced right and left--no sign of it floating on the sea. In he went, head foremost, like a determined suicide; down, down to the bottom, for he was an expert diver, and rioted among the coral groves, and horrified the fish, until he well-nigh burst, and rose to the surface with a groan and splutter that might have roused envy in a porpoise. Then down he went again, while Cuffy stood on the shore regarding him with mute amazement. Never did pearl-diver grope for the treasures of the deep with more eager intensity than did John Jarwin search for that lost tobacco. He remained under water until he became purple in the face, and, coming to the surface after each dive, stayed only long enough to recharge his lungs with air. How deeply he regretted at that time the fact that man's life depended on so frequent and regular a supply of atmospheric air! How enviously he glanced at the fish which, with open eyes and mouths, appeared to regard him with inexpressible astonishment--as well they might! At last Jarwin's powers of endurance began to give way, and he was compelled to return to the shore, to the great relief of Cuffy, which miserable dog, if it had possessed the smallest amount of reasoning power, must have deemed its master hopelessly insane. "But why so much ado about a piece of tobacco?" we hear some lady-reader or non-smoker exclaim. Just because our hero was, and had been since his childhood, an inveterate smoker. Of course we cannot prove our opinion to be correct, but we are inclined to believe that if all the smoke that had issued from Jarwin's lips, from the period of his commencing down to that terrible day when he lost his last plug, could have been collected in one vast cloud, it would have been sufficient to have kept a factory chimney going for a month or six weeks. The poor man knew his weakness. He had several times tried to get rid of the habit which had enslaved him, and, by failing, had come to know the tyrannical power of his master. He had once been compelled by circumstances to forego his favourite indulgence for three entire days, and retained so vivid a recollection of his sufferings that he made up his mind never more to strive for freedom, but to enjoy his pipe as long as he lived--to swim with the current, in fact, and take it easy. It was of no use that several men, who objected to smoking from principle, and had themselves gone through the struggle and come off victorious, pointed out that if he went on at his present rate, it would cut short his life. Jarwin didn't believe _that_. He _felt_ well and hearty, and said that he "was too tough, by a long way, to be floored by baccy; besides, if his life was to be short, he saw no reason why it should not be a pleasant one." It was vain for these disagreeable men of principle to urge that when his health began to give way he would not find life very pleasant, and then "baccy" would fail to relieve him. Stuff and nonsense? Did not Jarwin know that hundreds of thousands of _old_ men enjoyed their pipes to the very last. He also knew that a great many men had filled early graves owing to the use of tobacco, but he chose to shut his eyes to this fact--moreover, although a great truth, it was a difficult truth to prove. It was of still less use that those tiresome men of principle demonstrated that the money spent in tobacco would, if accumulated, form a snug little fortune to retire upon in his old age. John only laughed at this. "Wot did he want with a fortin in his old age," he would say; "he would rather work to the last for his three B's--his bread and beer and baccy--an' die in harness. A man couldn't get on like a man without them three B's, and he wosn't goin' for to deprive hisself of none of 'em, not he; besides, his opponents were bad argifiers," he was wont to say, with a chuckle, "for if, as they said, baccy would be the means of cuttin' his life short, why then, he wouldn't never come to old age to use his fortin, even if he _should_ manage to save it off his baccy." This last argument always brought Jarwin off with flying colours--no wonder, for it was unanswerable; and thus he came to love his beer and baccy so much that he became thoroughly enslaved to both. His brief residence on the south-sea island had taught him, by painful experience, that he _was_ capable of existing without at least two of his three B's--bread and beer. He had suffered somewhat from the change of diet; and now that his third B was thus suddenly, unexpectedly, and hopelessly wrenched from him, he sat himself down on the beach beside Cuffy, and gazed out to sea in absolute despair. We must guard the reader at this point from supposing that John Jarwin had ever been what is called an intemperate man. He was one of those honest, straightforward tars who do their duty like men, and who, although extremely fond of their pipe and their glass of grog, never lower themselves below the level of the brutes by getting drunk. At the same time, we feel constrained to add that Jarwin acted entirely from impulse and kindly feeling. He had little to do with principle, and did not draw towards those who professed to be thus guided. He was wont to say that they "was troublesome fellers, always shovin' in their oars when they weren't wanted to, an' settin' themselves up for better than everybody else." Had one of those troublesome fellows presented John Jarwin with a pound of tobacco in his forlorn circumstances, at that time he would probably have slapped him on the shoulder, and called him one of the best fellows under the sun! "Cuffy, my friend," exclaimed Jarwin at last, with an explosive sigh, "all the baccy's gone, so we'll have to smoke sea-weed for the futur'." The terrier said "Bow-wow" to this, cocked its ears, and looked earnest, as if waiting for more. "Come along," exclaimed the man, overturning his dog as he leaped up, "we'll go home and have summat to eat." Jarwin had erected a rude hut, composed of boughs and turf, near the fountain where he had first landed. It was the home to which he referred. At first he had devoted himself entirely to the erection of this shelter, and to collecting various roots and fruits and shell-fish for food, intending to delay the examination of the island until his strength should be sufficiently restored to enable him to scale the heights without more than ordinary fatigue. He had been so far recruited as to have fixed for his expedition the day following that on which he sustained his irreparable loss. Entering his hut he proceeded to kindle a fire by means of a small burning-glass, with which, in happier times, he had been wont to light his pipe. Very soon he had several roots, resembling small potatoes, baking in the hot ashes. With these, a handful of plums, a dozen of oyster-like fish, of which there were plenty on the shore, and a draught of clear cold water, he made a hearty repast, Cuffy coming in for a large share of it, as a matter of course. Then he turned all his pockets inside out, and examined them as carefully as if diamonds lurked in the seams. No, not a speck of tobacco was to be found! He smelt them. The odour was undoubtedly strong--very strong. On the strength of it he shut his eyes, and endeavoured to think that he was smoking; but it was a weak substitute for the pipe, and not at all satisfying. Thereafter he sallied forth and wandered about the sea-shore in a miserable condition, and went to bed that night--as he remarked to his dog--in the blues. Reader, it is not possible to give you an adequate conception of the sensations and sufferings of John Jarwin on that first night of his bereaved condition. He dreamed continuously of tobacco. Now he was pacing the deck of his old ship with a splendid pipe of cut Cavendish between his lips. Anon he was smoking a meerschaum the size of a hogshead, with a stem equal to the length and thickness of the main-topmast of a seventy-four; but somehow the meerschaum wouldn't draw, whereupon John, in a passion, pronounced it worthy of its name, and hove it overboard, when it was instantly transformed into a shark with a cutty pipe in its mouth. To console himself our hero endeavoured to thrust into his mouth a quid of negro-head, which, however, suddenly grew as big as the cabin-skylight, and became as tough as gutta-percha, so that it was utterly impossible to bite off a piece; and, stranger still, when the poor sailor had by struggling got it in, it dwindled down into a point so small that he could not feel it in his mouth at all. On reaching this, the vanishing-point, Jarwin awoke to a consciousness of the dread reality of his destitute condition. Turning on his other side with a deep groan, he fell asleep again, to dream of tobacco in some new and tantalising form until sunrise, when he awoke unrefreshed. Leaping up, he cast off his clothes, rushed down the beach, and plunged into sea, by way of relieving his feelings. During the day John Jarwin brooded much over his dreams, for his mind was of a reflective turn, and Cuffy looked often inquiringly into his face. That sympathetic doggie would evidently have besought him to pour his sorrows into his cocked ears if he could have spoken; but--alas! for people who are cast away on desert islands--the gift of speech has been denied to dogs. Besides being moody, Jarwin was uncommonly taciturn that day. He did not tell Cuffy the result of his cogitations, so that we cannot say anything further about them. All that we are certainly sure of is, that he was profoundly miserable that day--that he postponed his intended expedition to the top of the neighbouring hill--that he walked about the beach slowly, with his chin on his breast and his hands in his pockets-- that he made various unsuccessful attempts to smoke dried leaves, and bark, and wild-flowers, mixing with those substances shreds of his trousers' pockets, in order that they might have at least the flavour of tobacco--that he became more and more restive as the day wore on, became more submissive in the evening, paid a few apologetic attentions to Cuffy at supper-time, and, finally, went to bed in a better frame of mind, though still craving painfully for the weed which had enslaved him. That night his dreams were still of tobacco! No lover was ever assailed more violently with dreams of his absent mistress than was John Jarwin with longings for his adorable pipe. But there was no hope for him--the beloved one was effectually and permanently gone; so, like a sensible man, he awoke next morning with a stern resolve to submit to his fate with a good grace. In pursuance of this resolution he began the day with a cold bath, in which Cuffy joined him. Then he breakfasted on chestnuts, plums, citrons, oysters, and shrimps, the former of which abounded in the woods, the latter on the shore. Jarwin caught the shrimps in a net, extemporised out of his pocket-handkerchief. While engaged with his morning meal, he was earnestly watched by several green paroquets with blue heads and crimson breasts; and during pauses in the meal he observed flocks of brightly-coloured doves and wood-pigeons, besides many other kinds of birds, the names of which he did not know, as well as water-hens, plover, and wild ducks. "Lost your appetite this morning, Cuff?" said Jarwin, offering his companion a citron, which he decidedly refused. "Ah!" he continued, patting the dog's sides, "I see how it is; you've had breakfast already this morning; bin at it when I was a-sleepin'. For shame, Cuffy!--you should have waited for me; an' you've bin an' over-ate yourself again, you greedy dog!" This was evidently the case. The guilty creature, forgetful of its past experiences, had again gorged itself with dead fish, which it had found on the beach, and looked miserable. "Well, never mind, doggie," said Jarwin, finishing his meal, and rising. "I'll give you a little exercise to-day for the good of your health. We shan't go sulking as we did yesterday; so, come along." The sailor left his bower as he spoke, and set off at a round pace with his hands in his pockets, and a thick stick under his arm, whistling as he went, while Cuffy followed lovingly at his heels. CHAPTER THREE. COMMUNINGS OF MAN AND BEAST. It would appear to be almost an essential element in life that man should indulge in speech. Of course we cannot prove this, seeing that we have never been cast alone on a desert island (although we _have_ been next thing to it), and cannot positively conclude what would have been the consequences to our castaway if he had rigidly refrained from speech. All that we can ground an opinion on is the fact that John Jarwin talked as much and as earnestly to his dog as if he knew that that sagacious creature understood every word he uttered. Indeed, he got into such a habit of doing this, that it is very probable he might have come to believe that Cuffy really did understand, though he was not gifted with the power to reply. If it be true that Jarwin came to this state of credulity, certain it is that Cuffy was deeply to blame in the matter, because the way in which that ridiculous hypocrite sat before his master, and looked up in his face with his lustrous, intelligent eyes, and cocked his ears, and wagged his tail, and smiled, might have deceived a much less superstitious man than a British tar. We have said that Cuffy smiled, advisedly. Some people might object to the word, and say that he only "snickered," or made faces. That, we hold, is a controvertible question. Cuffy's facial contortions looked like smiling. They came very often inappropriately, and during parts of Jarwin's discourse when no smile should have been called forth; but if that be sufficient to prove that Cuffy was not smiling, then, on the same ground, we hold that a large proportion of those ebullitions which convulse the human countenance are not smiles but unmeaning grins. Be this as it may, Cuffy smiled, snickered, or grinned amazingly, during the long discourses that were delivered to him by his master, and indeed looked so wonderfully human in his knowingness, that it only required a speaking tongue and a shaved face to constitute him an unanswerable proof of the truth of the Darwinian theory of the origin of the human species. "Cuffy," said Jarwin, panting, as he reached the summit of his island, and sat down on its pinnacle rock, "that's a splendid view, ain't it?" To any one save a cynic or a misanthrope, Cuffy replied with eye and tail, "It is magnificent." "But you're not looking at it," objected Jarwin, "you're looking straight up in my face; so how can you tell what it's like, doggie?" "I see it all," replied Cuffy with a grin; "all reflected in the depths of your two loving eyes." Of course Jarwin lost this pretty speech in consequence of its being a mute reply, but he appeared to have some intuitive perception of it, for he stooped down and patted the dog's head affectionately. After this there was a prolonged silence, during which the sailor gazed wistfully round the horizon. The scene was indeed one of surpassing beauty and grandeur. The island on which he had been cast was one of those small coral gems which deck the breast of the Pacific. It could not have been more than nine or ten miles in circumference, yet within this area there lay a miniature world. The mountain-top on which the seaman sat was probably eight or nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a view of the whole island. On one side lay three lesser hills, covered to their summits with indescribably rich verdure, amongst which rose conspicuous the tall stems and graceful foliage of many cocoanut-palms. Fruit-trees of various kinds glistened in the sunshine, and flowering shrubs in abundance lent additional splendour to the scene. On the other side of the mountain a small lake glittered like a jewel among the trees; and there numerous flocks of wild-fowl disported themselves in peaceful security. From the farther extremity of the lake flowed a rivulet, which, from the mountain-top, resembled a silver thread winding its way through miniature valleys, until lost in the light yellow sand of the sea-shore. On this beach there was not even a ripple, because of the deep calm which prevailed but on the ring or coral-reef, which completely encircled the island, those great "rollers"--which appear never to go down even in calm--fell from time to time with a long, solemn roar, and left an outer ring of milk-white foam. The blue lagoon between the reef and the island varied from a few yards to a quarter of a mile in breadth, and its quiet waters were like a sheet of glass, save where they were ruffled now and then by the diving of a sea-gull or the fin of a shark. Birds of many kinds filled the grove with sweet sounds, and tended largely to dispel that feeling of intense loneliness which had been creeping that day over our seaman's spirit. "Come, my doggie," said Jarwin, patting his dumb companion's head, "if you and I are to dwell here for long, we've got a most splendid estate to look after. I only hope we won't find South Sea niggers in possession before us, for they're not hospitable, Cuffy, they ain't hospitable, bein' given, so I'm told, to prefer human flesh to most other kinds o' wittles." He looked anxiously round in all directions at this point, as if the ideas suggested by his words were not particularly agreeable. "No," he resumed, after a short survey, "it don't seem as if there was any of 'em here. Anyhow I can't see none, and most parts of the island are visible from this here mast-head." Again the seaman became silent as he repeated his survey of the island; his hands, meanwhile, searching slowly, as if by instinct, round his pockets, and into their most minute recesses, if haply they might find an atom of tobacco. Both hands and eyes, however, failed in their search; so, turning once more towards his dog, Jarwin sat down and addressed it thus:-- "Cuff, my doggie, don't wink in that idiotical way, you hanimated bundle of oakum! and don't wag yer tail so hard, else you'll shake it off some fine day! Well, Cuff, here you an' I are fixed--`it may be for years, an' it may be for ever'--as the old song says; so it behoves you and me to hold a consultation as to wot's the best to be done for to make the most of our sukumstances. Ah, doggie!" he continued in a low tone, looking pensively towards the horizon, "it's little that my dear wife (your missus and mine, Cuff) knows that her John has fallen heir to sitch an estate; become, so to speak, `monarch of all he surveys.' O Molly, Molly, if you was only here, wot a paradise it would be! Eden over again; Adam an' Eve, without a'most no difference, barrin' the clo'se, by the way, for if I ain't mistaken, Adam didn't wear a straw hat and a blue jacket, with pumps and canvas ducks. Leastwise, I've never heard that he did; an' I'm quite sure that Eve didn't go to church on Sundays in a gown wi' sleeves like two legs o' mutton, an' a bonnet like a coal-scuttle. By the way, I don't think they owned a doggie neither." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At this point the terrier, who had gradually quieted down during the above soliloquy, gave a responsive wag of its tail, and looked up with a smile--a plain, obvious, unquestionable smile, which its master believed in most thoroughly. "Ah, you needn't grin like that, Cuff," replied Jarwin, "it's quite certain that Adam and Eve had no doggie. No doubt they had plenty of wild 'uns--them as they giv'd names to--but they hadn't a good little tame 'un like you, Cuff; no, nor nobody else, for you're the best dog in the world--if you'd only keep yer spanker-boom quiet; but you'll shake it off, you will, if you go on like that. There, lie down, an' let's get on with our consultation. Well, as I was sayin' when you interrupted me, wot a happy life we could live here if we'd only got the old girl with us! I'd be king, you know, Cuff, and she'd be queen, and we'd make you prime minister--you're prime favourite already, you know. There now, if you don't clap a stopper on that ere spanker-boom, I'll have to lash it down. Well, to proceed: we'd build a hut--or a palace-- of turf an' sticks, with a bunk alongside for you; an w'en our clo'se began for to wear out, we'd make pants and jackets and petticoats of cocoanut-fibre; for you must know I've often see'd mats made o' that stuff, an' splendid wear there's in it too, though it would be rather rough for the skin at first; but we'd get used to that in coorse o' time. Only fancy Mrs Jarwin in a cocoanut-fibre petticoat with a palm-leaf hat, or somethink o' that sort! An', after all, it wouldn't be half so rediklous as some o' the canvas she's used to spread on Sundays." Jarwin evidently thought his ideas somewhat ridiculous, for he paused at this point and chuckled, while Cuffy sprang up and barked responsively. While they were thus engaged, a gleam of white appeared on the horizon. "Sail ho!" shouted the sailor in the loud, full tones with which he was wont to announce such an appearance from the mast-head in days gone by. Oh, how earnestly he strained his eyes in the direction of that little speck! It might have been a sail; just as likely it was the wing of a sea-gull or an albatross. Whatever it was, it grew gradually less until it sank out of view on the distant horizon. With it sank poor Jarwin's newly-raised hopes. Still he continued to gaze intently, in the hope that it might reappear; but it did not. With a heavy sigh the sailor rose at length, wakened Cuffy, who had gone to sleep, and descended the mountain. This look-out on the summit of the island now became the regular place of resort for Jarwin and his dumb, but invaluable companion. And so absorbed did the castaway become, in his contemplation of the horizon, and in his expectation of the heaving in sight of another sail, that he soon came to spend most of his time there. He barely gave himself time to cook and eat his breakfast before setting out for the spot, and frequently he remained there the livelong day, having carried up enough of provision to satisfy his hunger. At first, while there, he employed himself in the erection of a rude flag-staff, and thus kept himself busy and reasonably cheerful. He cut the pole with some difficulty, his clasp-knife being but a poor substitute for an axe; then he bored a hole at the top to reave the halliards through. These latter he easily made by plaiting together threads of cocoanut-fibre, which were both tough and long. When ready, he set up and fixed the staff, and hoisted thereon several huge leaves of the palm-tree, which, in their natural size and shape, formed excellent flags. When, however, all this was done, he was reduced to a state of idleness, and his mind began to dwell morbidly on the idea of being left to spend the rest of his days on the island. His converse with Cuffy became so sad that the spirits of that sagacious and sympathetic dog were visibly affected. He did, indeed, continue to lick his master's hand lovingly, and to creep close to his side on all occasions; but he ceased to wag his expressive tail with the violence that used to characterise that appendage in other days, and became less demonstrative in his conduct. All this, coupled with constant exposure in all sorts of weather-- although Jarwin was not easily affected by a breeze or a wet jacket-- began at last to undermine the health of the stout seaman. He became somewhat gaunt and hollow-cheeked, and his beard and moustache, which of course he could not shave, and which, for a long time, presented the appearance of stubble, added to the lugubriosity of his aspect. As a climax to his distress, he one day lost his dog! When it went off, or where it went to, he could not tell, but, on rousing up one morning and putting out his hand almost mechanically to give it the accustomed pat of salutation, he found that it was gone. A thrill of alarm passed through his frame on making this discovery, and, leaping up, he began to shout its name. But no answering bark was heard. Again and again he shouted, but in vain. Without taking time to put on his coat, he ran to the top of the nearest eminence, and again shouted loud and long. Still no answer. A feeling of desperate anxiety now took possession of the man. The bare idea of being left in utter loneliness drove him almost distracted. For some time he ran hither and thither, calling passionately to his dog, until he became quite exhausted; then he sat down on a rock, and endeavoured to calm his spirit and consider what he should do. Indulging in his tendency to think aloud, he said-- "Come now, John, don't go for to make a downright fool of yerself. Cuffy has only taken a longer walk than usual. He'll be home to breakfast; but you may as well look a bit longer, there's no sayin' wot may have happened. He may have felled over a precepiece or sprain'd his leg. Don't you give way to despair anyhow, John Jarwin, but nail yer colours to the mast, and never say die." Somewhat calmed by these encouraging exhortations, the sailor rose up and resumed his search in a more methodical way. Going down to the sea, he walked thence up to the edge of the bush, gazing with the utmost intensity at the ground all the way, in the hope of discovering Cuffy's fresh footsteps; but none were to be seen. "Come," said he, "it's clear that you haven't gone to the s'uth'ard o' yer home; now, we'll have a look to the nor'ard." Here he was more successful. The prints of Cuffy's small paws were discovered on the wet sand bearing northward along shore. Jarwin followed them up eagerly, but, coming to a place where the sand was hard and dry, and covered with thin grass, he lost them. Turning back to where they were distinct, he recommenced the search. No red Indian, in pursuit of friend or foe, ever followed up a trail with more intense eagerness than poor Jarwin followed the track of his lost companion. He even began to develop, in quite a surprising way, some of the deep sagacity of the savage; for he came, before that day was over, not only to distinguish the prints of Cuffy's paws on pretty hard sand, where the impressions were very faint, but even on rough ground, where there were no distinct marks at all--only such indications as were afforded by the pressure of a dead leaf into soft ground, or the breaking of a fallen twig! Nevertheless, despite his care, anxiety, and diligence, Jarwin failed to find his dog. He roamed all that day until his limbs were weary, and shouted till his voice was hoarse, but only echoes answered him. At last he sat down, overcome with fatigue and grief. It had rained heavily during the latter part of the day and soaked him to the skin, but he heeded it not. Towards evening the weather cleared up little, but the sun descended to the horizon in a mass of black clouds, which were gilded with [a] strange lurid light that presaged a storm; while sea-birds flew overhead and shrieked in wild excitement, as if they were alarmed at the prospect before them. But Jarwin observed and cared for none of these things. He buried his face in his hands, and sat for some time perfectly motionless. While seated thus, a cold shiver passed through his frame once or twice, and he felt unusually faint. "Humph!" said he, the second time this occurred, "strange sort o' feelin'. Never felt it before. No doubt it's in consikince o' goin' without wittles all day. Well, well," he added, with a deep long-drawn sigh, "who'd have thought I'd lose 'ee, Cuff, in this fashion. It's foolish, no doubt, to take on like this, but I can't help it somehow. I don't believe I could feel much worse if I had lost my old 'ooman. It's kurious, but I feels awful lonesome without 'ee, my doggie." He was interrupted by the shivering again, and was about to rise, when a long low wail struck on his ear. He listened intently. No statue ever sat more motionless on its pedestal than did Jarwin during the next three minutes. Again the wail rose, faint and low at first, then swelling out into a prolonged loud cry, which, strange to say, seemed to be both distant and near. John Jarwin was not altogether free from superstition. His heart beat hard under the influence of a mingled feeling of hope and fear; but when he heard the cry the third time, he dismissed his fears, and, leaping up, hurried forward in the direction whence the sound appeared to come. The bushes were thick and difficult to penetrate, but he persevered on hearing a repetition of the wail, and was thus led into a part of the island which he had not formerly visited. Presently he came to something that appeared not unlike an old track; but, although the sun had not quite set, the place was so shut in by tangled bushes and trees that he could see nothing distinctly. Suddenly he put his right foot on a mass of twigs, which gave way under his weight, and he made a frantic effort to recover himself. Next moment, he fell headlong into a deep hole or pit at the bottom of which he lay stunned for some time. Recovering, he found that no bones were broken, and after considerable difficulty, succeeded in scrambling out of the hole. Just as he did so, the wail was again raised; but it sounded so strange, and so unlike any sound that Cuffy could produce, that he was tempted to give up the search--all the more that his recent fall had so shaken his exhausted frame that he could scarcely walk. While he stood irresolute, the wail was repeated, and, this time, there was a melancholy sort of "bow-wow" mingled with it, that sent the blood careering through his veins like wildfire. Fatigue and hunger were forgotten. Shouting the name of his dog, he bounded forward, and would infallibly have plunged head-foremost into another pit, at the bottom of which Cuffy lay, had not that wise creature uttered a sudden bark of joy, which checked his master on the very brink. "Hallo! _Cuff_, is that you, my doggie?" "Bow, wow, _wow_!" exclaimed Cuffy in tones which there could be no mistaking, although the broken twigs and herbage which covered the mouth of the pit muffled them a good deal, and accounted for the strangeness of the creature's howls when heard at a distance. "Why, where ever have 'ee got yourself into?" said Jarwin, going down on his knees and groping carefully about the opening of the pit. "I do believe you've bin an' got into a trap o' some sort. The savages must have been here before us, doggie, and made more than one of 'em, for I've just comed out o' one myself. Hallo! _there_, I'm into another!" he exclaimed as the treacherous bank gave way, and he slipped in headlong, with a dire crash, almost smothering Cuffy in his fall. Fortunately, no damage, beyond a few scratches, resulted either to dog or man, and in a few minutes more both stood upon firm ground. It would be vain, reader to attempt to give you in detail all that John Jarwin said and did on that great occasion, as he sat there on the ground caressing his dog as if it had been his own child. We leave it to your imagination! When he had expended the first burst of feeling, he got up, and was about to retrace his steps, when he observed some bones lying near him. On examination, these proved to be the skeleton of a man. At first Jarwin thought it must be that of a native; but he was startled to find among the dust on which the skeleton lay several brass buttons with anchors on them. That he stood beside the remains of a brother seaman, who had probably been cast on that island, as he himself had been, seemed very evident, and the thought filled him with strange depressing emotions. As it was by that time too dark to make further investigations, he left the place, intending to return next day; and, going as cautiously as possible out of the wood, returned to his abode, where he kindled a fire, gave Cuffy some food, and prepared some for himself; but before he had tasted that food another of the shivering fits seized him. A strange feeling of being very ill, and a peculiar wandering of his mind, induced him to throw himself on his couch. The prolonged strain to which body and mind had been subjected had proved too much for him, and before morning he was stricken with a raging fever. CHAPTER FOUR. HOPES AND FEARS AND STERN RESOLVES LEAD TO VIGOROUS ACTION. For several days the sailor lay tossing in helpless misery in his bower, without food or fire. Indeed he could not have eaten even if food had been offered him, and as to fire, there was heat enough in his veins, poor fellow! to more than counterbalance the want of that. During part of the time he became delirious, and raved about home and sea-life and old companions in a way that evidently quite alarmed Cuffy, for that sagacious terrier approached his master with caution, with his tail between his legs, and a pitiful, earnest gaze, that was quite touching. This was partly owing to the fact that Jarwin had several times patted him with such painful violence as to astonish and render him doubtful of the affection displayed by such caresses. Jarwin also recurred at these times to his tobacco and beer, and apparently suffered a good deal from dreams about those luxuries. In his ravings he often told Cuffy to fill a pipe for him, and advised him to look sharp about it, and he frequently reproached some of his old comrades for not passing the beer. Fortunately the fountain was close at hand, and he often slaked his burning thirst at it. He also thought frequently of the skeleton in the thicket, and sometimes raved with an expression of horror about being left to die alone on a desert island. By degrees the fever reached its climax, and then left him almost dead. For a whole day and night he lay so absolutely helpless that it cost him an effort to open his eyes, and he looked so ill that the poor dog began to whine piteously over him, but the day after that a sensation of hunger induced him to make an effort to rouse up. He tried to raise his head--it felt as if made of lead. "Hallo! Cuffy, somethin' wrong I suspect!" It was the first time for many days that Jarwin had spoken in his natural tones. The effect on the dog was instantaneous and powerful. It sprang up, and wagged its expressive tail with something of the energy of former times; licked the sick man's face and hands; whined and barked intelligently; ran away in little bursts, as if it had resolved to undertake a journey off-hand, but came back in a few seconds, and in many other ways indicated its intense delight at finding that Jarwin was "himself again." But alas! Jarwin was not quite himself yet, and Cuffy, after his first ebullition, sat looking in surprise at the invalid, as he strove to turn on his side, and reach out his heavy hand and skinny arm towards a few scraps of the last meal he had cooked before being struck down. Cuffy, after eating the portion of that meal that suited his taste, had left the remnants there as being unworthy of notice, and catered for himself among the dead fish cast up on the beach. Although lying within a yard of his couch, Jarwin had the greatest difficulty in reaching the food; and when he did at length succeed in grasping it, he fell back on his couch, and lay for a long time as if dead. Soon, however, he recovered, and, with a feeling of gratitude such as he had never before experienced, began to gnaw the hard morsels. "I'm in a bad way, Cuff," he said, after satisfying the first cravings of hunger. Cuffy gave a responsive wag with his tail, and cocked his ears for more. "Hows'ever, seems to me that I've got the turn; let's be thankful for _that_, my doggie. Wonder how long I've bin ill. Months mayhap. Don't think I could have come to be sitch a skeleton in a short time. Ha! that minds me o' the skeleton in the wood. Have 'ee seed it, Cuff, since I found 'ee there? Well, I must eat and drink too, if I would keep the skin on _my_ skeleton. Wish you had hands, doggie, for I'm greatly in need o' help just now. But you're a comfort, anyhow, even though you hain't got no hands. I should have died without you, my doggie--you cheer me up, d'ee see, and when it's nigh low water with a man, it don't take much to make him slip his cable. The want of a kind look at this here time, Cuffy, would have sent me adrift, I do believe." It must not be supposed that all this was spoken fluently. It came slowly, by fits and starts, with a long pause at the end of each sentence, and with many a sigh between, expressive of extreme weakness. "I wish I had a drink, Cuffy," said the invalid after a long pause, turning a longing look towards the spring, which welled up pleasantly close to the opening of the hut. "Ay, that's all very well in its way, but bow-wowin' an' waggin' yer tail won't fetch me a can o' water. Hows'ever, it's o' no manner o' use wishin'. `Never say die.' Here goes." So saying, he began slowly and painfully, but with unyielding perseverance, to push, and draw, and hitch himself, while lying at full length, towards the spring, which he reached at last so exhausted, that he had barely put his lips to it and swallowed a mouthful, when his head dropped, and he almost fainted. He was within an ace of being drowned, but with a violent effort he drew his face out of the spring, and lay there in a half unconscious condition for some time, with the clear cool water playing about his temples. Reviving in a little time, he took another sip, and then crawled back to his couch. Immediately he fell into a profound slumber, from which Cuffy strove in vain to awaken him; therefore, like a sagacious dog, he lay down at his master's side and joined him in repose. From that hour Jarwin began to mend rapidly. In a few days he was able to walk about with the aid of a stick. In a few weeks he felt somewhat like his former self, and soon after that, he was able to ascend to the top of the island, and resume his watch for a passing sail. But the first few hours of his watch beside the old flagstaff convinced him that his hopes would, in all probability, be doomed to disappointment, and that he would soon fall back into a state of apathy, from which he might perhaps be unable to rouse himself, in which case his fate would certainly be that of the poor sailor whose remains he had that day buried in the pit near to which they had been discovered. He resolved, therefore, to give up watching altogether, and to devote all his energies in future to devising some plan of escape from the island, but when he bent his mind to this task he felt a deep sinking of the heart, for he had no implements wherewith to construct a boat or canoe. Suddenly it occurred to him, for the first time in his life, that he ought, in this extremity, to pray to God for help. He was, as we have said, a straightforward man, prompt to act as well as ready to conceive. He fell on his knees at once, humbly confessed his sin in depending so entirely on himself in time past, and earnestly asked help and guidance for the future. His prayer was not long--neither was the publican's-- but it was effectual. He arose with feelings of strong resolution and confidence, which appeared to himself quite unaccountable, for he had not, as yet, conceived any new idea or method as to escaping from the island. Instead of setting his mind to work, as he had intended, he could not help dwelling on the fact that he had never before deliberately asked help from his Maker, and this raised a train of self-condemnatory thoughts which occupied him the remainder of that day. At night he prayed again before laying down to rest. Next morning he rose like a giant refreshed, and, after a plunge in the sea and a hearty breakfast, set out with Cuffy for a meditative walk. Great were the thoughts that swelled the seaman's broad chest during that walk, and numerous, as well as wild and quaint, were the plans of escape which he conceived and found it necessary to abandon. "It's harder work to think it out than I had expected, Cuffy," he said, sitting down on a cliff that overlooked the sea, and thinking aloud. "If you and I could only swim twenty miles or so at a stretch, I'd risk it; but, as nothin' short o' that would be likely to be of sarvice, we must give it up. Then, if I could only cut down trees with my shoe, and saw planks with my jacket, we might make a boat; but I can't do that, and we haven't no nails--except our toe-nails, which ain't the right shape or strong enough; so we must give that up too. It's true that we might burn a canoe out of a solid tree, but who's to cut down the solid tree for us, doggie? I'm sure if the waggin' of a tail could do it you wouldn't be long about it! Why on earth can't 'ee keep it still for a bit? Well, then, as we can't swim or fly, and haven't a boat or canoe, or the means o' makin' em, what's the next thing to be done?" Apparently neither man nor dog could return an answer to that question, for they both sat for a very long time in profound silence, staring at the sea. After some time Jarwin suddenly exclaimed, "I'll do it!" Cuffy, startled by the energy with which it was said, jumped up and said, "That's right!"--or something very like it--with his eyes. "Yes, Cuffy, I'll make a raft, and you and I shall get on it, some day, with a fair wind, and make for the island that we think we've seen so often on the horizon." He alluded here to a faint blue line which, on unusually fine and clear days, he had distinguished on the horizon to the southward, and which, from its always appearing on the same spot, he believed to be land of some sort, although it looked nothing more than a low-lying cloud. "So that's settled," continued Jarwin, getting up and walking smartly back to his hut with the air of a man who has a purpose in view. "We shall make use of the old raft, as far as it'll go. Luckily the sail is left, as you and I know, Cuff, for it has been our blanket for many a day, and when all's ready we shall go huntin', you and I, till we've got together a stock of provisions, and then--up anchor and away! We can only be drownded once, you know, and it's better that than stopping here to die o' the blues. What think 'ee o' that, my doggie?" Whatever the doggie thought of the idea, there can be no question what he thought of the cheery vigorous tones of his master's voice, for he gambolled wildly round, barked with vociferous delight, and wagged his "spanker boom" to such an extent that Jarwin warned him to have a care lest it should be carried away, an' go slap overboard. In pursuance of the designs thus expressed, the sailor began the construction of a raft without delay, and worked at it diligently the remainder of that day. He found, on examination, that a considerable portion of the old raft yet remained stranded on the beach, though all the smaller spars of which it had been composed had been used for firewood. With great difficulty he rolled these logs one by one into the sea, and, getting astride of each, pushed them by means of a pole towards a point of rocks, or natural jetty, alongside of which the water was deep. Here he fastened them together by means of a piece of rope-- one of the old fastenings which remained to him, the others having been used in the construction of the hut. The raft thus formed was, however, much too small to weather a gale or float in a rough sea. In whatever way he placed the spars the structure was too narrow for safety. Seeing, therefore, that it was absolutely necessary to obtain more logs, he set brain and hands to work without delay. Many years before, he had seen an ancient stone hatchet in a museum, the head of which was fastened to the haft by means of a powerful thong of untanned hide. He resolved to make a hatchet of this sort. Long did he search the beach for a suitable stone, but in vain. At last he found one pretty nearly the proper shape, which he chipped and ground into the rude form of an axe. It had no eye for the handle. To have made a hole in it would have weakened the stone too much. He therefore cut a groove in the side of the handle, placed the head of the stone into it, and completed the fastening by tying it firmly with the tough fibrous roots of a tree. It was strongly and neatly made, though clumsy in appearance, but, do what he would, he could not put a sufficiently fine edge on it, and although it chipped pretty well when applied to the outside of a tree, it made very slow progress indeed as the cut deepened, and the work became so toilsome at last that he almost gave it up in despair. Suddenly it occurred to him that fire might be made use of to facilitate the work. Selecting a tall cocoanut-tree, he piled dry wood all round the foot of it. Before setting it on fire he dipped a quantity of cocoanut fibre in the sea and tied a thick belt of this round the tree just above the pile, so as to protect the upper parts of the spar from the flames as much and as long as possible. This done, he kindled the pile. A steady breeze fanned the flame into an intense fire, which ere long dried up the belt of fibre and finally consumed it. The fire was pretty well burnt out by that time, however, so that the upper part of the stem had been effectually preserved. Removing the ashes, he was rejoiced to find that the foot of the tree had been so deeply burned that several inches of it were reduced to charcoal, which his stone hatchet readily cut away, and the operation was so successful that it only required a second fire to enable him to fell the tree. This done, he measured it off in lengths. Under each point of measurement he piled up dry wood--which consisted merely of broken branches--with belts of wet fibre on each side of these piles. Then, applying a light to the fires he reduced the parts to charcoal as before, and completed the work with the hatchet. Thus, in the course of a single day, he felled a tall tree and cut it up into six lengths, which he rolled down to the sea and floated off to the end of the jetty. Next day Jarwin rose with the sun, and began to make twine of twisted cocoanut fibre--of which there was great abundance to be had everywhere. When a sufficient quantity had been made he plaited the twine into cords, and the cords into stout ropes, which, although not so neat as regular ropes, were, nevertheless, sufficiently pliable and very strong. Several days were spent over this somewhat tedious process; and we may mention here, that in all these operations the busy seaman was greatly assisted by his dog, who stuck close to him all the time, encouraging him with looks and wags of approbation. After the ropes were made, the raft was put together and firmly lashed. There was a mast and yard in the centre of it, and also a hollow, formed by the omission of a log, which was just large enough to permit of the man and his dog lying down. This hollow, slight though it was, afterwards proved of the utmost service. It is needless to recount all the details of the building and provisioning of this raft. Suffice it to say that, about three weeks after the idea of it had been conceived, it was completed and ready for sea. During his residence on the island, although it had only extended over a few months, Jarwin had become very expert in the use of a sharp-pointed pole, or javelin, with which he had become quite an adept in spearing fish. He had also become such a dead-shot with a stone that when he managed to get within thirty yards of a bird, he was almost certain to hit it. Thus he was enabled to procure fish and fowl as much as he required and as the woods abounded with cocoa-nuts, plums, and other wild fruits, besides many edible roots, he had no lack of good fare. Now that he was about to "go to sea," he bethought him of drying some of the fruits as well as curing some fish and birds. This he did by degrees, while engaged on the raft, so that when all was ready he had a store of provisions sufficient to last him several weeks. In order to stow all this he removed another log from the middle of the raft, and, having deposited the food in the hollow--carefully wrapped in cocoanut leaves and made into compact bundles--he covered it over by laying a layer of large leaves above it and lashing a small spar on the top of them to keep them down. The cask with which he had landed from the original raft, and which he had preserved with great care, not knowing how soon he might be in circumstances to require it, served to hold fresh water. On a fine morning about sunrise, Jarwin embarked with his little dog and bade farewell to the coral island, and although he had not dwelt very long there, he felt, to his own surprise, much regret at quitting it. A fresh breeze was blowing in the direction of the island--or the supposed island--he wished to reach. This was important, because, in such a craft, it was impossible to sail in any way except before the wind. Still, by means of a rude oar or paddle, he could modify its direction so as to steer clear of the passage through the reef and get out to sea. Once outside, he squared the sail and ran right before the breeze. Of course such a weighty craft went very slowly through the water, but the wind was pretty strong, and to Jarwin, who had been for a comparatively long time unaccustomed to moving on the water, the speed seemed fast enough. As the island went astern, and the raft lifted and fell gently on the long swell of the ocean, the seaman's heart beat with a peculiar joy to which it had long been a stranger, and he thanked God fervently for having so soon answered his prayer. For a long time he sat reclining in the hollow of the raft, resting his hand lightly on the steering oar and gazing in silence at the gradually fading woods of his late home. The dog, as if it were aware that a great change was being effected in their destiny, lay also perfectly still--and apparently contemplative--at his master's feet; resting his chin on a log and gazing at the receding land. It was evident, however, that _his_ thoughts were not absent or wandering, for, on the slightest motion made by his master, his dark eyes turned towards him, his ears slightly rose, and his tail gave the faintest possible indication of an intention to wag. "Well, Cuffy," said Jarwin at last, rousing himself with a sigh, "wot are 'ee thinking of?" The dog instantly rose, made affectionate demonstrations, and whined. "Ah, you may well say that, Cuff," replied the man; "I know you ain't easy in yer mind, and there's some reason in that, too, for we're off on a raither uncertain viage, in a somewhat unseaworthy craft. Howsever, cheer up, doggie. Whoever turns up, you and I shall sink or swim together." Just then the sail flapped. "Hallo! Cuff," exclaimed Jarwin, with a look of anxiety, "the wind's going to shift." This was true. The wind did shift, and in a few minutes had veered so much round that the raft was carried away from the blue line on the horizon, which Jarwin had so fondly hoped would turn out to be an inhabited island. It blew lightly, however, and when the sun went down, had completely died away. In these circumstances Jarwin and his dog supped together, and then lay down to rest, full of sanguine hope. They were awakened during the night by a violent squall, which, however, did no further damage than wash a little spray over them, for Jarwin had taken the precaution to lower and make fast the sail. He now turned his attention to preparing the raft for rough weather. This consisted in simply drawing over the hollow--in which he, his dog, and his provisions lay--a piece of canvas that he had cut off the sail, which was unnecessarily large. It served as a tarpaulin, and effectually shielded them from ordinary sprays, but when the breeze freshened to a gale, and green seas swept over the _raft_, it leaked so badly, that Jarwin's cabin became a salt-water bath, and his provisions by degrees were soaked. At first he did not mind this much, for the air and water were sufficiently warm, but after being wet for several hours he began feel chilled. As for poor Cuffy, his trembling body bore testimony to the state of his feelings; nevertheless he did not complain, being a dog of high spirit and endurance. In these circumstances the seaman hailed the rising sun with great joy, even although it rose in the midst of lurid murky clouds, and very soon hid its face altogether behind them, as if it had made up its mind that the state of things below was so bad as to be not worth shining upon. All that day and night the gale continued, and they were driven before it. The waves rushed so continuously and furiously over the raft, that it was with the utmost difficulty Jarwin could retain his position on it. Indeed it would have been impossible for him to have done so, if he had not taken the precaution of making the hollow in the centre, into which he could crouch, and thus avoid the full force of the seas. Next day the wind abated a little, but the sea still rolled "mountains high." In order to break their force a little, he ventured to show a little corner of the sail. Small though it was, it almost carried away the slender mast, and drove the raft along at a wonderfully rapid rate. At last the gale went down, and, finally, it became a dead calm, leaving the raft like a cork heaving on the mighty swell of the Pacific Ocean. Weary and worn--almost dead with watching and exposure--John Jarwin lay down and slept, but his slumber was uneasy and unrefreshing. Sunrise awoke him, and he sat up with a feeling of deep thankfulness, as he basked once more in its warm rays and observed that the sky above him was bright blue. But other feelings mingled with these when he gazed round on the wide waste of water, which still heaved its swelling though now unruffled breast, as if panting after its recent burst of fury. "Ho! Cuffy--what's that? Not a sail, eh?" exclaimed Jarwin, suddenly starting up, while his languid eyes kindled with excitement. He was right. After a long, earnest, anxious gaze, he came to the conclusion that it _was_ a sail which shone, white and conspicuous, like a speck or a snow-flake on the horizon. CHAPTER FIVE. JARWIN AND CUFFY FALL INTO BAD COMPANY. Immediately on discovering the sail, Jarwin hoisted a small canvas flag, which he had prepared for the purpose, to the mast-head, and then sat down to watch with indescribable earnestness the motions of the vessel. There was great cause for anxiety he well knew, because his raft was a mere speck on the great waste of waters which might easily be overlooked even by a vessel passing at a comparatively short distance, and if the vessel's course should happen to lie across that of the raft, there was every probability she would only be visible for a short time and then pass away like a ray of hope dying out. After gazing in perfect silence for half-an-hour, Jarwin heaved a deep sigh and said-- "She steers this way, Cuffy." Cuffy acknowledged the remark with a little whine and a very slight wag of his tail. It was evident that his spirits had sunk to a low ebb, and that he was not prepared to derive comfort from every trifling circumstance. "Come, we'll have a bit of summat to eat, my doggie," said the sailor, reaching forward his hand to the provision bundle. Thoroughly understanding and appreciating this remark, Cuffy roused himself and looked on with profound interest, while his master cut up a dried fish. Having received a large share of it, he forgot everything else, and devoted all his powers, physical and mental, to the business in hand. Although Jarwin also applied himself to the food with the devotion of a man whose appetite is sharp, and whose strength needs recruiting, he was very far indeed from forgetting other things. He kept his eyes the whole time on the approaching sail, and once or twice became so absorbed and so anxious lest the vessel should change her course, that he remained with his mouth half open, and with the unconsumed morsel reposing therein for a minute or more at a time. But the vessel did not change her course. On she came; a fine large schooner with raking masts, and so trim and neat in her rig that she resembled a pleasure-yacht. As she drew near, Jarwin rose, and holding on to the mast, waved a piece of canvas, while Cuffy, who felt that there was now really good ground for rejoicing, wagged his tail and barked in an imbecile fashion, as if he didn't exactly know whether to laugh or cry. "We're all safe now, doggie," exclaimed Jarwin, as the schooner came cutting through the water before a light breeze, leaving a slight track of foam in her wake. When within about two or three hundred yards of the raft, the castaway could see that a figure leant on the vessel's side and brought a telescope to bear on him. With a feeling of irrepressible gladness he laughed and waved his hand. "Ay, ay, take a good squint," he shouted, "an' then lower a boat--eh!--" He stopped abruptly, for at that moment the figure turned towards the steersman; the schooner's head fell away, presenting her stern to the raft, and began to leave her behind. The truth flashed upon Jarwin like a thunderbolt. It was clear that the commander of the strange vessel had no intention of relieving him. In the first burst of mingled despair and indignation, the seaman uttered a bass roar of defiance that might have done credit to the lungs of a small carronade, and at the same time shook his fist at the retiring schooner. The effect of this was as sudden as it was unexpected. To his surprise he observed that the schooner's head was immediately thrown up into the wind, and all her sails shook for a few moments, then, filling out again, the vessel bent gracefully over on the other tack. With returning joy the castaway saw her run straight towards him. In a few minutes she was alongside, and her topsails were backed. "Look out! catch hold!" cried a gruff voice, as a sailor sent a coil of rope whirling over the raft. Jarwin caught it, took a turn round the mast, and held on. In a minute the raft was alongside. Weak though he was, Jarwin retained enough of his sailor-like activity to enable him to seize a rope and swing himself on board with Cuffy in his arms. He found himself on the pure white deck of a craft which was so well appointed and so well kept, that his first impressions were revived-- namely, that she was a pleasure-yacht. He knew that she was not a vessel of war, because, besides the absence of many little things that mark such a vessel, the few men on deck were not clothed like man-of-war's-men, and there was no sign of guns, with the exception of one little brass carronade, which was probably used as a signal-gun. A tall stout man, in plain costume, which was neither quite that of a seaman nor a landsman, stood with his arms crossed on his broad chest near the man at the wheel. To him, judging him to be the captain or owner of the vessel, Jarwin went up, and, pulling his forelock by way of salutation, said-- "Why, sir, I thought 'ee was a-goin' to leave me!" "So I was," answered the captain, drily. "Hold on to the raft," he added, turning to the man who had thrown the rope to Jarwin. "Well, sir," said the latter in some surprise, "in course I don't know why you wos a-goin' to leave a feller-creetur to his fate, but I'm glad you didn't go for to do it, 'cos it wouldn't have bin Christian-like. But I'm bound for to thank 'ee, sir, all the same for havin' saved me-- and Cuffy." "Don't be too free with your thanks, my good man," returned the captain, "for you're not saved, as you call it, yet." "Not saved yet?" repeated Jarwin. "No. Whether I save you or not depends on your keeping a civil tongue in your head, and on your answers to my questions." The captain interlarded his speech with many oaths, which, of course, we omit. This, coupled with his rude manners, induced Jarwin to suspect that the vessel was not a pleasure-yacht after all, so he wisely held his peace. "Where do you belong to?" demanded the captain. "To Yarmouth, sir." "What ship did you sail in, what has come of her, and how came you to be cast adrift?" "I sailed in the _Nancy_, sir, from Plymouth, with a miscellaneous cargo for China. She sprung a leak in a gale, and we was 'bliged to make a raft, the boats bein' all stove in or washed away. It was barely ready when the ship went down starn foremost. Durin' the gale all my mates were washed off the raft or died of exposure; only me and my dog left." "How long ago was that?" asked the captain. "Couldn't rightly say, sir, I've lost count o' time, but it's more than a year gone by anyhow." "That's a lie," said the captain, with an oath. "No, 'taint, sir," replied Jarwin, reddening, "it's a truth. I was nigh starved on that raft, but was cast on an island where I've bin till a few days ago ever since, when I put to sea on the raft that now lays a-starn there." For a few seconds the captain made no rejoinder, but a glance at the raft seemed to satisfy him of the truth of what was said. At length he said abruptly-- "What's your name?" "John Jarwin, sir." "Well, John Jarwin, I'll save you on one condition, which is, that you become one of my crew, and agree to do my bidding and ask no questions. What say you?" Jarwin hesitated. "Haul up the raft and let this man get aboard of it," said the captain, coolly but sternly, to the seaman who held the rope. "You've no occasion to be so sharp, sir," said John, remonstratively. "If you wos to tell me to cut my own throat, you know, I could scarce be expected for to do it without puttin' a few questions as to the reason why. You're a trader, I suppose?" "Yes, I'm a trader," replied the captain, "but I don't choose to be questioned by you. All you've got to do is to agree to my proposal or to walk over the side. To tell you the truth, when I saw you first through the glass, you looked such a starved wretch that I thought you'd be of no use to me, and if it hadn't been for the yell you gave, that showed there was something in you still, I'd have left you to sink or swim. So you see what sort of man you've got to deal with. I'm short-handed, but not so short as to engage an unwilling man, or a man who wouldn't be ready for any sort of dirty work. You may take your choice." "Well, sir," replied Jarwin, "I've no objection to take service with 'ee. As the sayin' goes, `beggars mustn't be choosers.' I ain't above doin' dirty work, if required." John Jarwin, in the simplicity of his heart, imagined that the captain was in need of a man who could and would turn his hand to any sort of work, whether nautical or otherwise, on board ship or ashore, which was his idea of "dirty work;" but the captain appeared to understand him in a different sense, for he smiled in a grim fashion, nodded his head, and, turning to the seaman before mentioned, bade him cut the raft adrift. The man obeyed, and in a few minutes it was out of sight astern. "Now, Jarwin, go below," said the captain; "Isaacs will introduce you to your messmates." Isaacs, who had just cut away the raft, was a short, thick-set man, with a dark, expressionless face. He went forward without saying a word, and introduced Jarwin to the men as a "new 'and." "And a green un, I s'pose; give us your flipper, lad," said one of the crew, holding out his hand. Jarwin shook it, took off his cap and sat down, while his new friends began, as they expressed it, to pump him. Having no objection to be pumped, he had soon related the whole of his recent history. In the course of the narrative he discovered that his new associates were an unusually rough set. Their language was interspersed with frightful oaths, and their references to the captain showed that his power over them was certainly not founded on goodwill or affection. Jarwin also discovered that the freeness of his communication was not reciprocated by his new mates, for when he made inquiries as to the nature of the trade in which they were engaged, some of the men merely replied with uproarious laughter, chaff, or curses, while others made jocular allusions to sandal-wood trading, slaving, etcetera. "I shouldn't wonder now," said one, "if you was to think we was pirates." Jarwin smiled as he replied, "Well, I don't exactly think _that_, but I'm bound for to say the schooner _has_ got such a rakish look that it wouldn't seem unnatural like if you _were_ to hoist a black flag at the peak. An' you'll excuse me, shipmets, if I say that yer lingo ain't just so polished as it might be." "And pray who are _you_, that comes here to lecture us about our lingo?" cried one of the men fiercely, starting up and confronting Jarwin with clenched fists. "Why, mate," replied Jarwin, quietly folding back the cuffs of his coat, and putting himself in an attitude of defence, "I ain't nobody in partikler, not the Lord Chancellor o' England, anyhow still less the Archbishop of Canterbury. I'm only plain Jack Jarwin, seaman, but if you or any other man thinks--" "Come, come," cried one of the men in a tone of authority, starting forward and thrusting Jarwin's assailant violently aside, "none o' that sort o' thing here. Keep your fists for the niggers, Bill, we're all brothers here, you know; an affectionate family, so to speak!" There was a general laugh at this. Bill retired sulkily, and Jarwin sat down to a plate of hot "lob-scouse," which proved to be very good, and of which he stood much in need. For several days our hero was left very much to himself. The schooner sped on her voyage with a fair wind, and the men were employed in light work, or idled about the deck. No one interfered with Jarwin, but at the same time no one became communicative. The captain was a very silent man, and it was evident that the crew stood much in awe of him. Of course Jarwin's suspicions as to the nature of the craft were increased by all this, and from some remarks which he overheard two or three days after his coming on board, he felt convinced that he had fallen into bad company. Before a week had passed, this became so evident that he made up his mind to leave the vessel at the very first opportunity. One day he went boldly to the captain and demanded to know the nature of the trade in which the schooner was employed and their present destination. He was told that that was no business of his, that he had better go forward and mind his duty without more ado, else he should be pitched overboard. The captain used such forcible language when he said this, and seemed so thoroughly in earnest, that Jarwin felt no longer any doubt as to his true character. "I'll tell you what it is, my lad," said the captain, "my schooner is a trader or a man-of-war according to circumstances, and I'm a free man, going where I choose and doing what I please. I treat my men well when they do their duty; when they don't I make 'em walk the plank. No doubt you know what that means. If you don't we shall soon teach you. Take to-night to think over it. To-morrow morning I'll have a question or two to ask you. There--go!" Jarwin bowed submissively and retired. That night the moon shone full and clear on the wide ocean's breast, and Jarwin stood at the bow of the schooner, looking sadly over the side, and patting his little dog gently on the head. "Cuffy, you and me's in a fix, I suspect," he murmured in a low tone; "but cheer up, doggie, a way to escape will turn up no doubt." He had scarcely uttered the words when his eye fell on the distant outline of land on the lee bow. He started, and gazed with fixed intensity for some minutes, under the impression that it might perhaps be a fog-bank lighted by the moon, but in a short time it became so distinct that there could be no doubt it was land. He pointed it out to the watch on deck, one of whom said carelessly that he had seen it for some time, and that there were plenty more islands of the same sort in these seas. Jarwin walked aft and stood near the lee gangway contemplating the island in silence for some time. A small oar lay at his feet. Suddenly he conceived the daring idea of seizing this, plunging overboard and attempting to swim to land. He was a splendid swimmer, and although the island appeared to be more than two miles distant, he did not fear failure. A moment's reflection, however, convinced him that the men on deck would certainly hear the plunge, heave the ship to, and lower a boat, in which case he should be immediately overtaken. Still, being resolved to escape at all hazards, he determined to make the venture. Fastening a rope to a belaying pin, he tied the oar to it and lowered it over the side until it trailed in the water, he then lifted Cuffy, who was almost always near him, on to the side of the vessel, with a whisper to keep still. The watch paced the weather side of the deck conversing in low tones. The steersman could, from his position, see both gangways, and although the light was not strong enough to reveal what Jarwin was about, it was too strong to admit of his going bodily over the side without being observed. He, therefore, walked slowly to the head of the vessel, where he threw over the end of a small rope. By means of this, when the watch were well aft, he slid noiselessly into the sea, hanging on by one hand and supporting Cuffy with the other. Once fairly in the water he let go, the side of the vessel rubbed swiftly past him, and he all but missed grasping the oar which trailed at the gangway. By this he held on for a few seconds to untie the rope. He had just succeeded and was about to let go, when, unfortunately, the handle of the oar chanced to hit the end of Cuffy's nose a severe blow. The poor dog, therefore, gave vent to a loud yell of pain. Instantly Jarwin allowed himself to sink and held his breath as long as he possibly could, while Cuffy whined and swam on the surface. Meanwhile the men on deck ran to the side. "Hallo!" cried one, "it's Jarwin's little dog gone overboard." "Let it go," cried another with a laugh; "it's a useless brute and eats a power o' grub." "I say, wot a splashin' it do kick up," he added as the little dog was left astern making vain efforts to clamber on the oar. "Why, lads, there's somethin' else floatin' beside it, uncommon like a seal. Are 'ee sure, Bill, that Jarwin hasn't gone overboard along with his dog?" "Why no," replied Bill; "I seed him go forward a little ago; besides it ain't likely he'd go over without givin' a shout." "I dun know that," said the other; "he might have hit his head again' somethin' in tumblin' over." By this time the objects in question were almost out of sight astern. In a few minutes more a dark cloud covered the moon and effectually shut them out from view. Just then the Captain came on deck, and asked what was wrong. "Fools!" he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, on being told, "lower the gig. Look sharp! Don't you see the land, you idiots? The man's away as well as the dog." In a few seconds the topsails were backed and the boat lowered, manned, and pushed off. But Jarwin heard and saw nothing of all this. He was now far astern, for the vessel had been going rapidly through the water. On coming to the surface after his dive he caught hold of Cuffy, and, with a cheering word or two, placed him on his back, telling him to hold on by his paws the best way he could. Then grasping the end of the oar, and pointing the blade land-wards, he struck out vigorously with his legs. It was a long and weary swim, but as his life depended on it, the seaman persevered. When he felt his strength giving way, he raised not only his heart but his voice in prayer to God, and felt restored each time that he did so. Just as he neared the shore, the sound of oars broke on his ears, and presently he heard the well-known voice of the Captain ordering the men to pull hard. Fortunately it was by this time very dark. He landed without being discerned. The surf was heavy, but he was expert in rough water, went in on the top of a billow, and was safely launched on a soft sandy beach, almost at the same moment with the boat. The latter was, however, at a considerable distance from him. He crept cautiously up the shore until he gained a thicket, and then, rising, he plunged into the woods and ran straight before him until he was exhausted, carrying the little dog in his arms. Many a fall and bruise did the poor fellow receive in his progress, but the fear of being retaken by the pirates--for such he felt convinced they were--lent him wings. The Captain and his men made a long search, but finally gave it up, and, returning to the boat, pushed off. Jarwin never saw them again. He and Cuffy lay where they had fallen, and slept, wet though they were, till the sun was high. They were still sleeping when a native chief of the island, happening to pass along the beach, discerned Jarwin's footsteps and traced him out. This chief was an immensely large powerful man, armed with a heavy club. He awoke the sailor with a kick, and spoke in a language which he did not understand. His gestures, however, said plainly enough, "Get up and come along with me," so Jarwin thought it best to obey. Of course whatever Jarwin thought, Cuffy was of precisely the same opinion. They therefore quietly got up and followed the big chief to his village, where they were received by a large concourse of savages with much excitement and curiosity. CHAPTER SIX. OUR HERO BECOMES A FAVOURITE, AND ENTERTAINS HOPES OF ESCAPE. The sufferings which Jarwin with his little dog had hitherto undergone were as nothing compared to those which he endured for some months after being taken prisoner by the savages. At first he gave himself up for lost, feeling assured that ere long he would be sacrificed in the temple of one of their idols, and then baked in an oven and consumed as food, according to the horrible practice of the South-Sea Islanders. Indeed he began to be much astonished that, as day after day passed, there was no sign of any intention to treat him in this way, although several times the natives took him out of the hut in which he was imprisoned, and, placing him in the centre of a circle, held excited and sometimes angry discussions over him. It was not till months afterwards, when he had acquired a slight knowledge of their language, that he came to understand why he was spared at this time. It appeared that four shipwrecked sailors, who had been cast on a neighbouring island, had been killed, baked, and eaten, according to usage, by the chief and his friends. Immediately afterwards, those who had partaken of this dreadful food had been seized with severe illness, and one or two had died. This fact had been known for some time to Jarwin's captors, and the discussions above referred to had been engaged in with reference to the question whether it was likely that the flesh of the white man who had been thrown on their island would be likely to disagree with their stomachs! It was agreed that this was highly probable, and thus the seaman's life was spared; but he was sometimes tempted to wish that it had not been spared, for his master, the Big Chief, was a very hard man; he put him to the most toilsome labour, and treated him with every sort of indignity. Moreover, he was compelled to be a witness of practices so revolting and cruel, that he often put the question to himself whether it was possible for devils to display greater wickedness and depravity than these people. Jarwin was frequently tempted to resent the treatment he received, but, fortunately, he was prudent enough to bear it submissively, for it is certain that if he had rebelled he would have been slain on the spot. Moreover, he set himself to carry out his favourite maxim--namely, that it was wise in all circumstances to make the best of everything. He laboured, therefore, with such goodwill, that he softened the breast of the Big Chief, who gradually became more amiable, and even indulgent to him. Thus he came to know experimentally the wisdom of that Scripture, "Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good." John Jarwin possessed a remarkably fine sonorous bass voice, which, in former days, had been a source of great delight to his messmates. Although strong and deep, it was very sweet and tender in its tones, and eminently suited for pathetic and sentimental songs. Indeed Jarwin's nature was so earnest, that although he had a great deal of quiet humour about him, and could enjoy comic songs very much, he never himself sang anything humorous. Now, it chanced that the Big Chief had a good ear for music, and soon became so fond of the songs which his slave was wont to hum when at work, that he used to make him sit down beside him frequently and sing for hours at a time! Fortunately, Jarwin's lungs were powerful, and his voice being full-toned and loud, he was able to sing as much as his master desired without much exertion. He gave him his whole budget which was pretty extensive--including melodies of the "Black-eyed Susan" and "Ben Bolt" stamp. When these had been sung over and over again, he took to the Psalms and Paraphrases--many of which he knew by heart, and, finally, he had recourse to extempore composition, which he found much easier than he had expected--the tones flowing naturally and the words being gibberish! Thus he became a sort of David to this remarkable Saul. By degrees, as he learnt the native tongue, he held long conversations with the Big Chief, and told him about his own land and countrymen and religion. In regard to the last the Chief was very inquisitive, and informed his slave that white men had been for some time in that region, trying to teach their religion to the men of an island which, though invisible from his island, was not very far distant. Jarwin said little about this, but from that time he began to hope that, through the missionaries, he might be able to make his escape ere long. During all this time poor Cuffy experienced a variety of vicissitudes, and made several narrow escapes. At first he had been caught and was on the point of being killed and roasted, when he wriggled out of his captor's grasp and made off to the mountains, terrorstruck! Here he dwelt for some weeks in profound melancholy. Being unable to stand separation from his master any longer, he ventured to return to the village, but was immediately hunted out of it, and once again fled in horror to the hills. Jarwin was not allowed to quit the village alone, he therefore never saw his little dog, and at length came to the conclusion that it had been killed. When, however, he had ingratiated himself with his master, he was allowed more freedom, and one day, having wandered a considerable distance into the mountains, he came suddenly and unexpectedly upon Cuffy. Having experienced nothing from man of late but the most violent and cruel treatment, Cuffy no sooner beheld, as he supposed, one of his enemies, than, without giving him a second glance, he sprang up, put his ears back, his tail between his legs, and, uttering a terrible yell, fled "on the wings of terror!" But Jarwin put two fingers in his mouth and gave a peculiarly shrill whistle, which brought the dog to a sudden stop. He looked back with ears cocked. Again Jarwin whistled. Instantly Cuffy turned and ran at him with a series of mingled yells, whines, and barks, that gave but a faint idea of his tumultuous feelings. It would scarcely be too much to say that he almost ate his master up. He became like an india-rubber ball gone mad! He bounded round him to such an extent that Jarwin found it very difficult to get hold of or pat him. It is impossible to do justice to such a meeting. We draw a veil over it, only remarking that the sailor took his old favourite back to the village, and, after much entreaty and a good deal of persuasive song, was permitted to keep him. About ten months after this event, war broke out between the Big Chief and a neighbouring tribe of natives, who were a very quarrelsome and vindictive set. The tribe with whom Jarwin dwelt would gladly have lived at peace, but the other tribe was stronger in numbers and thirsted for conquest--a consequence of strength which is by no means confined to savages! When war was formally declared, the Big Chief told Jarwin to prepare himself for battle. At first our hero had some qualms of conscience about it, but on reflecting that on the part of the tribe to which he belonged it was a war of self-defence, his conscience was pacified. The Big Chief ordered him to throw away his now ragged garments, smear his whole body over with oil and red earth, paint black spots on his cheeks, and a white streak down his nose, and put on warrior's costume. In vain Jarwin begged and protested and sang. The Big Chief's blood was up, and his commands must be obeyed, therefore Jarwin did as he was bid; went out to battle in this remarkable costume--if we may so style it-- and proved himself such a prodigy of valour that his prowess went far to turn the tide of victory wherever he appeared during the fight. But we pass over all this. Suffice it to say, that the pugnacious tribe was severely chastised and reduced to a state of quiet--for the time at least. One day, not long after the cessation of the war, a canoe arrived with several natives, all of whom wore clothing of a much more civilised description than is usually seen among South-Sea savages. They had a long, earnest talk with the natives, but Jarwin was not allowed to hear it, or to show himself. Next day they went away. For some time after that Big Chief was very thoughtful, but silent, and Jarwin could not induce him to become confidential until he had sung all his melodies and all his psalms several times over, and had indulged in extempore melody and gibberish until his brain and throat were alike exhausted. The Big Chief gave way at last, however, and told him that his late visitors were Christians, who, with two native teachers, had been sent from a distant island by a white chief named Williams, to try and persuade him and his people to burn their idols. "And are 'ee goin' to do it?" asked Jarwin. "No," replied the Chief, "but I am going to Raratonga to see Cookee Williams." Of course they conversed in the native tongue, but as this would be unintelligible to the reader, we translate. It may also be remarked here that "Cookee" signified a white man, and is a word derived from the visit of that great navigator Captain Cook to these islands, by the natives of which he was ultimately murdered. Jarwin had heard, while in England, of the missionary Williams. On learning that he was among the islands, his heart beat high, and he begged earnestly that he might be allowed to go with the chief and his party to Raratonga, but his wily master would not consent "You will run away!" he said. "No, I won't," said Jarwin, earnestly. Big Chief shook his head. "They will take you from me," he said, "when they find out who you are." "I'll not let 'em," replied Jarwin, with pathetic sincerity, and then began to sing in such a touching strain, that his master lay back on his couch and rolled his large eyes in rapture. "You shall go, Jowin," (that was the best he could make of the name), "if you will make me a promise." "Name it, old boy," said Jarwin. "That you will go dressed like one of my young men, and never open your lips to speak a word, no more than if you were dumb, whether the Cookees speak to you or not." Jarwin hesitated, but reflecting that there was no chance of his seeing the missionary at all if he did not give this promise, he consented. A week after that all the preparations were made, and four large canoes, full of well-armed men, set out for Raratonga. At the time we write of, the island of Raratonga had been recently discovered by the missionary Williams. The success of the labours of that devoted man and his native teachers, is one of the most marvellous chapters in the history of the isles of the Pacific. At Raratonga, God seemed to have prepared the way for the introduction of the Gospel in a wonderful manner, for although the native teachers who first went ashore there were roughly handled, they were enabled, nevertheless, to persevere, and in not much more than a single year, the Gospel wrought a change in the feelings and habits of the people, which was little short of miraculous. Within that brief period they had given up and burnt all their idols, had ceased to practise their bloody and horrible rites, and had embraced Christianity--giving full proof of their sincerity by submitting to a code of laws founded on Scripture, by agreeing to abandon polygamy, by building a large place of worship, and by leading comparatively virtuous and peaceful lives. And all this was begun and carried on for a considerable time, not by the European missionaries but by two of the devoted native teachers, who had previously embraced Christianity. The extent of the change thus wrought in the Raratongans in so short a time by the Gospel, may be estimated by a glance at the difficulties with which the missionaries had to contend. In writing of the ancient usages of the people, Mr Williams, [See Williams' most interesting work, entitled "A Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South-Sea Islands"], tells us that one of their customs was an unnatural practice called _Kukumi anga_. As soon as a son reached manhood, he would fight and wrestle with his father for the mastery, and if he obtained it, would take forcible possession of the farm belonging to his parent, whom he drove in a state of destitution from his home. Another custom was equally unnatural and inhuman. When a woman lost her husband, the relatives of the latter, instead of paying visits of kindness to the fatherless and widow in their affliction, would seize every article of value belonging to the deceased, turn the disconsolate mother and her children away, and possess themselves of the house, food, and land. But they had another custom which caused still greater difficulties to the missionaries. It was called "land-eating"--in other words, the getting possession of each other's lands unjustly, and these, once obtained, were held with the greatest possible tenacity, for land was exceedingly valuable at Raratonga, and on no subject were the contentions of the people more frequent or fierce. From this it will be seen that the Raratongans were apparently a most unpromising soil in which to plant the "good seed," for there is scarcely another race of people on earth so depraved and unnatural as they seem to have been. Nevertheless, God's blessed Word overcame these deep-rooted prejudices, and put an end to these and many other horrible practices in little more than a year. After this glorious work had been accomplished, the energetic missionary--who ultimately laid down his life in one of these islands [_The Island of Erramanga_] for the sake of Jesus Christ--resolved to go himself in search of other islands in which to plant the Gospel, and to send out native teachers with the same end in view. The record of their labours reads more like a romance than a reality, but we cannot afford to diverge longer from the course of our narrative. It was one of these searching parties of native teachers that had visited the Big Chief's island as already described, and it was their glowing words and representations that had induced him to undertake this voyage to Raratonga. Big Chief of course occupied the largest of the four canoes, and our friend Jarwin sat on a seat in front of him--painted and decorated like a native warrior, and wielding a paddle like the rest. Of course Cuffy had been left behind. Poor Jarwin had, during his captivity, undergone the process of being tatooed from head to foot. It had taken several months to accomplish and had cost him inexpressible torture, owing to the innumerable punctures made by the comb-like instrument with which it was done on the inflamed muscles of his body. By dint of earnest entreaty and much song, he had prevailed on Big Chief to leave his face and hands untouched. It is doubtful if he would have succeeded in this, despite the witching power of his melodious voice, had he not at the same time offered to paint his own face in imitation of tatooing, and accomplished the feat to such perfection that his delighted master insisted on having his own painted forthwith in the same style. During a pause in their progress, while the paddlers were resting, Big Chief made his captive sit near him. "You tell me that Cookee-men" (by which he meant white men) "never lie, never deceive." "I shud lie an' deceive myself, if I said so," replied Jarwin, bluntly. "What did you tell me, then?" asked the Chief, with a frown. "I told you that _Christian_ men don't lie or deceive--leastwise they don't do it with a will." "Are _you_ a Christian man, Jowin?" "I am," replied the sailor promptly. Then with a somewhat perplexed air, "Anyhow I _hope_ I am, an' I try to act as sitch." "Good, I will soon prove it. You will be near the Cookee-men of Raratonga to-morrow. You will have chance to go with them and leave me; but if you do, or if you speak one word of Cookee-tongue--you are _not_ Christian. Moreover, I will batter your skull with my club, till it is like the soft pulp of the bread-fruit." "You're a cute fellar, as the Yankees say," remarked Jarwin, with a slight smile. This being said in English, the Chief took no notice of it, but glanced at his slave suspiciously. "Big Chief," said Jarwin, after a short silence, "even before I was a Christian, I had been taught by my mother to be ashamed of telling a lie, so you've no occasion for to doubt me. But it's a hard thing to stand by a countryman, specially in my pecooliar circumstances, an' not let him know that you can speak to him. May I not be allowed to palaver a bit with 'em? I wont ask 'em to take me from you." "No," said the Chief sternly. "You came with me promising that you would not even speak to the Cookee-men." "Well, Big Chief," replied Jarwin, energetically, "you shall see that a British seaman can stick to his promise. I'll be true to you. Honour bright. I'll not give 'em a word of the English lingo if they was to try to tear it out o' me wi' red hot pincers. I'll content myself wi' lookin' at 'em and listenin' to 'em. It'll be a comfort to hear my mother-tongue, anyhow." "Good," replied the Chief, "I trust you." The interval of rest coming to an end at this point, the conversation ceased and the paddles were resumed. It was a magnificent day. The great Pacific was in that condition of perfect repose which its name suggests. Not a breath of air ruffled the wide sheet of water, which lay spread out like a vast circular looking-glass to reflect the sky, and it did reflect the sky with such perfect fidelity, that the clouds and cloudlets in the deep were exact counterparts of those that floated in the air, while the four canoes, resting on their own reflections, seemed to be suspended in the centre of a crystal world, which was dazzlingly lit up by two resplendent suns. This condition of calm lasted the whole of that day and night, and the heat was very great; nevertheless the warriors--of whom there were from forty to fifty in each canoe--did not cease to paddle for an instant, save when the short spells of rest came round, and when, twice during the day, they stopped to eat a hasty meal. When the sun set they still continued to paddle onwards, the only difference being that instead of passing over a sea of crystal, they appeared to traverse an ocean of amber and burnished gold. All night they continued their labours. About daybreak the Chief permitted them to enjoy a somewhat longer period of rest, during which most of them, without lying down, indulged in a short but refreshing nap. Resuming the paddles, they proceeded until sunrise, when their hearts were gladdened by the sight of the blue hills of Raratonga on the bright horizon. "Now we shall soon be at the end of our voyage," said the Chief, as he pointed to the distant hills, and glanced at Jarwin as he might at a prize which he was much afraid of losing. "Remember the promise, you Christian. Don't be a deceiver, you `Breetish tar!'" (He quoted Jarwin here.) "Honour bright!" replied our hero. The savage gazed earnestly into the sailor's bright eyes, and appeared to think that if his honour was as bright as they were, there was not much cause to fear. At all events he looked pleased, nodded his head, and said "Good," with considerable emphasis. By this time the hills of Raratonga were beginning to look less like blue clouds and more like real mountains; gradually as the canoes drew nearer, the markings on them became more and more defined, until at last everything was distinctly visible--rocky eminences and luxuriant valleys, through which flowed streams and rivulets that glittered brightly in the light of the ascending sun, and almost constrained Jarwin to shout with delight, for he gazed upon a scene more lovely by far than anything that he had yet beheld in the Southern Seas. CHAPTER SEVEN. OUR HERO IS EXPOSED TO STIRRING INFLUENCES AND TRYING CIRCUMSTANCES. When the four canoes drew near to the island, immense numbers of natives were seen to assemble on the beach, so that Big Chief deemed it advisable to advance with caution. Presently a solitary figure, either dressed or painted black, advanced in front of the others and waved a white flag. This seemed to increase the Chief's anxiety, for he ordered the men to cease paddling. Jarwin, whose heart had leaped with delight when he saw the dark figure and the white flag, immediately turned round and said-- "You needn't be afraid, old boy; that's the missionary, I'll be bound, in his black toggery, an' a white flag means `peace' among Cookee men." On hearing this, the Chief gave the order to advance, and Jarwin, seizing a piece of native cloth that lay near him, waved it round his head. "Stop that, you Breetish tar!" growled Big Chief, seizing a huge club, which bristled with shark's teeth, and shaking it at the seaman, while his own teeth were displayed in a threatening grin. "All right, old codger," replied the British tar, with a submissive look; "honour bright, honour bright," he added several times, in a low tone, as if to keep himself in mind of his promise. We have already said that our hero and his master talked in the native tongue, which the former had acquired with wonderful facility, but such familiar expressions as "old boy," "old codger," etcetera, were necessarily uttered in English. Fortunately for Jarwin, who was by nature free-and-easy, the savage chief imagined these to be terms of respect, and was, consequently, rather pleased to hear them. Similarly, Big Chief said "Breetish tar" and "Christian" in English, as he had learned them from his captive. When master and slave began to grow fond of each other--as we have seen that they soon did, their manly natures being congenial--they used these expressions more frequently: Jarwin meaning to express facetious goodwill, but his master desiring to express kindly regard, except when he was roused to anger, in which case he did not, however, use them contemptuously, but as expressive of earnest solemnity. On landing, Big Chief and his warriors were received by the Reverend Mr Williams and his native teachers--of whom there were two men and two women--with every demonstration of kindness, and were informed that the island of Raratonga had cast away and burned its idols, and now worshipped the true God, who had sent His Son Jesus Christ to save the world from sin. "I know that," replied Big Chief to the teacher who interpreted; "converts, like yourself, came to my island not long ago, and told me all about it. Now I have come to see and hear. A wise man will know and understand before he acts." Big Chief was then conducted to the presence of the king of that part of the island, who stood, surrounded by his chief men, under a grove of Temanu trees. The king, whose name was Makea, was a handsome man, in the prime of life, about six feet high, and very massive and muscular. He had a noble appearance and commanding aspect, and, though not so tall as Big Chief, was, obviously, a man of superior power in every way. His complexion was light, and his body most beautifully tatooed and slightly coloured with a preparation of tumeric and ginger, which gave it a light orange tinge, and, in the estimation of the Raratongans, added much to the beauty of his appearance. The two chiefs advanced frankly to each other, and amiably rubbed noses together--the South Sea method of salutation! Then a long palaver ensued, in which Big Chief explained the object of his visit, namely, to hear about the new religion, and to witness its effects with his own eyes. The missionary gladly gave him a full account of all he desired to know, and earnestly urged him to accept the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and to throw away his idols. Big Chief and his men listened with earnest attention and intense gravity, and, after the palaver was over, retired to consult together in private. During all this time poor Jarwin's heart had been greatly stirred. Being tatooed, and nearly naked, as well as painted like the rest of his comrades, of course no one took particular notice of him, which depressed him greatly, for he felt an intense desire to seize the missionary by the hand, and claim him as a countryman. Indeed this feeling was so strong upon him on first hearing Mr Williams's English tone of voice--although the missionary spoke only in the native tongue-- that he could scarcely restrain himself, and had to mutter "honour bright" several times, in order, as it were, to hold himself in check. "Honour bright" became his moral rein, or curb, on that trying occasion. But when, in the course of the palaver, Mrs Williams, who had accompanied her husband on this dangerous expedition, came forward and addressed a few words to the missionary in English, he involuntarily sprang forward with an exclamation of delight at hearing once more the old familiar tongue. He glanced, however, at Big Chief, and checked himself. There was a stern expression on the brow of the savage, but his eyes remained fixed on the ground, and his form and face were immovable, as though he heard and saw nothing. "Honour bright," whispered Jarwin, as he turned about and retired among his comrades. Fortunately his sudden action had only attracted the attention of a few of those who were nearest to him, and no notice was taken of it. When Big Chief retired with his men for consultation, he called Jarwin aside. "Jarwin," he said, with unusual gravity, "you must not hear our palaver." "Why not, old feller?" "It is your business to obey, not to question," replied Big Chief, sternly. "Go--when I want you I will find you. You may go and _look_ at the Cookee missionary, but, remember, I have your promise." "Honour bright," replied Jarwin with a sigh. "The promise of a Breetish tar?" "Surely," replied Jarwin. "Of a _Christian_?" said Big Chief, with emphasis. "Aye, that's the idee; but it's a hard case, old boy, to advise a poor feller to go into the very jaws o' temptation. I would rather 'ee had ordered me to keep away from 'em. Howsever, here goes!" Muttering these words to himself, he left his savage friends to hold their palaver, and went straight into the "jaws of temptation," by walking towards the cottage of the missionary. It was a neat wooden erection, built and plastered by the natives. Jarwin hung about the door; sometimes he even ventured to peep in at the windows, in his intense desire to see and hear the long-lost forms and tones of his native land; and, as the natives generally were much addicted to such indications of curiosity, his doing so attracted no unusual attention. While he was standing near the door, Mrs Williams unexpectedly came out. Jarwin, feeling ashamed to appear in so _very_ light a costume before a lady, turned smartly round and walked away. Then, reflecting that he was quite as decently clothed as the other natives about, he turned again and slowly retraced his steps, pretending to be interested in picking stones and plants from the ground. The missionary's wife looked at him for a moment with no greater interest than she would have bestowed on any other native, and then gazed towards the sea-shore, as if she expected some one. Presently Mr Williams approached. "Well, have you been successful?" she asked. "Yes, it has been all arranged satisfactorily, so I shall begin at once," replied Mr Williams. "The only thing that gives me anxiety is the bellows." Poor Jarwin drew nearer and nearer. His heart was again stirred in a way that it had not been for many a day, and he had to pull the rein pretty tightly; in fact, it required all his Christianity and British-tar-hood to prevent him from revealing himself, and claiming protection at that moment. As he raised himself, and gazed with intense interest at the speakers, the missionary's attention became fixed on him, and he beckoned him to approach. "I think you are one of the strangers who have just arrived, are you not?" This was spoken in the language of Raratonga, which was so similar to that which he had already acquired, that he opened his mouth to reply, "Yes, your honour," or "Your reverence," in English. But it suddenly occurred to him that he must translate this into the native tongue if his secret was to be preserved. While he was turning over in his mind the best words to use for this purpose he reflected that the imperfection of his knowledge, even the mere tone of his voice, would probably betray him; he therefore remained dumb, with his mouth open. The missionary smiled slightly, and repeated his question. Jarwin, in great perplexity, still remained dumb. Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. He pointed to his mouth, wagged his tongue, and shook his head. "Ah! you are dumb, my poor man," said the missionary, with a look of pity. "Or tabooed," suggested the lady; "his tongue may have been tabooed." There was some reason and probability in this, for the extraordinary custom of tabooing, by which various things are supposed to be rendered sacred, and therefore not to be used or touched, is extended by the South Sea Islanders to various parts of their bodies, as for instance, the hands; in which case the person so tabooed must, for a time, be fed by others, as he dare not use his hands. Jarwin, being aware of the custom, was so tickled by the idea of his tongue being tabooed, that he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, to the intense amazement of his questioners. While in the midst of this laugh, he became horrified by the thought that _that_ of itself would be sufficient to betray him, so he cleverly remedied the evil, and gave vent to his feelings by tapering the laugh off into a hideous yell, and rushed frantically from the spot. "Strange," observed the missionary, gazing after the fugitive mariner, "how like that was to an English laugh!" "More like the cry of a South Sea maniac, I think," said Mrs Williams, re-entering the house, followed by her husband. The matter which the missionary said had been arranged so satisfactorily, and was to be begun at once, was neither more nor less than the building of a ship, in which to traverse the great island-studded breast of the Pacific. In case some one, accustomed to think of the ponderous vessels which are built constantly in this land with such speed and facility, should be inclined to regard the building of a ship a small matter, we shall point out a few of the difficulties with which the missionary had to contend in this projected work. In the first place, he was on what is sometimes styled a "savage island"--an island that lay far out of the usual track of ships, that had only been discovered a little more than a year at that time, and was inhabited by a blood-thirsty, savage, cruel, and ignorant race of human beings, who had renounced idolatry and embraced Christianity only a few months before. They knew no more of ship-building than the celebrated man in the moon, and their methods of building canoes were quite inapplicable to vessels of large capacity. Besides this, Mr Williams was the only white man on the island, and he had no suitable implements for shipbuilding, except axes and augurs, and a few of the smaller of the carpenter's tools. In the building of a vessel, timbers and planks are indispensable, but he had no pit-saw wherewith to cut these. It is necessary to fasten planks and timbers together, but he had no nails to do this. Heavy iron forgings were required for some parts of the structure, but, although he possessed iron, he had no smith's anvil, or hammer, or tongs, or bellows, wherewith to forge it. In these circumstances he commenced one of the greatest pieces of work ever undertaken by man--greatest, not only because of the mechanical difficulties overcome, but because of the influence for good that the ship, when completed, had upon the natives of the Southern Seas, as well as its reflex influence in exciting admiration, emulation, and enthusiasm in other lands. The first difficulty was the bellows. Nothing could be done without these and the forge. There were four goats on the island. Three of these were sacrificed; their skins were cut up, and, along with two boards, converted into a pair of smith's bellows in four days. No one can imagine the intense interest with which John Jarwin looked on while the persevering but inexperienced missionary laboured at this work, and tremendous was the struggle which he had to keep his hands idle and his tongue quiet; for he was a mechanical genius, and could have given the missionary many a useful hint, but did not dare to do so lest his knowledge, or voice, or aptitude for such work, or all these put together, should betray him. He was, therefore, fain to content himself with looking on, or performing a few trifling acts in the way of lifting, carrying, and hewing with the axe. His friends frequently came to look on, as the work progressed, and he could not help fancying that they regarded him with looks of peculiar interest. This perplexed him, but, supposing that it must result from suspicion of his integrity, he took no notice of it, save that he became more resolute than ever in reference to "honour bright!" Big Chief also came to look on and wonder, but, although he kept a sharp eye on his slave, he did not seem to desire intercourse with him. When the bellows were finished, it was found that they did not work properly. The upper box did not fill well, and, when tried, they were not satisfied with blowing wind out, but insisted on drawing fire in! They were, in short, a failure! Deep were the ponderings of the missionary as to how this was to be remedied, and small was the light thrown on the subject by the various encyclopaedias and other books which he possessed; but the question was somewhat abruptly settled for him by the rats. These creatures devoured all the leather of the bellows in a single night, and left nothing but the bare boards! Rats were an absolute plague at that time at Raratonga. Mr Williams tells us, in his interesting "Narrative," that he and his family never sat down to a meal without having two or more persons stationed to keep them off the table. When kneeling at family prayer, they would run over them in all directions, and it was found difficult to keep them out of the beds. On one occasion, when the servant was making one of the beds, she uttered a scream, and, on rushing into the room, Mr Williams found that four rats had crept under the pillow and made themselves snug there. They paid for their impudence, however, with their lives. On another occasion, a pair of English shoes, which had not been put in the usual place of safety, were totally devoured in a night, and the same fate befell the covering of a hair-trunk. No wonder, then, that they did not spare the bellows! Poor Jarwin sorrowed over this loss fully as much as did the missionary, but he was forced to conceal his grief. Still bent on discovering some method of "raising the wind," Mr Williams appealed to his inventive powers. He considered that if a pump threw water, there was no reason why it should not throw wind. Impressed with this belief, he set to work and made a box about eighteen or twenty inches square and four feet high, with a valve in the bottom to let air in, a hole in the front to let it out, and a sort of piston to force it through the hole. By means of a long lever the piston could be raised, and by heavy weights it was pushed down. Of course considerable power was required to raise the piston and its weights, but there was a superabundance of power, for thousands of wondering natives were ready and eager to do whatever they were bid. They could have pumped the bellows had they been the size of a house! They worked admirably in some respects, but had the same fault as the first pair, namely, a tendency to suck in the fire! This, however, was corrected by means of a valve at the back of the pipe which communicated with the fire. Another fault lay in the length of interval between the blasts. This was remedied by making another box of the same kind, and working the two alternately, so that when one was blowing the fire, the other was, as it were, taking breath. Thus a continuous blast was obtained, while eight or ten grinning and delighted natives worked the levers. The great difficulty being thus overcome, the work progressed rapidly. A large hard stone served for an anvil, and a small stone, perforated, with a handle affixed to it, did duty for a hammer. A pair of carpenter's pincers served for tongs, and charcoal, made from the cocoanut and other trees, did duty for coals. In order to obtain planks, the missionary split trees in half with wedges and then the natives thinned them down with adzes extemporised by fitting crooked handles to ordinary hatchets. When a bent or twisted plank was required, having no apparatus for steaming it, he bent a piece of bamboo to the required shape, and sent natives to scour the woods in search of a suitable crooked tree. Thus planks suited to his purpose were obtained. Instead of fastening the planks to the timbers of the ship with iron nails, large wooden pins, or "trenails," were used, and driven into augur holes, and thus the fabric was held together. Instead of oakum, cocoanut husk was used, and native cloth and dried banana stumps to caulk the seams, and make them watertight. The bark of a certain tree was spun into twine and rope by a rope-machine made for the purpose, and a still more complex machine, namely, a turning-lathe, was constructed for the purpose of turning the block sheaves; while sails were made out of native mats, quilted to give them sufficient strength to resist the wind. By these means was completed, in about three months, a decked vessel of from seventy to eighty tons burden--about sixty feet long by eighteen broad. She was finally launched and named _The Messenger of Peace_. And, truly, a messenger of peace and glad tidings did she afterwards prove to be on many occasions among the islands of the Southern Seas. But our hero, John Jarwin, was not allowed to remain to see this happy consummation. He only looked on and assisted at the commencement of the work. Many and many a time did he, during that trying period, argue with himself as to the propriety of his conduct in thus refusing the means of escape when it was thrown in his way, and there was not wanting, now and then, a suggestion from somewhere--he knew not where, but certainly it was not from outside of him--that perhaps the opportunity had been _providentially_ thrown in his way. But Jarwin resisted these suggestions. He looked _up_, and reflected that he was there under a solemn promise; that, but for his promise, he should not have been there at all, and that, therefore, it was his peculiar duty at that particular time to whisper to himself continually--"honour bright!" One morning Big Chief roused Jarwin with his toe, and said-- "Get up. We go home now." "What say 'ee, old man?" "Get ready. We go to-day. I have seen and heard enough." Big Chief was very stern, so that Jarwin thought it wise to hold his tongue and obey. There was a long animated palaver between the chief, the missionary, and the king, but Jarwin had been carefully prevented from hearing it by his master, who ordered him to keep by the canoes, which were launched and ready. Once again he was assailed by an intense desire to escape, and this sudden approach of the time that was perchance to fix his fate for life rendered him almost desperate--but he still looked up, and "honour bright" carried the day. He remained dumb to the last, and did not even allow himself the small comfort of waving a piece of native cloth to the missionary, as he and his captors paddled from the Raratonga shore. CHAPTER EIGHT. DESPAIR IS FOLLOWED BY SURPRISES AND DELIVERANCE. At first John Jarwin could not quite realise his true position after leaving Raratonga. The excitement consequent on the whole affair remained for some time on his mind, causing him to feel as if it were a dream, and it was not until he had fairly landed again on Big Chief's island, and returned to his own little hut there, and had met with Cuffy--whose demonstrations of intense delight cannot by any possibility be described--that he came fully to understand the value of the opportunity which he had let slip through his fingers. Poor Jarwin! words fail to convey a correct idea of the depth of his despair, for now he saw clearly, as he thought, that perpetual slavery was his doom. Under the influence of the feelings that overwhelmed him he became savage. "Cuff," said he, on the afternoon of the day of his return, "it's all up with you and me, old chap." The tone in which this was uttered was so stern that the terrier drooped its ears, lowered its tail, and looked up with an expression that was equivalent to "Don't kick me, _please_ don't!" Jarwin smiled a grim yet a pitiful smile as he looked at the dog. "Yes, it's all up with us," he continued; "we shall live and die in slavery; wot a fool I was not to cut and run when I had the chance!" The remembrance of "honour bright" flashed upon him here, but he was still savage, and therefore doggedly shut his eyes to it. At this point a message was brought to him from Big Chief requesting his attendance in the royal hut. Jarwin turned angrily on the messenger and bid him begone in a voice of thunder, at the same time intimating, by a motion of his foot, that if he did not obey smartly, he would quicken his motions for him. The messenger vanished, and Jarwin sat down beside Cuffy--who looked excessively humble--and vented his feelings thus-- "I can't stand it no longer Cuff. I _won't_ stand it! I'm goin' to bust up, I am; so look out for squalls." A feeling of uncertainty as to the best method of "busting up" induced him to clutch his hair with both hands, and snort. It must not be supposed that our hero gave way to such rebellious feelings with impunity. On the contrary, his conscience pricked him to such an extent that it felt like an internal pin-cushion or hedgehog. While he was still holding fast to his locks in meditative uncertainty, three natives appeared at the entrance of his hut, and announced that they had been sent by Big Chief to take him to the royal hut by force, in case he should refuse to go peaceably. Uttering a shout of defiance, the exasperated man sprang up and rushed at the natives, who, much too wise to await the onset, fled in three different directions. Instead of pursuing any of them, Jarwin went straight to his master's hut, where he found him seated on a couch of native cloth. Striding up to him he clenched his fist, and holding it up in a threatening manner, exclaimed-- "Now look 'ee here, Big Chief--which it would be big thief if 'ee had yer right name--I ain't goin' to stand this sort o' thing no longer. I kep' my word to you all the time we wos at Raratonga, but now I'll keep it no longer. I'll do my best to cut the cable and make sail the wery first chance I gits--so I give 'ee fair warnin'." Big Chief made no reply for some moments, but opened his eyes with such an intense expression of unaffected amazement, that Jarwin's wrath abated, in spite of his careful nursing of it to keep it warm. "Jowin," he exclaimed at length, "you Christian Breetish tar, have your dibbil got into you?" This question effectually routed Jarwin's anger. He knew that the savage, to whom he had spoken at various times on the subject of satanic influence, was perfectly sincere in his inquiry, as well as in his astonishment. Moreover, he himself felt surprised that Big Chief, who was noted for his readiness to resent insult, should have submitted to his angry tones and looks and threatening manner without the slightest evidence of indignation. The two men therefore stood looking at each other in silent surprise for a few moments. "Big Chief," said Jarwin at last, bringing his right fist down heavily into his left palm, by way of emphasis, "there's no dibbil, as you call him, got possession o' me. My own spirit is dibbil enough, I find, to account for all that I've said and done--an' a great deal more. But it _has_ bin hard on me to see the door open, as it were, an' not take adwantage of it. Howsever, it's all over now, an' I ax yer parding. I'll not mutiny again. You've been a kind feller to me, old chap-- though you _are_ a savage--an' I ain't on-grateful; as long as I'm your slave I'll do my duty--`honour bright;' at the same time I think it fair an' above board to let you know that I'll make my escape from you when I git the chance. I'm bound for to sarve you while I eat your wittles, but I am free to go if I can manage it. There--you may roast me alive an' eat me, if you like, but you can't say, after this, that I'm sailin' under false colours." During this speech a variety of expressions affected the countenance of Big Chief, but that of melancholy predominated. "Jowin," he said, slowly, "I like you." "You're a good-hearted old buffer," said Jarwin, grasping the Chief's hand, and squeezing it; "to say the truth, I'm wery fond o' yourself, but it's nat'ral that I should like my freedom better." Big Chief pondered this for some time, and shook his head slowly, as if the result of his meditation was not satisfactory. "Jowin," he resumed, after a pause, "sing me a song." "Well, you _are_ a queer codger," said Jarwin, laughing in spite of himself; "if ever there was a man as didn't feel up to singin', that's me at this moment. Howsomedever, I 'spose it must be done. Wot'll you 'ave? `Ben Bolt,' `Black-eyed Susan,' `The Jolly Young Waterman,' `Jim Crow,' `There is a Happy Land,' or the `Old Hundred,' eh? Only say the word, an' I'll turn on the steam." Big Chief made no reply. As he appeared to be lost in meditation, Jarwin sat down, and in a species of desperation, began to bellow with all the strength of his lungs one of those nautical ditties with which seamen are wont to enliven the movements of the windlass or the capstan. He changed the tune several times, and at length slid gradually into a more gentle and melodious vein of song, while Big Chief listened with evident pleasure. Still there was perceptible to Jarwin a dash of sadness in his master's countenance which he had never seen before. Wondering at this, and changing his tunes to suit his own varying moods, he gradually came to plaintive songs, and then to psalms and hymns. At last Big Chief seemed satisfied, and bade his slave good-night. "He's a wonderful c'racter," remarked Jarwin to Cuffy, as he lay down to rest that night, "a most onaccountable sort o' man. There's sumthin' workin' in 'is 'ead; tho' wot it may be is more nor I can tell. P'raps he's agoin' to spiflicate me, in consikence o' my impidence. If so, Cuff, whatever will became o' you, my poor little doggie!" Cuffy nestled very close to his master's side at this point, and whined in a pitiful tone, as if he really understood the purport of his remarks. In five minutes more he was giving vent to occasional mild little whines and half barks, indicating that he was in the land of dreams, and Jarwin's nose was creating sounds which told that its owner had reached that blessed asylum of the weary--oblivion. Next day our sailor awakened to the consciousness of the fact that the sun was shining brightly, that paroquets were chattering gaily, that Cuffy was still sleeping soundly, and that the subjects of Big Chief were making an unusual uproar outside. Starting up, and pulling on a pair of remarkably ancient canvas trousers, which his master had graciously permitted him to retain and wear, Jarwin looked out at the door of his hut and became aware of the fact that the whole tribe was assembled in the spot where national "palavers" were wont to be held. The "House" appeared to be engaged at the time in the discussion of some exceedingly knotty question--a sort of national education bill, or church endowment scheme--for there was great excitement, much gesticulation, and very loud talk, accompanied with not a little angry demonstration on the part of the disputants. "Hallo! wot's up?" inquired Jarwin of a stout savage who stood at his door armed with a club, on the head of which human teeth formed a conspicuous ornament. "Palaver," replied the savage. "It's easy to hear and see that," replied Jarwin, "but wot is it all about?" The savage vouchsafed no farther reply, but continued to march up and down in front of the hut. Jarwin, therefore, essayed to quit his abode, but was stopped by the taciturn savage, who said that he must consider himself a prisoner until the palaver had come to an end. He was therefore fain to content himself with standing at his door and watching the gesticulations of the members of council. Big Chief was there of course, and appeared to take a prominent part in the proceedings. But there were other chiefs of the tribe whose opinions had much weight, though they were inferior to him in position. At last they appeared to agree, and finally, with a loud shout, the whole band rushed off in the direction of the temple where their idols were kept. Jarwin's guard had manifested intense excitement during the closing scene, and when this last act took place he threw down his club, forsook his post, and followed his comrades. Of course Jarwin availed himself of the opportunity, and went to see what was being done. To his great surprise he found that the temple was being dismantled, while the idols were carried down to the palaver-ground, if we may so call it, and thrown into a heap there with marks of indignity and contempt. Knowing, as he did, the superstitious reverence with which the natives regarded their idols, Jarwin beheld this state of things with intense amazement, and he looked on with increasing interest, hoping, ere long, to discover some clue to the mystery, but his hopes were disappointed, for Big Chief caught sight of him and sternly ordered him back to his hut, where another guard was placed over him. This guard was more strict than the previous one had been. He would not allow his prisoner even to look on at what was taking place. Under the circumstances, there was therefore nothing for it but to fall back on philosophic meditation and converse with Cuffy. These were rather poor resources, however, to a man who was surrounded by a tribe of excited savages. Despite his natural courage and coolness, Jarwin felt, as he said himself, "raither oncomfortable." Towards the afternoon things became a little more quiet, still no notice was taken of our hero save that his meals were sent to him from the Chief's hut. He wondered at this greatly, for nothing of the kind had ever happened before, and he began to entertain vague suspicions that such treatment might possibly be the prelude to evil of some kind befalling him. He questioned his guard several times, but that functionary told him that Big Chief had bidden him refuse to hold converse with him on any subject whatever. Being, as the reader knows, a practical, matter-of-fact sort of man, our hero at last resigned himself to his fate, whatever that might be, and beguiled the time by making many shrewd remarks and observations to Cuffy. When the afternoon meal was brought to him, he heaved a deep sigh, and apparently, with that effort flung off all his anxieties. "Come along, Cuff," he said in a hearty voice, sitting down to dinner, "let's grub together an' be thankful for small mercies, anyhow. Wotever turns up, you and I shall go halves and stick by one another to the last. Not that I have any doubts of Big Chief, Cuffy; you mustn't suppose that; but then, you see, he ain't the only chief in the island, and if all the rest was to go agin him, _he_ couldn't do much to save us." The dog of course replied in its usual facetious manner with eyes and tail, and sat down with its ears cocked and its head turned expectantly on one side, while the sailor removed the palm-leaf covering of the basket which contained the provisions sent to him. "Wot have we here, Cuffy?" he said soliloquising and looking earnestly in; "let me see; bit of baked pig--good, Cuff, good; that's the stuff to make us fat. Wot next? Roast fish--that's not bad, Cuff--not bad, though hardly equal to the pig. Here we have a leaf full of plantains and another of yams,--excellent grub that, my doggie, nothing could be better. What's this? Cocoanut full of its own milk--the best o' drink; `it cheers'--as the old song, or the old poet says--`but it don't inebriate;' that wos said in regard to tea, you know, but it holds good in respect of cocoanut milk, and it's far better than grog, Cuffy; far better, though you can't know nothin' about that, but you may take my word for it; happy is the man as drinks nothin' stronger than cocoanut milk or tea. Hallo! wot's this--plums? Why, doggie, they're oncommon good to us to-day. I wonder wot's up. I say--" Jarwin paused as he drew the last dish out of the prolific basket, and looked earnestly at his dog while he laid it down, "I say, what if they should have taken it into their heads to fatten us up before killin' us? That's not a wery agreeable notion, is it, eh?" Apparently Cuffy was of the same opinion, for he did not wag even the point of his tail, and there was something dubious in the glance of his eye as he waited for more. "Well, well, it ain't no use surmisin'," observed the seaman, with another sigh, "wot we've got for to do just now is to eat our wittles an' hope for the best. Here you are, Cuff--catch!" Throwing a lump of baked pig to his dog, the worthy man fell to with a keen appetite, and gave himself no further anxiety as to the probable or possible events of the future. Dinner concluded, he would fain have gone out for a ramble on the shore--as he had been wont to do in time past--but his gaoler forbade him to quit the hut. He was therefore about to console himself with a siesta, when an unexpected order came from Big Chief, requiring his immediate attendance in the royal hut. Jarwin at once obeyed the mandate, and in a few minutes stood before his master, who was seated on a raised couch, enjoying a cup of cocoanut milk. "I have send for you," began Big Chief with solemnity, "to have a palaver. Sit down, you Breetish tar." "All right, old chap," replied Jarwin, seating himself on a stool opposite to his master. "Wot is it to be about?" "Jowin," rejoined Big Chief, with deepening gravity, "you's bin well treated here." Big Chief spoke in broken English now, having picked it up with amazing facility from his white slave. "Well, y-e-es, I'm free to confess that I _has_ bin well treated-- barrin' the fact that my liberty's bin took away; besides which, some of your black rascals ain't quite so civil as they might be, but on the whole, I've been well treated; anyhow I never received nothin' but kindness from _you_, old codger." He extended his hand frankly, and Big Chief, who had been taught the meaning of our English method of salutation, grasped it warmly and shook it with such vigour that he would certainly have discomposed Jarwin had that "Breetish tar" been a less powerful man. He performed this ceremony with the utmost sadness, however, and continued to shake his head in such a melancholy way that his white slave began to feel quite anxious about him. "Hallo! old feller, you ain't bin took bad, have 'ee?" Big Chief made no reply, but continued to shake his head slowly; then, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him, he rose, and, grasping Jarwin by his whiskers with both hands, rubbed noses with him, after which he resumed his seat on the couch. "Just so," observed our hero with a smile, "you shake hands with me English fashion--I rub noses with you South-Sea fashion. Give an' take; all right, old codger--`may our friendship last for ever,' as the old song puts it. But wot about this here palaver you spoke of? It warn't merely to rub our beaks together that you sent for me, I fancy. Is it a song you wants, or a hymn? Only say the word, and I'm your man." "I s'pose," said Big Chief, using, of course, Jarwin's sea phraseology, only still farther broken, "you'd up ankar an' make sail most quick if you could, eh?" "Well, although I _has_ a likin' for you, old man," replied the sailor, "I can't but feel a sort o' preference, d'ee see, for my own wife an' child'n. There_fore_ I _would_ cut my cable, if I had the chance." "Kite right, kite right," replied Big Chief, with a deep sigh, "you say it am nat'ral. Good, good, so 'tis. Now, Jowin," continued the savage chief, with intense earnestness, "you's free to go when you pleases." "Oh, gammon!" replied Jarwin, with an unbelieving grin. "Wot _is_ gammon?" demanded Big Chief, with a somewhat disappointed look. "Well, it don't matter what it means--it's nothin' or nonsense, if you like--but wot do _you_ mean, old man, `that's the rub,' as Hamblet, or some such c'racter, said to his father-in-law; you ain't in airnest, are you?" "Jowin," answered the Chief, with immovable gravity, "I not onderstan' you. Wot you mean by airnest?" He did not wait for a reply, however, but seizing Jarwin by the wrist, and looking into his eyes with an expression of child-like earnestness that effectually solemnised his white slave, continued, "Lissen, onderstan' me. I is a Christian. My broder chiefs an' I have watch you many days. You have always do wot is right, no matter wot trouble follers to you. You do this for love of your God, your Saviour, so you tells me. Good, I do not need much palaver. Wen de sun shines it am hot; wen not shine am cold. Wot more? Cookee missionary have _say_ the truth. My slave have _prove_ the truth. I love you, Jowin. I love your God. I keep you if possible, but Christian must not have slave. Go--you is free." "You don't mean _that_, old man?" cried Jarwin, starting up with flashing eyes and seizing his master's hand. "You is free!" repeated Big Chief. We need not relate all that honest John Jarwin said and did after that. Let it suffice to record his closing remarks that night to Cuffy. "Cuff," said he, patting the shaggy head of his humble friend, "many a strange thing crops up in this here koorious world, but it never did occur to my mind before, that while a larned man like a missionary might _state_ the truth, the likes o' me should have the chance an' the power to _prove_ it. That's a wery koorious fact, so you an' I shall go to sleep on it, my doggie--good-night." CHAPTER NINE. THE LAST. That Jarwin's deliverance from slavery was not a dream, but a blessed reality, was proved to him next day beyond all doubt by the singular proceedings of Big Chief and his tribe. Such of the native idols as had not been burned on the previous day were brought out, collected into a heap, and publicly burned, after which the whole tribe assembled on the palavering ground, and Big Chief made a long, earnest, and animated speech, in which he related all that he had seen of his white slave's conduct at the island of Raratonga, and stated how that conduct had proved to him, more conclusively than anything else he had heard or seen, that the religion of the white missionaries was true. While this was being spoken, many sage reflections were passing through Jarwin's mind, and a feeling of solemn thankfulness filled him when he remembered how narrowly he had escaped doing inconceivable damage by giving way to temptation and breaking his word. He could not avoid perceiving that, if he had not been preserved in a course of rectitude all through his terrible trial, at a time when he thought that no one was thinking about him, not only would Big Chief and his nation have probably remained in heathen superstition, and continued to practise all the horrid and bloody rites which that superstition involved, but his own condition of slavery would, in all probability, have been continued and rendered permanent; for Big Chief and his men were numerous and powerful enough to have held their own against the Raratongans, while, at the same time, it was probable that he would have lost his master's regard, as he would certainly have lost his respect. He could not help reflecting, also, how much the cause of Christianity must often suffer in consequence of the conduct of many seamen, calling themselves Christians, who visit the South-Sea Islands, and lead dissolute, abandoned lives while there. Some of these, he knew, brought this discredit on the name of Jesus thoughtlessly, and would, perhaps, be solemnised and sorry if they knew the terrible results of their conduct; while others, he also knew, cared nothing for Christianity, or for anything in the world except the gratification of their own selfish desires. While he was yet pondering these things, Big Chief advanced towards him, and, taking him by the hand, led him into the centre of the concourse. To his great surprise and confusion the tall chief said-- "Now, Jowin will palaver to you. He is one Breetish tar--one Christian. He can tell us what we shall do." Saying this, Big Chief sat down, and left Jarwin standing in the midst scratching his head, and looking with extreme perplexity at the vast sea of black faces and glittering eyes which were directed towards him. "W'y, you know, old man, it ain't fair of you, this ain't," he said, addressing himself to Big Chief; "you've took me all aback, like a white squall. How d'ee s'pose that _I_ can tell 'ee wot to do? I ain't a parson--no, not even a clerk, or a parish beadle!" To this Big Chief vouchsafed no further reply than--"Palaver, you Breetish tar!" "Wery good," exclaimed Jarwin, turning round, and looking full at his audience, while a bright smile lit up his sunburnt countenance, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him, "I'll do my best to palaver. Here goes, then, for a yarn." Jarwin spoke, of course, in the native tongue, which we translate into his own language. "Big Chief, small chiefs, and niggers in general," he began, with a wave of his right hand, "you've called on me for a speech. Good. I'm your man, I'm a `Breetish tar,' as your great chief says truly--that's a fact; an' I'm a Christian--I _hope_. God knows, I've sometimes my own doubts as to that same; but the doubts ain't with reference to the Almighty; they're chiefly as regards myself. Howsever, to come to the point, you've gone and burnt your idols--" "Ho!" exclaimed the whole assembly, with a degree of energy that made a deep impression on the sailor--just as one might be impressed when he has been permitted to become the happy medium of achieving some great end which he had never dreamed of being privileged to accomplish. "Well, then," continued Jarwin, "_that_ is a good thing, anyhow; for it's a disgrace to human natur', not to speak o' common-sense an' other things, to worship stocks an' stones, w'en the Bible _distinctly_ tolls 'ee not to do it. You've done right in that matter; an' glad am I to hear from Big Chief that you intend, after this, to foller _the truth_. Old man, an' niggers," cried Jarwin, warming up, "to my mind, the highest thing that a man can dewot his-self to is, the follerin' out an' fallin' in with _the truth_. Just s'pose that chemists, an' ingineers, an' doctors was to foller lies! W'y, wot would come of it? Confoosion wus confounded. In coorse, therefore, they carefully _tries_ to foller wots _true_--though I'm bound for to say they _do_ git off the track now an' then. Well, if it's so with such like, it's much more so with religion. Wot then? W'y, stand by your colours, through thick an' thin. Hold on to the Bible! That's the watchword. That's your sheet-anchor--though you haven't seed one yet. It's good holdin' ground is the Bible--it's the _only_ holdin' ground. `How does I know that?' says you. Well, it ain't easy for me to give you an off-hand answer to that, any more than it is to give you an off-hand answer to a complicated question in the rule o' three. A parson could do it, no doubt, but the likes o' me can only show a sort o' reflected light like the moon; nevertheless, we may show a true light--though reflected. Chiefs an' niggers, there's asses in every generation (young asses chiefly) as thinks they've found out somethin' noo in regard to the Bible, an' then runs it down. An' them fellers grow old, an' sticks to their opinions; an' they think themselves wise, an' other people thinks 'em wise 'cause they're old, as if oldness made 'em wise! W'y are they asses? W'y, because they formed their opinions _early_ in life, in opposition to men wot has studied these matters all through their lives. Havin' hoisted their colours, they nails 'em to the mast; an' there they are! They never goes at the investigation o' the subject as a man investigates mathematics, or navigation, or logarithms; so they're like a ship at sea without a chart. Niggers, no man can claim to be wise unless he can `render a reason.' He _may_ be, p'raps, but he can't _claim_ to be. _I_ believe the Bible's true because o' two facts. Fust of all, men of the highest intellec' have found it true, an tried it, an' practised its teachin's, an' rested their souls on it. In the second place, as the parsons say, _I_ have tried it, an' found it true as fur as I've gone. I've sailed accordin to the chart, an' have struck on no rocks or shoals as yet. I've bin wery near it; but, thank God, I wasn't allowed to take the wrong course altogether, though I've got to confess that I wanted to, many a time. Now, wot does all this here come to?" demanded Jarwin, gazing round on his audience, who were intensely interested, though they did not understand much of what he said, "wot _does_ it come to? W'y that, havin' wisely given up yer idols, an' taken to the true God, the next best thing you can do is to go off at once to Raratonga, an' git the best adwice you can from those wot are trained for to give it. I can't say no fairer than that, for, as to askin' adwice on religious matters from the likes o' me, w'y the thing's parfitly ridiklous!" Jarwin sat down amid a murmur of applause. In a few minutes an old chief rose to reply. His words were to the effect that, although there was much in their white brother's speech beyond their understanding-- which was not to be wondered at, considering that he was so learned, and they so ignorant--there was one part of it which he thoroughly agreed with, namely, that a party should be sent to Raratonga to inform the Cookee missionaries as to what had taken place, to ask advice, and to beg one of the Cookees to come and live permanently on their island, and teach them the Christian religion. Another chief followed with words and sentiments to much the same effect. Then Big Chief gave orders that the canoes for the deputation should be got ready without delay, and the meeting broke up with loud shouts and other pleasant demonstrations. Matters having been thus satisfactorily arranged, Jarwin returned to his hut with a grateful heart, to meditate on the happy turn that had taken place in his prospects. Finding the hut not quite congenial to his frame of mind, and observing that the day was unusually fine, he resolved to ramble in the cool shades of a neighbouring wood. "Come, Cuff, my doggie, you an' I shall go for a walk this fine day; we've much to think about an' talk over, d'ee see, which is best done in solitary places." Need we say that Cuffy responded with intense enthusiasm to this invitation, and that his "spanker boom" became violently demonstrative as he followed his master into the wood. Jarwin still wore, as we have said, his old canvas trousers, which had been patched and re-patched to such an extent with native cloth, that very little of the original fabric was visible. The same may be said of his old flannel shirt, to which he clung with affectionate regard long after it had ceased to be capable of clinging to him without patchwork strengthening. The remnants of his straw hat, also, had been carefully kept together, so that, with the exception of the paint on his face, which Big Chief insisted on his wearing, and the huge South-Sea club which he carried habitually for protection, he was still a fair specimen of a British tar. Paroquets were chattering happily; rills were trickling down the hillsides; fruit and flower trees perfumed the air, and everything looked bright and beautiful--in pleasant accordance with the state of Jarwin's feelings--while the two friends wandered away through the woods in dreamy enjoyment of the past and present, and with hopeful anticipations in regard to the future. Jarwin said something to this effect to Cuffy, and put it to him seriously to admit the truth of what he said, which that wise dog did at once--if there be any truth in the old saying that "silence is consent." After wandering for several hours, they came out of the wood at a part of the coast which lay several miles distant from Big Chief's village. Here, to his surprise and alarm, he discovered two war-canoes in the act of running on the beach. He drew back at once, and endeavoured to conceal himself, for he knew too well that this was a party from a distant island, the principal chief of which had threatened more than once to make an attack on Big Chief and his tribe. But Jarwin had been observed, and was immediately pursued and his retreat cut off by hundreds of yelling savages. Seeing this, he ran down to the beach, and, taking up a position on a narrow spit of sand, flourished his ponderous club and stood at bay. Cuffy placed himself close behind his master, and, glaring between his legs at the approaching savages, displayed all his teeth and snarled fiercely. One, who appeared to be a chief, ran straight at our hero, brandishing a club similar to his own. Jarwin had become by that time well practised in the use of his weapon; he evaded the blow dealt at him, and fetched the savage such a whack on the small of his back as he passed him, that he fell flat on the sand and lay there. Cuffy rushed at him and seized him by the throat, an act which induced another savage to launch a javelin at the dog. It grazed his back, cut it partly open, and sent him yelling into the woods. Meanwhile, Jarwin was surrounded, and, although he felled three or four of his assailants, was quickly overpowered by numbers, gagged, lashed tight to a pole, so that he could not move, and laid in the bottom of one of the war-canoes. Even when in this sad plight the sturdy seaman did not lose heart, for he knew well that Cuffy being wounded and driven from his master's side, would run straight home to his master's hut, and that Big Chief would at once suspect, from the nature of the wound and the circumstance of the dog being alone, that it was necessary for him and his men-of-war to take the field; Jarwin, therefore, felt very hopeful that he should be speedily rescued. But such hopes were quickly dispelled when, after a noisy dispute on the beach, the savages, who owned the canoe in which he lay, suddenly re-embarked and pushed off to sea, leaving the other canoe and its crew on the beach. Hour after hour passed, but the canoe-men did did not relax their efforts. Straight out to sea they went, and when the sun set, Big Chief's island had already sunk beneath the horizon. Now, indeed, a species of wild despair filled the breast of the poor captive. To be thus seized, and doomed in all probability to perpetual bondage, when the cup of regained liberty had only just touched his lips, was very hard to bear. When he first fully realised his situation, he struggled fiercely to burst his bonds, but the men who had tied him knew how to do their work. He struggled vainly until he was exhausted. Then, looking up into the starry sky, his mind became gradually composed, and he had recourse to prayer. Slumber ere long sealed his eyes, setting him free in imagination, and he did not again waken until daylight was beginning to appear. All that day he lay in the same position, without water or food, cramped by the cords that bound him, and almost driven mad by the heat of an unclouded sun. Still, onward went the canoe--propelled by men who appeared to require no rest. Night came again, and Jarwin--by that time nearly exhausted--fell into a troubled slumber. From this he was suddenly aroused by loud wild cries and shouts, as of men engaged in deadly conflict, and he became aware of the fact that the canoe in which he lay was attacked, for the warriors had thrown down their paddles and seized their clubs, and their feet trod now on his chest, now on his face, as they staggered to and fro. In a few minutes several dead and wounded men fell on him; then he became unconscious. When John Jarwin's powers of observation returned, he found himself lying on his back in a neat little bed, with white cotton curtains, in a small, comfortably-furnished room, that reminded him powerfully of home! Cuffy lay on the counterpane, sound asleep, with his chin on his master's breast. At the bedside, with her back to him, sat a female, dressed in European clothes, and busy sewing. "Surely it ain't bin all a long dream!" whispered Jarwin to himself. Cuffy cocked his ears and head, and turned a furtive glance on his master's face, while his "spanker boom" rose with the evident intention to wag, if circumstances rendered it advisable; but circumstances had of late been rather perplexing to Cuffy. At the same time the female turned quickly round and revealed a brown, though pleasant, face. Simultaneously, a gigantic figure arose at his side and bent over him. "You's bedder?" said the gigantic figure. "Hallo! Big Chief! Wot's up, old feller?" exclaimed Jarwin. "Hold you's tongue!" said Big Chief, sternly. "Go way," he added, to the female, who, with an acquiescent smile, left the room. "Well, this _is_ queer; an' I feels queer. Queery--wots the meanin' of it?" asked Jarwin. "You's bin bad, Jowin," answered Big Chief, gravely, "wery bad. Dead a-most. Now, you's goin' to be bedder. Doctor say that--" "Doctor!" exclaimed Jarwin in surprise, "_what_ doctor?" "Doctor of ship. Hims come ebbery day for to see you." "Ship!" cried Jarwin, springing up in his bed and glaring at Big Chief in wonder. "Lie down, you Christian Breetish tar," said the Chief, sternly, at the same time laying his large hand on the sailor's chest with a degree of force that rendered resistance useless. "Hold you's tongue an' listen. Doctor say you not for speak. Me tell you all about it. "Fust place," continued Big Chief, "you's bin bad, konsikince of de blackguard's havin' jump on you's face an' stummick. But we give 'em awful lickin', Jowin--oh! smash um down right and left; got you out de canoe--dead, I think, but no, not jus' so. Bring you here--Raratonga. De Cookee missionary an' his wife not here; away in ship you sees im make. Native teecher here. Dat teecher's wife bin nurse you an' go away jus' now. Ship comes here for trade, bound for England. Ams got doctor. Doctor come see you, shake ums head; looks long time; say he put you `all right.' Four week since dat. Now, you's hall right?" The last words he uttered with much anxiety depicted on his countenance, for he had been so often deceived of late by Jarwin having occasional lucid intervals in the midst of his delirium, that his faith in him had been shaken. "All right!" exclaimed Jarwin, "aye, right as a trivet. Bound for England, did 'ee say--the ship?" Big Chief nodded and looked very sad. "You go home?" he asked, softly. Jarwin was deeply touched, he seized the big man's hand, and, not being strong, failed to restrain a tear or two. Big Chief, being _very_ strong--in feelings as well as in frame--burst into tears. Cuffy, being utterly incapable of making head or tail of it, gave vent to a prolonged, dismal howl, which changed to a bark and whine of satisfaction when his master laughed, patted him, and advised him not to be so free in the use of his "spanker boom!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Four weeks later, and Jarwin, with Cuffy by his side, stood, "himself again," on the quarterdeck of the _Nancy_ of Hull, while the "Yo, heave ho!" of the sailors rang an accompaniment to the clatter of the windlass as they weighed anchor, Big Chief held his hand and wept, and rubbed noses with him--to such an extent that the cabin boy said it was a perfect miracle that they had a scrap of nose left on their faces--and would not be consoled by the assurance that he, Jarwin, would certainly make another voyage to the South Seas, if he should be spared to do so, and occasion offered, for the express purpose of paying him a visit. At last he tore himself away, got into his canoe, and remained gazing in speechless sorrow after the homeward-bound vessel as she shook out her topsails to the breeze. Despite his efforts, poor Jarwin was so visibly affected at parting from his kind old master, that the steward of the ship, a sympathetic man, was induced to offer him a glass of grog and a pipe. He accepted both, mechanically, still gazing with earnest looks at the fast-receding canoe. Presently he raised the glass to his lips, and his nose became aware of the long-forgotten odour! The current of his thoughts was violently changed. He looked intently at the glass and then at the pipe. "Drink," said the sympathetic steward, "and take a whiff. It'll do you good." "Drink! whiff!" exclaimed Jarwin, while a dark frown gathered on his brow. "There, old Father Neptune," he cried, tossing the glass and pipe overboard, "_you_ drink and whiff, if you choose; John Jarwin has done wi' drinkin' an' whiffin' for ever! Thanks to _you_, all the same, an' no offence meant," he added in a gentler tone, turning to the astonished steward, and patting him on the shoulder, "but if you had suffered all that I have suffered through bein' a slave to the glass and the pipe-- when I _thought_ I was no slave, mark you, an' would have larfed any one to scorn who'd said I wos--if you'd see'd me groanin', an yearnin', an' dreamin' of baccy an' grog, as I _have_ done w'en I couldn't get neither of 'em for love or money--you wouldn't wonder that I ain't goin' to be such a born fool as to go an' sell myself over again!" Turning quickly towards the shore, as if regretting that he should, for a moment, have appeared to forget his old friend, he pulled out his handkerchief and waved it over the side. Big Chief replied energetically with a scrap of native cloth--not having got the length of handkerchiefs at that time. "Look at 'im, Cuff" exclaimed Jarwin, placing his dog on the bulwarks of the ship, "look at him, Cuff, and wag your `spanker boom' to him, too-- ay, that's right--for he's as kind-hearted a nigger as ever owned a Breetish tar for a slave." He said no more, but continued to wave his handkerchief at intervals until the canoe seemed a mere speck on the horizon, and, after it was gone, he and his little dog continued to gaze sadly at the island, as it grew fainter and fainter, until it sank at last into the great bosom of the Pacific Ocean. The next land seen by Jarwin and Cuffy was--the white cliffs of Old England! 
15538	----	HETTY GRAY or, Nobody's Bairn by ROSA MULHOLLAND (LADY GILBERT) CONTENTS I. FOUR YEARS OLD II. UNDER THE HORSES' FEET III. ADOPTED IV. MRS. KANE IN TROUBLE V. A LONELY CHILD VI. HETTY AND HER "COUSINS" VII. HETTY'S FIRST LESSONS VIII. HETTY DESOLATE IX. WHAT TO DO WITH HER? X. THE NEW HOME XI. HETTY TURNS REBEL XII. A COTTAGE CHILD AGAIN XIII. A TRICK ON THE GOVERNESS XIV. HETTY'S CONSTANCY XV. THE CHILDREN'S DANCE XVI. A TRIAL OF PATIENCE XVII. HETTY'S FUTURE IS PLANNED XVIII. REINE GAYTHORNE XIX. IF SHE WAS DROWNED, HOW CAN SHE BE HETTY? XX. HAPPY HETTY CHAPTER I. FOUR YEARS OLD. In all England there is not a prettier village than Wavertree. It has no streets; but the cottages stand about the roads in twos and threes, with their red-tiled roofs, and their little gardens, and hedges overrun with flowering weeds. Under a great sycamore tree at the foot of a hill stands the forge, a cave of fire glowing in the shadows, a favourite place for the children to linger on their way to school, watching the smith hammering at his burning bars, and hearing him ring his cheery chimes on the anvil. Who shall say what mystery surrounds the big smith, as he strides about among his fires, to the wide bright eyes that peer in at him from under baby brows, or what meanings come out of his clinking music to four-year-old or eight-year-old ears? Little Hetty was only four years old when she stood for five or ten minutes of one long summer day looking in at the forge, and watching and listening with all the energy that belonged to her. She had a little round pink face with large brown eyes as soft as velvet, and wide open scarlet lips. Her tiny pink calico frock was clean and neat, and her shoes not very much broken, though covered with dust. Altogether Hetty had the look of a child who was kindly cared for, though she had neither father nor mother in the world. Two or three great strong horses, gray and bay, with thick manes and tails, came clattering up to the door of the forge, a man astride on one of them. Hetty knew the horses, which belonged to Wavertree Hall, and were accustomed to draw the long carts which brought the felled trees out of the woods to the yard at the back of the Hall. Hetty once had thought that the trees were going to be planted again in Mrs. Enderby's drawing-room, and had asked why the pretty green leaves had all been taken off. She was four years old now, however, and she knew that the trees were to be chopped up for firewood. She clapped her hands in delight as the great creatures with their flowing manes came trotting up with their mighty hoofs close to her little toes. "You little one, run away," cried the man in care of the horses; and Hetty stole into the forge and stood nearer to the fire than she had ever dared to do before. "Hallo!" shouted Big Ben the smith; "if this mite hasn't got the courage of ten! Be off, you little baggage, if you don't want to have those pretty curls o' yours singed away as bare as a goose at Michaelmas! As for sparks in your eyes, you sha'n't have 'em, for you don't want 'em. Eyes are bright enough to light up a forge for themselves." "Aye," said the carter, "my missus and I often say she's too pretty a one for the likes of us to have the bringing up of on our hands. And she's a rare one for havin' her own way, she is. Just bring her out by the hand, will you, Ben, while I keep these horses steady till she gets away?" Big Ben led the little maid outside the forge, and said, "Now run away and play with the other children"; and then he went back to set about the shoeing of John Kane's mighty cart-horses, or rather the cart-horses of Mr. Enderby of Wavertree Hall. Little Hetty, thus expelled, dared not return to the forge, but she walked backwards down the road, gazing at the horses as long as she could see them. She loved the great handsome brutes, and if she had had her will would have been sitting on one of their backs with her arms around his neck. Coming to a turn of the road from which a path led on to an open down, she blew a farewell kiss to the horses and skipped away across the grass among the gold-hearted, moonfaced daisies, and the black-eyed poppies in their scarlet hoods. There were no other children to be seen, but Hetty made herself happy without them. A large butterfly fluttered past her, almost brushing her cheek, and Hetty threw back her curly head and gazed at its beauty in astonishment. It was splendid with scarlet and brown and gold, and Hetty, after a pause of delighted surprise, dashed forward with both her little fat arms extended to capture it. It slipped through her fingers; but just as she was pulling down her baby lips to cry, a flock of white and blue butterflies swept across her eyes, and made her laugh again as she pursued them in their turn. At last she stumbled into a damp hollow place where a band of golden irises stood among their tall shafts of green like royal ladies surrounded by warriors. Hetty caught sight of the yellow wing-like petals of the flag-lilies and grasped them with both hands. Alas! they were not alive, but pinned to the earth by their strong stems. The butterflies were gone, the flowers were not living. The little girl plucked the lilies and tried to make them fly, but their heads fell heavily to the ground. A big plough-boy came across the downs, and he said as he passed Hetty, "What are you picking the heads off the flowers for, you young one?" "Why won't they fly like the butterflies?" asked Hetty. "Because they were made to grow." "Why can't I fly, too?" "Because you were made to run." When Hetty went into the school she had a scratch from a briar all across her cheek. "You are quite late, Hetty Gray," said the schoolmistress. "And what have you been doing to scratch your face?" "I was trying to make the flowers fly," said Hetty; and then she was put to stand in the corner in disgrace with her face to the wall. CHAPTER II. UNDER THE HORSES' FEET. Mrs. Kane's cottage stood on a pretty bend of one of the village roads, and belonged to an irregular cluster of little houses with red gables and green palings. It was among the poorest dwellings in Wavertree, but was neat and clean. The garden was in good order, and a white climbing rose grew round the door, that sweet old-fashioned rose with its delicious scent which makes the air delightful wherever it blows. The cottage door stood open, and the afternoon sunlight fell across the old red tiles of the kitchen floor. The tiles were a little broken, and here and there they were sunk and worn; but they were as clean as hands could make them, as Mrs. Kane would have said. A little window at one side looked down the garden, and across it was a frilled curtain, and on the sill a geranium in full flower. On the other side was the fire-place, with chintz frill and curtains, and the grate filled with a great bush of green beech-leaves. A table set on the red tiles was spread for tea, and by it sat Mrs. Kane and her friend Mrs. Ford enjoying a friendly cup together. "She _is_ late this evening," Mrs. Kane was saying; "but she'll turn up all right by and by. If she's wild she's sharp, which is still something. She never gets under horses' feet, nor drops into the pond, or anything of that sort. If she did those sort of things, being such a rover, Mrs. Ford, you see I never should have an easy moment in my life." "I must say it's very good of you to take to do with her," said Mrs. Ford, "and she nobody belonging to you. If she was your own child--" "Well, you see, my own two dears went to heaven with the measles," said Mrs. Kane, "and I felt so lonesome without them, that when John walked in with the little bundle in his arms that night, I thought he was just an angel of light." "It was on the Long Sands he found her, wasn't it?" asked Mrs. Ford, balancing her spoon on the edge of her cup. "On the Long Sands after the great storm," said Mrs. Kane; "and that's just four years ago in May gone by. How a baby ever lived through the storm to be washed in by the sea alive always beats me when I think of it, it seems so downright unnatural; and yet that's the way that Providence ordered it, Mrs. Ford." "I suppose all her folks were drowned?" said Mrs. Ford. "Most like they were, for it was a bad wreck, as I've heard," said Mrs. Kane. "Leastways, nobody has ever come to claim her, and no questions have been asked. Unless it was much for her good I would fain hope that nobody ever will claim her now. Wild as she is, I've grown to love that little Hetty, so I have. Ah, here she is coming along, as hungry as a little pussy for her milk, I'll be bound!" Hetty came trudging along the garden path, her curls standing up in a bush on her head, her little fat fingers stained green with grass, and her pinafore, no longer green, filled with moon-daisies. She was singing with her baby voice lifted bravely: "Dust as I am I come to zee--" "Dust indeed!" cried Mrs. Kane, "_I_ never saw such dust. Only look at her shoes that I blacked this morning!" "Poor dear, practising her singing," said Mrs. Ford. "Well, little lass, and what have you been seeing and doing all day long?" "I saw big Ben poking his fire," answered Hetty after a moment's reflection. "He put me out, and then I saw him hurting the horses' feet with his hammer. I wanted the horses to come along with me, but they shook their heads and stayed where they were. Then I tried to catch the butterflies, and they flew right past my eyes. And I thought the yellow lilies could fly too, and they wouldn't. Then I pulled their heads off--" "And were you not at school at all?" asked Mrs. Ford. "Well, well, Hetty, you are wild. If you saw my little boys going so good to their school! What more did you do, Hetty?" "I went into school, and schoolmistress put me in a corner. Then I drew marks with my tears on the wall; and afterwards I said my spelling. And I came home and got some daisies; and I saw Charlie Ford standing in the pond with his shoes and stockings on." "Oh my! oh my! well I never!" cried Mrs. Ford, snatching up her bonnet, and getting ready to go home in a hurry. "Charley in the pond with his shoes and stockings on! It seems, Mrs. Kane, that I've been praising him too soon!" While Mrs. Ford was running down the road after Charley, Mrs. Enderby, up at Wavertree Hall, was directing her servants to carry the table for tea out upon the lawn under the wide-spreading beech-trees; and her two little daughters, Phyllis aged eight and Nell aged seven, were hovering about waiting to place baskets of flowers and strawberries on the embroidered cloth. Mrs. Rushton, sister-in-law of Mrs. Enderby and aunt of the children, was spending the afternoon at the Hall, having come a distance of some miles to do so. Mrs. Enderby was a tall graceful lady, with a pale, gentle, but rather cold face; her dress was severely simple and almost colourless; her voice was sweet. Mrs. Rushton was unlike her in every respect, low in size, plump, smiling, and dressed in the most becoming and elegant fashion. Mrs. Enderby spoke slowly and with deliberation; Mrs. Rushton kept chattering incessantly. "Well, Amy," said the former, "I hope you will talk to William about it, and perhaps he may induce you to change your mind. Here he is," as a gentleman was seen coming across the lawn. Mrs. Rushton shrugged her shoulders. "My dear Isabel," she said, "I do not see what William has to do with it. I am my own mistress, and surely old enough to judge for myself." The two little girls sprang to meet their father, and dragged him by the hands up to the tea-table. "William," said Mrs. Enderby, "I want you to remonstrate with Amy." "It seems to me I am always remonstrating with Amy," said Mr. Enderby smiling; "what wickedness is she meditating now?" Mrs. Rushton laughed gaily, dipped a fine strawberry into cream and ate it. Her laugh was pleasant, and she had a general air of good humour and self-complacency about her which some people mistook for exceeding amiability. "Isabel thinks I am going to destruction altogether," said she, preparing another strawberry for its bath of cream; "only because I am thinking of going abroad with Lady Harriet Beaton. Surely I have a right to arrange my own movements and to select my own friends." Mr. Enderby looked very grave. "No one can deny your right to do as you please," he said; "but I hope that on reflection you will not please to go abroad with Lady Harriet Beaton." "Why!" "Surely you know she is not a desirable companion for you, Amy. I hope you have not actually promised to accompany her." "Well, I think I have, almost. She is very gay and charming, and I cannot think why you should object to her. If I were a young girl of sixteen, instead of a widow with long experience, you could not make more fuss about the matter." "As your brother I am bound to object to such a scheme," said Mr. Enderby. Mrs. Rushton pouted. "It is all very well for you and Isabel to talk," she said, "you have each other and your children to interest you. If I had children--had only one child, I should not care for running about the world or making a companion of Lady Harriet." Mrs. Enderby looked at her sister-in-law sympathetically; but Mr. Enderby only smiled. "My dear Amy," he said, "you know very well that if you had children they would be the most neglected little mortals on the face of the earth. Ever since I have known you, a good many years now, I have seen you fluttering about after one whim or another, and never found you contented with anything long. If Phyllis and Nell here were your daughters instead of Isabel's, they would be away at school somewhere, whilst their mother would be taking her turn upon all the merry-go-rounds of the world." "Thank you, you are very complimentary," said Mrs. Rushton; and then she laughed carelessly: "After all, the merry-go-rounds, as you put it, are much better fun than sitting in a nursery or a school-room. But I assure you I am not so frivolous as you think; I have been going out distributing tracts lately with Mrs. Sourby." "Indeed, and last winter I know you were attending lectures on cookery, and wanted to become a lecturer yourself." "Yes, and only for something that happened, I forget what, I might now be a useful member of society. But chance does so rule one's affairs. At present it is Fate's decree that I shall spend the next few months at Pontresina." Mr. Enderby made a gesture as if to say that he would remonstrate no more, and went off to play lawn tennis with his little girls. Mrs. Rushton rose from her seat, yawned, and declared to Mrs. Enderby that it was six o'clock and quite time for her to return towards home, as she had a drive of two hours before her. Shortly afterwards she was rolling along the avenue in her carriage, and through the village, and out by one of the roads towards the open country. Now little Hetty Gray ought to have been in her bed by this time, or getting ready for it; but she was, as Mrs. Kane told Mrs. Ford, a very wild little girl, though sharp; and while Mrs. Kane was busy giving her husband his supper Hetty had escaped from the cottage once more, and had skipped away from the village to have another little ramble by herself before the pretty green woods should begin to darken, and the moon to come up behind the trees. Hetty had filled her lap with dog-roses out of the hedges, and wishing to arrange them in a bunch which she could carry in her hand, she sat down in the middle of the road and became absorbed in her work. Near where she sat there was a sharp turning in the road, and Hetty was so busy that she did not hear the sound of a carriage coming quite near her. Suddenly the horses turned the corner. Hetty saw them and jumped up in a fright, but too late to save herself from being hurt. She was flung down upon the road, though the coachman pulled up in time to prevent the wheels passing over her. Poor Hetty gave one scream and then nothing more was heard from her. The footman got down and looked at her, and then he went and told the lady in the carriage that he feared the child was badly hurt. "Oh dear!" said the lady, "what brought her under the horses' feet? Can you not pick her up?" The footman went back to Hetty and tried to lift her in his arms, but she uttered such pitiful screams at being touched that he was obliged to lay her down again. Then the lady, who was Mrs. Rushton, got out and looked at her. "You must put her in the carriage," she said, "and drive back to the village. I suppose she belongs to some of the people there." "I know her, ma'am," said the footman; "she is Mrs. Kane's little girl,--little Hetty Gray." Mrs. Rushton got into the carriage again and held the child on her lap while they were being driven back to the village to Mrs. Kane's cottage door. It was quite a new sensation to the whimsical lady of fashion to hold a suffering child in her arms, and she was surprised to find that, in spite of her first feelings of impatience at being stopped on the road, she rather liked it. As Hetty's little fair curly head hung back helplessly over her arm, and the round soft cheek, turned so white, touched her breast, Mrs. Rushton felt a motherly sensation which she had never before known in all her frivolous life. Mrs. Kane was out at the garden gate looking up and down the road for the missing Hetty. When she saw Hetty lifted out of the carriage she began to cry. "Oh my! my!" she sobbed, "I never thought it would come to this with her, and she so sharp. Thank you, madam, thank you, I'm sure. She's not my own child, but I feel it as much as if she was." Mrs. Rushton then sent the carriage off for the doctor and went into the cottage with Mrs. Kane. The child was laid as gently as possible on a poor but clean bed covered with a patchwork quilt of many colours, and the lady of fashion sat by her side, bathing the baby forehead with eau de Cologne which she happened to have with her. It was all new and unexpectedly interesting to Mrs. Rushton. Never had she been received as a friend in a cottage home before, the only occasions when she had even seen the inside of one were those on which she had accompanied Mrs. Sourby on her mission of distributing tracts; and on those occasions she had felt that she was not looked on as a friend by the poor who received her, but rather as an intruder. It was evident now that good, grieved Mrs. Kane took her for an angel as she sat by the little one's bed, and it was new and delightful to Mrs. Rushton to be regarded as a benefactress by anyone. The doctor arrived, set the child's arm, which was found to be broken, and gave her something to make her fall asleep. Then he charmed Mrs. Rushton by complimenting that lady on her goodness of heart. "Remember, all the expense is to be mine," she said to him, "and I hope you will order the little one everything she can possibly require. I will come to see her to-morrow, Mrs. Kane, and bring her some flowers and fruit." The pretty green woods which Hetty loved had grown dark, the butterflies had flown away to whatever dainty lodging butterflies inhabit during the summer nights, the yellow wings of the flag-lilies fluttered unseen in the shadows, and the moon had risen high above the tall beech-trees and the old church tower. Mrs. Rushton stepped into her carriage once more, and was driven rapidly through the quiet village, away towards her own luxurious home, feeling more interested and excited than she had felt for a long time. Little Hetty Gray, her scare of fright and pain gone for the time like a bad dream, lay sound asleep upon her humble bed, and Mrs. Kane, trimming her night-light, paused to listen, with that fascination which many people feel at the sound, to the hoarse boom of the old church clock calling the hour of midnight, across the chimneys of the village and away over the silent solemn woods. Mrs. Kane felt with a sort of awe that another day had begun, but she little knew that with it a strange new leaf had been turned in the story of her little Hetty's life. CHAPTER III. ADOPTED. Mrs. Rushton returned the next day with a basket of ripe peaches and a large bouquet of lovely flowers such as Hetty had never seen before. The yellow lilies might stand now in peace among their tall flag leaves without fearing to have their heads picked off, for Hetty had got something newer and more delightful to admire than they. Odorous golden roses and pearl-white gardenias scented and beautified the poor little room where Hetty lay. Where had they come from, she wondered, and who was the pretty lady who sat by her side and kept putting nice-smelling things to her nose? At first she was very shy and only looked at her with half-closed eyes, but after some time she took courage and spoke to her. "What kind lady are you?" asked Hetty boldly. "I am a good fairy," said Mrs. Rushton, "and when you are well I am going to carry you off to see my house." "Hetty has got a house," said the little girl complacently. "Have you got a house too?" "A splendid large house, Hetty," said Mrs. Kane. "_You_ never saw such a house." "Is it bigger than the post-office?" said Hetty doubtingly. "Bigger far." "Bigger than the forge?" "Don't be foolish, child, and stop your biggers," said Mrs. Kane; "Mrs. Rushton's house is the size of the church and more." Hetty winked with astonishment, and she lay silent for some time, till at last she said: "And do you sit in the pulpit?" Mrs. Rushton laughed more than she was accustomed to laugh at Lady Harriet Beaton's comic stories. This child's prattle was amusing to her. "And do you have grave-stones growing round your door?" persisted Hetty. "There, ma'am!" cried Mrs. Kane, "she'll worry you with questions if you give her a bit of encouragement. She'll think of things that'll put you wild for an answer, so she will. John and I give her up." Mrs. Rushton was not at all inclined to give her up, however, for she kept coming day after day to visit the little patient. Hetty became fond of her pleasant visitor, and watched eagerly for her arrival in the long afternoons when the flies buzzed so noisily in the small cottage window-panes, and the child found it hard to lie still and hear the voices of the village children shouting and laughing at their play in the distance. As soon as Mrs. Rushton's bright eyes were seen in the doorway, and her gay dress fluttering across the threshold, Hetty would stretch out her one little hand in welcome to the delightful visitor, and laugh to see all the pretty presents that were quickly strewn around her on the bed. After spending an afternoon with the child, Mrs. Rushton often went on to Wavertree Hall and finished the evening there with her brother's family. Mr. and Mrs. Enderby were greatly astonished to find how completely their lively sister had interested herself in the village foundling. "Take care you do not spoil her," said Mr. Enderby. Mrs. Rushton shrugged her shoulders. "I can never please you," she said. "One would suppose I had found a harmless amusement this time at least, and yet you do not approve." "I do approve," said her brother, "up to a certain point. I only warn you not to go too far and make the child unhappy by over-petting her. In a few weeks hence you will have forgotten her existence, and then the little thing will be disappointed." "But I have no intention of forgetting her in a few weeks," said Mrs. Rushton indignantly. "No; you have no intention--" said Mr. Enderby. "You certainly are a most unsympathetic person," said Mrs. Rushton; and she went away feeling herself much ill-used, and firmly believing herself to be the only kind-hearted member of her family. "After all, William," said Mrs. Enderby to her husband, "you ought not to be too hard upon Amy, for you see she has given up talking of going abroad with Lady Harriet." "True; I have noticed that. Yet I fear she will not relinquish one folly without falling into another." "Her present whim is at all events an amiable one," said Mrs. Enderby gently. "Let us hope no harm may come of it.' "I should think it all most natural and right if any other woman than Amy were in question," said Mr. Enderby; "but one never knows to what extravagant lengths she will go." The warnings of her brother had the effect of making Mrs. Rushton still more eager in her attendance on the child, and a few days after she had been "lectured" by him, as she put it to herself, she astonished good Mrs. Kane by saying: "I think she is quite fit to be moved now, Mrs. Kane, and the doctor says so. I am going to take her home with me for a week for change of air." "Laws, ma'am, you never mean it!" "But I do mean it. I am going to fatten her up and finish her cure." "Well, ma'am, I'm sure you are the kindest of the kind. To think of you troubling yourself and putting yourself out, and all for our little Hetty." "That is my affair," said Mrs. Rushton laughing; "I don't think a mite like that will disturb my household very much. Just you pack her up, and I will carry her off with me to-morrow at three." The next day the lady carried off her prize, greatly delighted to think of how shocked her brother would be when he heard of her new "folly." As soon as she had introduced Hetty to all her dogs, and cats, and rabbits, Mrs. Rushton went to her desk and wrote a note to her sister-in-law inviting the entire Wavertree family to spend a day at Amber Hill, which was the name of her charming dwelling-place. When, on a certain morning, therefore, the Wavertree carriage stopped at the foot of the wide flight of steps, flanked by urns of blooming flowers, which led up to Mrs. Rushton's great hall door, the mistress of Amber Hill was seen descending the stone stair leading a little child by the hand. This was Hetty, dressed in a white frock of lace and muslin, and decked with rose-coloured ribbons. "Isn't she a little beauty?" said Mrs. Rushton, smiling mischievously at her grave brother and sister-in-law. "Look up, my darling, and show your pretty brown velvet eyes. Did you ever see such a tint in human cheeks, Isabel, or such a crop of curling hair?" "Do you really mean that this is the village child, Amy?" asked her brother. "Yes, little Hetty is here!" said Amy with a gleeful laugh; "but then, William, Lady Harriet is gone. If I had asked you to meet her to-day instead of little Miss Gray from Wavertree, I wonder what you would have done to find a more disagreeable expression of countenance." "Do you wish us to understand that you have adopted this 'nobody's child,' Amy?" said Mr. Enderby, looking more and more troubled. "Well, to tell you the truth, I did not mean that quite," said Mrs. Rushton; "but now that you suggest it--" "_I_ suggest it!" cried Mr. Enderby. "How horrified you look! But all the same you have suggested it, and I think it is a capital idea." "Do not come to any hasty conclusion, I implore you, Amy. Think over it well. Consider the child's interests more than your own momentary self-indulgence!" Mrs. Rushton coloured with displeasure. "I see you are determined to be as disagreeable as usual," she said angrily. "As if the monkey could fail to be benefited by my patronage! Pray, will she not be better in my drawing-room than getting under horses' feet about the Wavertree roads, or losing herself in the Wavertree woods?" "Frankly, I think not," said Mr. Enderby stiffly. Mrs. Rushton's eyes flashed, and she did her brother the injustice of thinking that he feared her adoption of little Hetty would in some way interfere with the worldly interests of his own children. She was not accustomed to seek far for other people's meanings and motives, and generally seized on the first which presented itself to her mind. She knew that she only wanted to amuse herself, and had no intention of wronging her nieces and nephew by playing with this charming babe. Why, then, should William take such fancies in his head? In this flash of temper she instantly decided on keeping little Hetty always with her. Was there any reason in the world why she should not do just as she pleased? Hetty should certainly stay with her and be as her own child from this day forth. "What have _you_ to say about my adopting little Hetty?" she said, turning to her sister-in-law with a slightly defiant and wholly triumphant smile. "I shall say nothing," said Mrs. Enderby, "until I see how you treat her. I trust it may turn out for the best." Thus, all in a moment, and merely because Mrs. Rushton would not be contradicted, was little Hetty's future in this world decided. Before her brother had spoken, the lady of Amber Hill had had no intention of keeping Hetty for more than a week in her house. And now she felt bound (by the laws of human perversity) to take her and bring her up as her own child. In the meantime Mrs. Enderby's three children and Hetty Gray were standing by, gazing at one another. The little Enderbys, Mark, Phyllis, and Nell, had taken in the whole conversation, and understood perfectly, with the quick perception of children, the strangeness of the situation, and their own peculiar position with regard to Mrs. Kane's little girl from Wavertree. The little Enderbys were thinking how very odd it was that the little girl whom they had often seen, as they walked with their nurse or drove past in the carriage with their mother, playing on the roads in a soiled pinafore, should be now presented to them as a new cousin. Phyllis, the eldest, was much displeased, for pride was her ruling fault. Mark and Nell were charmed with the transformation in Hetty and very much disposed to accept her as a playfellow, though they remembered all the time that she was not their equal. Hetty, being only four years old, was supremely unconscious of all that was being said, and meant, and thought over her curly head. She gazed at the three other children, and, repelled by Phyllis's cold gaze, turned to Mark and Nell, and stretched out a little fat hand to each of them. "Come and see the beautiful flowers!" she said gleefully; "you never saw such lovely ones!" CHAPTER IV. MRS. KANE IN TROUBLE. "Now, tell me all about it, for as I am going to be her mother in future I must know everything that concerns my child." Mrs. Rushton was talking to Mrs. Kane, having come to the cottage to announce her intention of adopting Hetty. Mrs. Kane was crying bitterly. "You'll excuse me, ma'am. I would not stand in the way of my darling's good fortune, not for ever so, I'm sure. And yet it's hard to give her up." "I should not have thought it could make much difference to you. I believe she was generally running about the roads when not at school." "Well, you see, ma'am, that is true; but at night and in the mornings she would kneel on my lap to say her prayers, and put her little soft arms round my neck. And those are the times I'll mostly miss her." Mrs. Rushton coughed slightly. She herself liked the sight of Hetty's pretty face, and was amused by her prattle; but she was not a woman to think much about the feel of a child's arms around her neck. Mrs. Kane, perceiving that she was not understood, sprang up from her seat and went to fetch a parcel from an inner room. "This is the little shift she wore when I first set eyes on her. It is the only rag she brought with her; though not much of a rag, I'm bound to say; for so pretty an article of the kind I never saw," said the good woman, spreading out on the table an infant's garment of the finest cambric embroidered delicately round the neck and sleeves. In the corner was a richly wrought monogram of the initials H.G. "And that's why we called her Hetty Gray," said Mrs. Kane. "John and I made up the name to suit the letters. If ever her friends turn up they'll know the difference, but in the meantime we had to have something to call her by." "Why, this is most interesting!" said Mrs. Rushton, examining the monogram; "she probably belonged to people of position. It is quite satisfactory that she should prove to be a gentlewoman by birth." "And that is why I feel bound to give her up, ma'am," said Mrs. Kane, wiping her overflowing eyes. "I've always put it before me that some day or other her folks would come wanting her, and I've said to myself that it would be terrible if she had grown up in the meantime with no better education than if she was born a village lass. And yet what better could I have done for her than I could have done for a daughter of my own if I had had one?" "Just so," said Mrs. Rushton; "and now you may be sure that she will be educated, trained, dressed, and everything else, just as if she had been in her mother's house. As for her own people coming for her, I am not sure that I shall give her up if they do. Not unless I have grown tired of her in the meantime." "Tired of her!" echoed Mrs. Kane, looking at her visitor in great surprise; "surely, madam, you do not think you will get tired of our little Hetty!" "I hope not, my good woman; but even if I do you cannot complain, as in that case I shall give her back to you; that is, if it happens before her friends come to fetch her. Unless you are pretending to grieve now, you cannot be sorry at the prospect of having her again." "That's true," said the poor woman in a puzzled tone, and she still looked wistfully at the handsome visitor sitting before her. She did not know how to express herself, and she was afraid of offending the lady who was going to be Hetty's mother; yet she felt eager to make some remonstrance against the injustice of the proceeding which Mrs. Rushton spoke of as within the bounds of possibility. She believed in her heart that a great wrong would be done if the child, having been educated and accustomed to luxury for years, were to be carelessly thrown back into a life of lowly poverty. However, the trouble that was in her heart could not find its way through her lips, and she tried to think that Mrs. Rushton spoke only in jest. "It is altogether like a romance," that lady was saying as she folded up the baby garment and put it away in a pretty scented satchel which she wore at her side. "I have not met with anything so interesting for years, and I promise myself a great deal of pleasure in the matter." "May Hetty come to see me sometimes?" asked Mrs. Kane, humbly curtseying her good-bye, when her visitor was seated in her pony phaeton and gathering up the reins for flight. "Oh, certainly, as often as you please," answered Mrs. Rushton gaily, and touching the ponies with her whip she was soon out of sight; while poor Mrs. Kane retreated into her cottage to have a good motherly cry over the tiny broken shoes and the little washed-out faded frocks which were now all that remained to her of her foster-daughter. CHAPTER V. A LONELY CHILD. Mrs. Rushton having adopted Hetty, set about extracting the utmost amount of amusement possible from the presence of the child in her home. She soon grew anxious to get away from her brother's "unpleasantly sensible remarks," and Isabel's gentle excuses for her conduct, which annoyed her even more, as they always suggested motives for her actions which were far beyond her ken, and seemed far-fetched, over-strained, and absurd. So she took the child to London, where she introduced her to her friends as her latest plaything. Hetty had frocks of all the colours of the rainbow, and learned to make saucy speeches which entertained Mrs. Rushton's visitors. She sat beside her new mamma as she drove in her victoria in the park; and on Mrs. Rushton's "at home" days was noticed and petted by fashionable ladies and gentlemen, her beauty praised openly to her face, her pretty clothes remarked upon, and her childish prattle laughed at and applauded as the wittiest talk in the world. Certainly there were many days when Hetty's presence was wearisome and intolerable to her benefactress, and then she was banished to a large gloomy room at the top of the London house, and left to the tender mercies of a maid, who did not at all forget that she was only Mrs. Kane's little girl from the village of Wavertree, and treated her accordingly. She was often left alone for hours, amusing herself as best she could, crying when she felt very lonely, or leaning far out of the window to feel nearer to the people in the street. The consequence of all this was to spoil the child's naturally sweet temper, to teach her to crave for excitement, and to suffer keenly, when, after a full feast of pleasure, she was suddenly snubbed, scolded, deserted, and forgotten. She began to hate the sight of the bare silent nursery upstairs, where there were no pretty pictures to bear her company, no pleasant little adornments, no diversions such as a mother places in the room where her darlings pass many of their baby hours. It was a motherless, blank, nursery, where the only nurse was the maid, who came and went, and looked upon Hetty as a nuisance; an extra trouble for which she had not been prepared when she engaged to live with Mrs. Rushton. "Sit down there and behave yourself properly, if you can, till I come back," she would say, and seat Hetty roughly in a chair and go away and leave her there, shutting the door. At first Hetty used to weep dolefully, and sometimes cried herself to sleep; but after a time she became used to her lonely life, and only thought of how she could amuse herself during her imprisonment. She counted the carriages passing the window till she was tired, and watched the little children playing in the garden of the square beyond; but at last she would get bolder, sometimes, and venture out of her nursery to take a peep at the other rooms of the house. One day she made her way down to Mrs. Rushton's bed-room; that lady had gone out and the servants were all downstairs. Hetty contrived to pull out several drawers and played with ribbons and trinkets. At last she opened a case in which was her foster-mother's watch, and as this ticking bit of gold was like a living companion, Hetty pounced upon it at once. She played all sorts of tricks with the watch, dressed it up in a towel and called it a baby; and making up her mind that baby wanted a bath, popped the watch into a basin of water and set about washing it thoroughly. Just as she was working away with great energy the door opened and Mrs. Rushton came in. Seeing what the child was doing she flew at her, snatched the watch from her hands, and slapped her violently on the arms and neck. Hetty screamed, beat Mrs. Rushton on the face with both her little palms, and then was whirled away shrieking into the hands of the negligent maid, who shook her roughly as she carried her off to the miscalled "nursery." The little girl, who had never been instructed or talked to sensibly by any one, was quite unconscious of the mischief she had done; and only felt that big people were hateful to-day, as she lay kicking and screaming on the floor upstairs. The end of it all was, however, that, upon reflection, Mrs. Rushton found she did not care so much after all about the destruction of her watch, and that the whole occurrence would make a capital story to tell to her friends; and so she sent for Hetty, who was then making a dismal play for herself in the twilight with two chairs turned upside down and a pinafore hung from one to another for a curtain. The child was seized by Grant, the maid, dressed in one of her prettiest costumes, and taken down to the drawing-room to Mrs. Rushton, who had quite recovered her temper and forgotten both the beating she had given Hetty and the beating Hetty had given her. The culprit was overwhelmed with kisses, and praises of her pretty eyes; and soon found herself the centre of a brilliant little crowd who were listening with smiles to the story of Hetty's ill-treatment of the watch. Each year Mrs. Rushton went abroad for amusement and Hetty was taken with her, and in foreign hotels was even more shown about, flattered and snubbed, petted and neglected, than she had been when at home in London. Everything that could be done was done to make her vain, wilful, ill-tempered; and the little creature came to know that she might have anything she pleased if only she could make Mrs. Rushton laugh. Four or five years passed in this way, during which time Mrs. Rushton had very little intercourse with her brother's family at Wavertree. Her country house had been shut up and her time had been spent between London, Brighton, and fashionable resorts on the Continent. In the meantime the education which she had promised Mrs. Kane should be given to her nursling had not been even begun. Mrs. Rushton had had no leisure to think of it. She looked upon Hetty as still only a babe, a marmoset born to amuse her own hours of ennui. In her brother's occasional letters he sometimes devoted a line to Hetty. "I hope you are not spoiling the little girl," he would add as a postscript; or, "I hope the child is learning something besides monkey-tricks." These insinuations always annoyed Mrs. Rushton, and she never condescended to answer them. The suggestion that she had incurred a great responsibility by adopting Hetty was highly disagreeable to her. It is hard to say how long this state of things might have gone on had not Mrs. Rushton's health become delicate. She suddenly found herself unable to enjoy the gay life which was so much to her natural taste. The doctors recommended her a quiet sojourn in her native air, and warned her that she ought to live near friends who felt a real interest in her. Of what these hints might mean Mrs Rushton did not choose to think, but physical weakness made her long for the rest of her own country home. CHAPTER VI. HETTY AND HER "COUSINS" One cool fresh evening in October Mrs. Rushton, Hetty, Grant the maid, and an old man-servant who followed his mistress everywhere, arrived at the railway-station near Wavertree, and were driven along the old familiar country road with the soft purpled woods on one side, and the green plains and distant view of the sea on the other. They arrived at Amber Hill just as lights began to spring up in the long narrow windows of the comfortable old gray house, lights more near and bright than the stars burning dimly above the ancient cedar-trees in the avenue. Hetty, dressed in a costly pelisse trimmed with fur, leaned forward, looking eagerly for the first glimpse of her new home. The child had now only faint recollections of Wavertree, and of her life with Mrs. Kane in the village, and except for Grant's ill-natured remarks from time to time she would have forgotten them altogether and imagined herself to be Mrs. Rushton's niece, as that lady called her when speaking of her to strangers. Hetty hated Grant, who always took a delight in lowering her pride, for by this time, it must be owned, pride had become Hetty's besetting sin. Mrs. Rushton had perceived Grant's disposition to snub and annoy the child, and with her usual determination to uphold and justify her own conduct and disappoint those who disapproved of her views, she had put down the maid's impertinence with a high hand, and had grown more and more careful of late to protect Hetty's dignity before the servants. "I hope Miss Gray's room is as nice as I desired you to make it," she said to the housekeeper who was welcoming her in the hall. "I hope you have engaged a maid from the village to attend on her. I require all Grant's attentions now myself," she added wearily, falling into a chair in a state of exhaustion. "Hetty, my love, give me a kiss, and go and have a pretty frock put on for dinner." Polly, the new maid, had already unpacked the little girl's trunks and was waiting in her room to dress her in white muslin and lace and arrange her soft dark curls in a charming wreath round her head. Hetty's room was an exquisite little nest draped in pale blue chintz covered with roses, and with fantastic little brackets here and there bearing pretty statuettes and baskets of flowers. The housekeeper had not indeed neglected Mrs. Rushton's instructions with regard to the decoration of this apartment. "My, miss, but you have grown a fine tall girl!" said Polly admiringly; "and won't Mrs. Kane be glad to see you again? I suppose you will be going to see her to-morrow?" "I am not sure," said Hetty; "I don't remember Mrs. Kane." "Don't you, miss? Then you ought to, I am sure, for it was she that took care of you before Mrs. Rushton had you." "Yes, I believe so," said Hetty frowning, for she dreaded that Polly was going to make a practice of taunting her with being a foundling, just as Grant had always done. "And you ought to be very thankful to her," persisted Polly, "although you are such a grand young lady now." "Please to mind your own business," said Hetty proudly; "you were engaged by Mrs. Rushton to dress me and not to give me lectures." Polly was astonished and aggrieved. She did not know how Hetty had been goaded on the subject of her past life by Grant, and had fancied that as she had only a child to deal with she could say anything she chose quite freely. But though Hetty was only nine, her experiences of the world had made her old beyond her years. Polly only thought her a hard-hearted, haughty little wretch, too proud to be grateful to those who had been good to her. "Far be it from me to think of lecturing you, Miss Hetty," she said; "but mind, I tell you, pride always gets a fall." "Be silent!" cried Hetty, stamping her small foot imperiously; "if Mrs. Rushton knew of your impertinence she would send you away to-night." It was thus that poor Hetty already began to make enemies, while much requiring friends. Next morning Mrs. Rushton and Hetty drove over to Wavertree to spend a few days at the Hall, and on the way the lady stopped at Mrs. Kane's door in the village, and bade Hetty alight and go in to pay a visit to her old protectress. With Grant's taunts rankling in her memory and Polly's reproaches fresh in her mind, Hetty got out of the carriage reluctantly and went up to the door with a slow step. Mrs. Kane was busy over a tub in her little wash-house, and came out into the kitchen on hearing some one at the door. She wore a print short-gown and petticoat, and a poky sun-bonnet; and her bare arms were reeking with soap-suds. Hetty shrank from her a little, and could not realize that she had ever belonged to a person with such an appearance as this. Poor Mrs. Kane looked at her young visitor with a stare of wonder, and could never have guessed it was Hetty had she not espied Mrs. Rushton's face through the open doorway, nodding pleasantly at her from the carriage. "Why, little miss, you're never my little Hetty?" cried the good woman, wiping her hands in her apron. "My name is Hetty Gray," said the little girl, holding up her pretty head adorned with a handsome hat and feathers. "And don't you remember me, my darling?" said Mrs. Kane, extending her arms; "me that used to nurse you and take care of you like my own! Oh, don't go to say you forget all about your poor old mammy!" Hetty hung her head. "I don't remember you at all," she said in a low trembling voice. Her pride was stung to the quick at the thought that she had belonged to this vulgar person. "Well, well! you were only a baby, to be sure, when you were taken away from me. But oh, my dear, I loved you like my own that went to heaven, so I did. And my John, he loved you too. Come in here till I show you the bed you used to sleep in; and always you would be happier if you had a jugful of flowers on the window-sill to look at, falling asleep and coming awake again in the morning. To think of it being full five years ago, my pretty; and you turned into an elegant young lady in the time!" "Did I really ever live here?" asked Hetty; "really ever sleep in that bed?" "That you did; and slept well and were happy," said Mrs. Kane, beginning to feel hurt at the child's coldness. "Come now, have you never a kiss to give to the poor old mammy that nursed you?" Hetty held up her round sweet face, as fair and fresh as a damask rose, to be kissed, and submitted to Mrs. Kane's caresses rather from consciousness that she ought to do so, than from any warmth of gratitude in her own heart. So far from being grateful to the homely sun-burned woman who hugged her, she felt a sort of resentment towards her for finding her on the sea-shore and making a cottage child of her. It ought to have been Mrs. Rushton who found her, and perhaps she might have done so if Mrs. Kane or her husband had not been in such a hurry to take her in. Then Grant could not have taunted her with being a village foundling, and nobody could have declared she was not intended to be a lady. After her one embrace Mrs. Kane wiped her eyes and led the child out of the cottage to the carriage door. "Ah, Mrs. Rushton!" she said, "this is your Hetty now and not mine any more. What does a fine young lady like this want to know of a poor old mammy like me? I gave her to you, body and soul, five years ago, and may the good God grant that I did right! My little Hetty, that loved the big moon-daisies and the field-lilies like her life, is as dead as my other children who are in heaven. It lies in your hands, ma'am, to make good or bad out of this one." "You are a curious woman, Mrs. Kane. I thought you would have been delighted to see what a little queen I have made of her." "Queens require kingdoms, ma'am, and I make free to wish that your little lady may sit safe on her throne. And after that I can only hope that she has more heart for you than for me." "Come, come, Mrs. Kane! you must not expect memory from a baby. Hetty will soon renew her acquaintance with you, and you and she will be excellent friends." But Mrs. Kane was not slow to read the expression of Hetty's large dark-fringed eyes, which, with all the frankness of childhood, betrayed their owner's thoughts; and she knew that Hetty would find no pleasure in learning to recall the inglorious circumstances of her infancy. Hetty had still less recollection of the Enderby family than of Mrs. Kane, but she felt very much more willing to be introduced to its members than to the cottage woman. Looking upon herself as Mrs. Rushton's only child, she considered the Wavertree children as her cousins and their father and mother as her uncle and aunt. Mrs. Rushton had always talked to her of them in such a way as to lead her to regard them in this light. Occasionally a strange little laugh or a few sarcastic words from Mrs. Rushton had grated on the child's ear in the midst of her foster-mother's pleasantly expressed anticipations of Hetty's future intercourse with her own relations; and the little girl had, on such occasions, felt a chill of vague fear, and a momentary pang of anxiety as to the reception she might possibly meet with from these people, none of whom had ever been found by a poor labouring man alone on a wild sea-shore, or had lived with a humble woman in a cottage. That the "disgrace" of such a past clung round herself, Grant's disagreeable eyes would never allow her to forget. Such were poor Hetty's disordered ideas with regard to herself and her little world, when Mrs. Rushton's carriage drew up that day before the door of Wavertree Hall. Mrs. Enderby was seated at her embroidery in the drawing-room beside her small elegant tea-table, and looked the very ideal of an English gentlewoman in her silver-gray silk and delicate lace ruffles, and with her fair, almost colourless hair twisted in neat shining braids round the back of her head. With her own faint sweet smile she welcomed her sister-in-law and inquired kindly for her health; and then she turned to Hetty, who stood gazing steadily in her face, utterly unconscious of her own look of anxious inquiry. Mrs. Rushton had taken pains to make the most of Hetty's uncommon beauty on this occasion, determined to take her friends by surprise and force them into an acknowledgment of the superiority of her own taste in adopting such a child. Hetty was dressed in a dark crimson velvet frock, trimmed with rich old yellow lace, which enhanced the warmth and richness of her complexion, and gave a reflected glow to her dark and deep-fringed eyes. A crop of crisp short curls of a dusky chestnut colour was discovered when her hat was removed. No ungenerous prejudice prevented Mrs. Enderby from acknowledging at the first glance that Hetty had a most charming countenance. "And this is Hetty! how she has grown!" said Mrs. Enderby, taking the child's little hand between her own and looking at her in a friendly manner. With a swift pain, however, Hetty remarked that she did not kiss her; but she was not aware that Mrs. Enderby, though a kind, was not a demonstrative woman, and that kisses were rarely bestowed by her on anyone. If Hetty had put up her little face for a caress, Mrs. Enderby would have been very well pleased to lay her own cool cheek against the child's scarlet lips; but Hetty's was one of those natures that desire tokens of love and are yet too proud to seek for them. She flushed to her hair, therefore, with mortification as Mrs. Enderby dropped her hand and turned away once more to her sister-in-law. "How tired you are! you look quite faint. Allow me to take your bonnet; and do lie down on this couch while I make you a cup of tea. Hetty must amuse herself with a piece of cake till my little girls come in from their walk. I have got such a nice governess for them, Amy. Mark, you know, is gone to Eton." The ladies continued to converse, and Hetty sat forgotten for the moment, eating her cake. She ate it very slowly, anxious to make it last as long as possible, for she felt that when it was finished she should not know what to do with herself. When even the crumbs were gone she folded her hands and counted the flowers on the wall-paper, and discovered among them a grinning face which certainly had been no acquaintance of the designer's, but had started suddenly out of the pattern merely to make cruel fun of Hetty's uneasiness. At last, after some time which seemed to the little girl quite a year at least, Mrs. Enderby rang the bell and asked if the young ladies had come in from walking. The servant said they were just going to tea in the school-room, and Mrs Enderby turned to Hetty, saying: "Go, my dear, with Peter, and he will show you the school-room. Tell Phyllis and Nell that I sent you to play with them." Hetty followed the servant; but as she went across the hall and up the staircase she felt with a swelling heart that had she been the real cousin of these children, and not an "upstart" (Grant's favourite word), they would perhaps have been sent for to the drawing-room to be presented to her. Accustomed as she was to be alternately petted and snubbed, she had acquired the habit of watching the movements of her elders with suspicion, and now concluded that because no fuss was made about her she must therefore be despised. A hard proud spirit entered into her on the moment, and she resolved that though she had been humble in her demeanour towards Mrs. Enderby she would hold her head high with girls who were not very much older than herself. Peter was a young footman who had been brought up in the village and trained by the butler at the Hall, and who consequently knew all about Hetty's history. He did not intend to do more than just show the little girl which was the school-room door, and was amused and surprised when the child said to him with great dignity, "Please announce Miss Gray." Peter hid his smile, and throwing open the door very wide he pronounced her name, as she desired, in an unusually loud tone of voice. Miss Davis, the governess, had just raised the tea-pot in her hand to fill the cups, and her two pupils had each a thick piece of bread and butter in hand, when the door was flung open as described and Hetty in all her magnificence appeared on the threshold. "My mamma has brought me to see you," said Hetty boldly, her chin very high, "and Mrs. Enderby sent me here to you"; and she remarked as she spoke that the Enderby girls wore plain holland dresses with little aprons and narrow tuckers, no style or elegance whatever about their attire. Miss Davis looked in surprise at the young stranger, not knowing her story, and thinking her a very handsome, but haughty looking little girl, while Phyllis and Nell put down their bread and butter on their plates, and rose slowly from their seats. "How do you do?" they said, each just touching her hand, and then the three girls stood looking at one another. The words "my mamma" had already annoyed Phyllis, who was one of those persons who even from childhood cherish an extraordinary degree of quiet pride in their good birth. She was willing that Hetty should be treated with kindness, but had often told herself that she would never be persuaded to look upon her as her own cousin. Nell only thought of how pretty their new playfellow was, and how nice it would be to have her sometimes with them. "I am very glad you have come," she said, looking at Hetty with welcoming eyes. "Nell, you ought not to speak before your elder sister," said Miss Davis, who, though an excellent lady, was rather prim in her ways and ideas. "I hope you are quite well," said Phyllis politely; "will you take some tea?" "I have just had some," said Hetty, "thank you. Do you never have tea with your mamma?" "Oh, no," said the girls, with a smile of surprise. "Little girls never do," said Miss Davis emphatically. "I do always," said Hetty; she might have added, "except when she forgets all about me," but she did not think of that now. "I did not know you had any mamma," said Phyllis coldly, not exactly meaning to be cruel, but feeling that Hetty was pretentious, and therefore vulgar, and that she ought to be kept down. "How odd that you should not know your own aunt," said Hetty, a warm crimson rising in her cheeks, and her eyes kindling. "My aunt never had a child," said Phyllis quietly. "Not till she got Hetty," broke in Nell. "Phyllis, how can you be so unkind?" "My dear Nell, I am not unkind, I only meant to correct Miss Gray's mistake." "You had better go into the drawing-room and correct Mrs. Rushton's mistakes," said Hetty angrily. "It is by her desire that I call her my mother." By this time Miss Davis knew who Hetty was, as she had heard something about Mrs. Rushton's having adopted a village child. "My dears," she said, "don't let us be unkind to each other. Come, we must have our tea, and Miss Gray will be social and join us, even though she has had some before." And she handed a cup to the little visitor. "Now, Hetty," continued Miss Davis, "I suppose I may call you Hetty, instead of Miss Gray, as you are only a little girl?" "Yes," said Hetty slowly, half liking Miss Davis, but feeling afraid she was laughing at her. Tea was finished almost in silence, not all Miss Davis's efforts making Hetty and Phyllis feel at ease with each other. Nell, being rather in awe of her elder sister, of whose general propriety of conduct and good sense she had a high opinion, was not very successful in her attempts at conversation. When the meal was over Miss Davis proposed a walk in the garden before study time. "Can you play lawn tennis?" asked Nell as they walked towards the tennis-ground. "No, I never play at anything," said Hetty sadly, "When not with--_my mamma_," she said with a flash of the eyes at seeing Phyllis looking at her, "I have always been alone." Miss Davis glanced at the child with pity, but Hetty, catching her eye, would not bear to be pitied. "It is much pleasanter to be with grown people in the drawing-room," she said. "I should not like at all to live as you do." "Do you always wear such splendid frocks?" asked Phyllis, examining her from head to foot with critical eyes. "Yes," said Hetty. "I have much finer ones than this; I am always dressed like a lady. How can you bear to be such a sight in that ugly linen thing?" "My dear, simple clothes are more becoming to children," said Miss Davis, while Phyllis only curled her lip. "If you lived more among those of your own age," continued the governess, "as I hope you will henceforth do, you would find that little girls are much happier and more free to amuse themselves when dressed suitably to their age. You shall see how we enjoy ourselves at tennis, as we could not do in dresses as rich as yours." Miss Davis and her pupils began to play tennis, and Hetty tried to join; but her dress was too warm and too tight to allow of her making much exertion, and so she was obliged to stand by and watch the game. Seeing the great enjoyment of the players, Hetty began to feel the spirit of the game, and remembered how she had often longed to be one of the happy children whom she had seen at play in other scenes than this. However, her belief that Phyllis was unfriendly towards her prevented her acknowledging what she felt. Had only Nell and Miss Davis been present she would have begged the loan of a holland blouse and joined in the game with all her heart. But Phyllis had a freezing effect upon her. When the game was over they went indoors and Hetty was shown the pretty room prepared for her. Polly had already unpacked her things, and on the bed were laid the handsome gifts which Mrs. Rushton had bought for Hetty to present to "her cousins." Hetty was now glad to see these presents which she had for a time forgotten, and thought she had now a good opportunity for making friends with the two girls. She was really pleased to give pleasure to Nell, whom she liked, and was not sorry that Phyllis would be obliged to receive something from her hands. The presents were both beautiful and both useful. One was a desk, the case delicately inlaid, and the interior perfectly fitted up. The other was an exquisitely carved and furnished work-box. "Oh, give the desk to Phyllis; she is so much more clever than I am, and writes so well. And I am fond of work. Oh, you are a dear to give me such a charming present," said Nell affectionately, examining the beautiful work-box with sparkling eyes. Hetty was delighted. "I chose them myself," she said with some pride; and then she took the desk in her arms and asked Nell to show her the way to Phyllis's room. "It is down at the end of this passage. I will show you. And you must not mind Phyllis if she does not go into raptures like me. She is always so well-behaved, and takes everything so quietly." Phyllis looked greatly surprised, and not quite pleased, when, having heard a knock at her door and said "Come in," she saw Hetty invade her room. Her first thought was, "This foundling girl is going to be forward and troublesome"; and Hetty was not slow to read her glance. "I have brought you a present," she said, in quite a different tone from that in which she had made her little speech to Nell. Phyllis took the desk slowly, and looked at it as if she wished it had not been offered. "It is very handsome," she said, "and my aunt was very good to think of it. Please give her my best thanks." And then Phyllis deposited the present on a table, and turned away and began to change her shoes. Nell looked at Hetty, but could not see the expression of her face; for she had turned as quickly as Phyllis and was already vanishing through the door. CHAPTER VII. HETTY'S FIRST LESSONS. Hetty's bed-room being over the school-room, she was wakened the next morning by somebody practising on the piano, the sound from which ascended through the floor. "How well they play, and how early they rise!" thought Hetty. "I wonder whether it is Nell or Phyllis who is at the piano? Oh, dear! I do not know even a note." She longed to ask Polly at what hour the Miss Enderbys had got up, and which of them was practising on the piano, but as she had begun by snubbing Polly she could not now descend from her dignity so far as to ask her questions. Polly on her side was always silent when attending on Miss Gray, and never ventured upon the least freedom with the haughty little foundling. When Hetty descended to the breakfast-room she found only Mr. and Mrs. Enderby at the table. Mrs. Rushton was still in her room, and was having her breakfast there. "This is little Hetty," said Mrs. Enderby, presenting her to her husband. Mr. Enderby put down his paper and looked at Hetty gravely and critically, Hetty thought pityingly. "How do you do, my dear?" he said, patting her shoulder. "I see you have not been accustomed to early hours." Hetty hung her head and sat down at the table. Mrs. Enderby supplied her wants and then went on reading her letters; and Hetty ate in silence, wondering why she was not called on to talk and amuse these people as she had been accustomed to amuse Mrs. Rushton's fashionable friends. This quiet wise-looking lady and gentleman seemed to look on her with quite different eyes from those with which the rest of the world regarded her. They neither snubbed nor petted her, only seemed satisfied to allow her to be comfortable beside them. Presently she plucked up courage to ask: "Are Phyllis and Nell not coming to breakfast?" Mrs. Enderby smiled. "No, my dear, they never breakfast here. They breakfasted an hour ago in the school-room. They are busy at their studies at present." "Are they always busy at studies?" asked Hetty. "A great part of the day they are." "As all little girls ought to be who wish to be educated women some day," said Mr. Enderby, looking over the edge of his newspaper. "Your education has hardly begun yet I fear," said Mrs. Enderby. "Mrs. Rushton"--something withheld Hetty from saying "my mamma" before Mr. and Mrs. Enderby--"always says it is time enough for that," said Hetty. Mr. and Mrs. Enderby exchanged glances, and Mr. Enderby shifted in his seat and shook the newspaper impatiently. Mrs. Enderby said: "What would you think of joining my girls at their lessons while you stay here? I fear that if you do not you will find yourself very lonely." "I am often very lonely," said Hetty simply; and again her host and hostess looked at each other. "Well, which do you prefer?" said the latter; "to be very lonely going about the house and gardens by yourself, or to spend your time usefully with the other children in the school-room?" "I would rather be with the girls, if they would like to have me," said Hetty after a few moments' reflection. "But I think Phyllis would rather I stayed away." "Oh, I think not," said Mrs. Enderby; "Phyllis never makes a fuss about anything, but I will answer for her that she will welcome you." "I think she does not like me," said Hetty, looking steadily at her hostess with large serious eyes. "Take care you do not dislike her," said Mr. Enderby, with a slight look of displeasure. "In this house we do not indulge such fancies." "My dear, you must not think that because our manners here in the country may be quieter and perhaps less warm than those of some of the people you have lived with abroad, our hearts are therefore cold. Come, then, if you have finished breakfast, I will take you myself into the school-room." Half pleased and half unwilling Hetty suffered herself to be led away, and her heart beat fast as she crossed the school-room threshold. Miss Davis sat at the end of the table with an open exercise book before her, and a severely businesslike look upon her face. Phyllis and Nell bent over their books at either side of the same table. Maps hung on the walls and books lay about everywhere. Hetty instantly, and for the first time in her life, felt keenly that she was a dunce. "Miss Davis, I have brought you another pupil," said Mrs. Enderby; "I am sure you will not mind the trouble of having one more than usual for a little while. I think Hetty will be happier for having something to do." "I shall be very pleased if she will join us," said Miss Davis; and then Mrs. Enderby left the room, and Hetty was asked to take a seat at the foot of the table. "What have you been learning, my dear?" asked Miss Davis. "Nothing," said Hetty; "I can read a little; but that is all." Phyllis and Nell had not spoken to her, and had looked at her only with sidelong glances. This was because it was their study hour and speaking was not allowed; but Hetty thought it was because they were not glad to see her coming to join them, and she therefore felt all the more careless about trying to make the best of herself. If nobody cared about her, what did it matter whether she was a dunce or not? So she said boldly that she had been learning nothing; and then the two Enderby girls lifted up their heads and stared at her in sheer amazement. Hetty's face grew crimson, and her pride arose within her. "After all," she said, "it is much better fun to play and amuse yourself all day than to sit poring over books. Study does not make people prettier or pleasanter." This last sentence was an echo from one of Mrs. Rushton's silly speeches. When people would ask her about Hetty's education, she was wont to declare that the child was prettier and pleasanter without it. Phyllis, listening, merely curled her lip, and bent lower in silence over her book. Nell remained looking at Hetty with a wondering expression in her eyes. Miss Davis drew herself up and looked much displeased. "I hope you are doing yourself great injustice," she said; "I cannot believe you really mean what you say. Study not make people prettier or pleasanter! I scarcely believe that my ears have not deceived me." "It does not make you prettier or pleasanter," said Hetty persistently. "You were much nicer yesterday when you were playing and running about. Your face is not the same at all now." Phyllis opened her eyes wide and turned them on Miss Davis, as if to ask, "Is not this too much?" Nell, on the contrary, began to smile as though she thought Hetty's impudence capital fun; and this encouraged Hetty, who had been taught to love to amuse people at any cost. Miss Davis coloured with surprise and annoyance. "It is of no consequence, my dear, how we look when we are doing our duty," she said, controlling herself. "Then I hope I shall never do my duty," said Hetty coolly; "nobody loves people who do not look gay." Phyllis turned to Miss Davis and said, "Will you not send her away now? Mother never meant us to be interrupted like this." "Patience, my dear!" said Miss Davis; "Hetty is perhaps giving us the worst side of her character only to startle us. I am sure there is a better side somewhere. Come over here to me, Hetty, and let me hear you read." Hetty obeyed, and took the book Miss Davis placed in her hand. Holding herself very erect and looking very serious she began, after a glance over the paragraph that had been marked for her:-- "Leonora walked on her head, a little higher than usual." "My dear!" interrupted Miss Davis hastily; and Nell vainly tried to smother a burst of laughter. "That is what is printed here," said Hetty gravely, but the corners of her mouth twitched. Miss Davis did not notice this as she took the book and prepared to examine the text so startlingly given forth; but Phyllis and Nell saw at once that Hetty was making fun. "Ah!" said Miss Davis, "it is your punctuation that is at fault. The sentence runs: 'Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.' You see one little comma makes all the difference in the world." "I wondered how she could manage to walk on her head," said Hetty in the most serious manner; "and why, if she did manage it, it should make her higher. She would be the same length in any case, would she not, Miss Davis?" Nell laughed again, and Phyllis looked more and more contemptuous. Miss Davis said, "Read on please!" rather severely, at the same time giving Nell a glance of warning. Hetty read on, making deliberately the most laughable blunders, at some of which Miss Davis herself had to smile. Even Phyllis had to give way on one occasion, and in the midst of a chorus of laughter Hetty stood making a piteous face, pretending not to know what they were laughing at. "I told you I could read only a little," she said, but at the same time she gave Nell a knowing glance which Phyllis caught. "She could read better if she pleased. She is only amusing herself," said Phyllis to Miss Davis. "I hope not, my dear," said the governess; "do not be uncharitable. Well, Hetty, you may put aside your book for to-day. I hope to improve you before your visit is over. Do you know anything of geography? Come, I will give you an easy question. Where is England situated on the map?" "In the middle of the Red Sea," said Hetty briskly. "My dear! why do you suppose so?" "I see it up there on the map," said Hetty; "the sea is marked in red all round it." Nell tittered again. Phyllis put her fingers in her ears, determined to hear no more of Hetty's absurdities. "You make a great mistake," said Miss Davis, and spreading a map before Hetty, the governess gave her a lesson on the position of the Red Sea and the relative position of England. "Have you learned anything at all of numbers?" "I can count on my fingers," said Hetty; "I add up the fives and I can reckon up to a hundred that way." "You must learn a better way of counting than that. Have you never learned the multiplication table?" "My mamma's tables are all ebony or marble," said Hetty, putting on a bewildered air, "but I will count them up if you like. There are six in the drawing-room," she continued, holding up all the fingers of her left hand, and the thumb of the right. "You ridiculous child! you misunderstand me quite. The multiplication table is an arrangement of numbers. I will give it to you to study. In the meantime, come, how many do three threes make when they are added together?" "I don't know anything about threes," said Hetty; "I only know about fives." "I think I must give you up for to-day," said Miss Davis in despair. "Phyllis is waiting with her French exercise. Can you read French at all, Hetty?" "I can talk French," said Hetty; "but I don't want to read it; 'tis quite bad enough to have to read English, I think. Talking is so much pleasanter than reading." "You can talk it, can you? Let me hear," and Miss Davis addressed a question to her in French. In answer to it Hetty poured forth a perfect flood of French, spoken with a pretty accent and grammatically correct. In truth she spoke like a little Frenchwoman, and completely surprised her listeners. She had been asked some question about walking in the Champs Elysees and now gave a vivid description of the scene there on a fine morning, the people who frequented it, their dress, their manners, their conversation. Miss Davis put down the multiplication table which she had been turning over and stared at the little Frenchwoman chattering and gesticulating before her. "There, my dear," she said presently, "that will do; I see you can make use of your tongue. Take this book now and study quietly for half an hour." Hetty felt that she had had her little triumph at last. Neither Phyllis nor Nell could speak French like that. She took the table-book obediently and sat down with it, while Phyllis made an effort to get over the shock of surprise given her by Hetty's clever exhibition, and proceeded to attend to Miss Davis's correction of her French exercise. That afternoon Hetty was dressed in a holland frock of Nell's, which, though Nell was a year older, was not too large for her, and joined heartily in a game of lawn tennis. Her little success of the morning, when she had surprised her companions and their governess by her cleverness at French, had raised her spirits, and she enjoyed herself as she had never done in her life before, feeling that she could afford to do without Phyllis' good opinion, and taking more and more pleasure in showing how little she cared to have it. After this the days that remained of her visit passed pleasantly enough. Hetty contrived to turn her lessons into a sort of burlesque, and to impose a good deal on Miss Davis, who was not a humorous, but indeed a most matter-of-fact person. Every day Phyllis grew more and more disgusted with their visitor, who interrupted the even course of their studies and "made fools," as she considered, of Miss Davis and Nell. She thought Hetty's pretentiousness became greater and greater as her first slight shyness wore away and she grew perfectly familiar with every one in the house. Phyllis was sufficiently generous to refrain from complaining of Hetty to her mother or father, but she privately found fault with Nell for encouraging her too much. "You laugh at her so absurdly that she grows more impudent every day," she said; "she could not dare to give herself such airs only for you." "But, Phyllis dear, I can't help laughing at her, and indeed I think you make her proud by being so hard upon her; she is not so proud with me." "She is ridiculous," said Phyllis; "such pretension in a girl of her age is utterly absurd. Besides, it is so vulgar. Well-born people are not always trying to force their importance on you as she does; if I did not try to keep her down a little she would be quite unbearable." "Perhaps if you did not try to keep her down so much she would not set herself up so much," persisted Nell. "I am older and wiser than you," said Phyllis coldly. "Yes, I know you are," said Nell regretfully. "And I ought to be a better judge of people's conduct. I am not going to complain of her to father or mother; but as she will be coming here again, I suppose, we ought to try to manage her a little ourselves." Nell did not dare to say any more to Phyllis, but ran away as soon as she could get an opportunity, to play with Hetty and laugh admiringly at all her droll remarks. One more triumph Hetty enjoyed before her visit to Wavertree came to an end. On a certain evening there was a dinner-party at the Hall, and some one who had been expected to sing and amuse the company failed to appear. After dinner Mrs. Rushton fancied that the party had grown very dull, and a brilliant idea for entertaining the guests occurred to her. She left the drawing-room and went upstairs to where the little girls were preparing for bed. "Come, Hetty," she said, "I want you to make yourself agreeable. Every one is going to sleep down-stairs and carriages will not arrive till eleven. I have rung for Polly to dress you. Phyllis and Nell can come down also if they please." The Enderby girls concluded from this speech that their mother had sent for them, and in a short time Mrs. Rushton returned to the drawing-room, accompanied by the three children. Mrs. Enderby looked exceedingly surprised and not quite pleased, but Mrs. Rushton said, "I have provided some amusement for your people. Hetty will make them laugh." Hetty was flushed and trembling with excitement, and at a signal from her adopted mother she stepped into the middle of the room and began her entertainment; Mrs. Rushton having walked about among the guests beforehand, telling them that the child was going to give them some sketches of character, the result of her own observations. Hetty began with a conversation between a mincing and lackadaisical young lady and a bouncing one who talked noisily; and she changed her attitudes, her accent, the expressions of her face in such droll ways, and altogether contrasted the two characters so well, that a round of applause and laughter greeted and encouraged her. Then followed a ridiculous scene between a cross old lady and an amiable old gentleman in a hotel; and so on. Every odd character Hetty had ever met was reproduced for the amusement of the company. Most of the guests laughed heartily and lavished praises on Hetty's talent and beauty. Only a few looked shocked, and shook their heads, saying it was sad to see a child so precocious and cynical. Mr. and Mrs. Enderby, though disliking the exhibition and thinking it very bad for the little girl, were obliged to laugh with the rest, and Mrs. Rushton was delighted and triumphant. Nell laughed more than any one and clapped her hands wildly, but Phyllis looked on all the time with a disdainful smile. "My girls are up too late," said Mrs. Enderby, as she bade them good night. "Why did you send for us, then, mother?" said Phyllis. "I did not, my dear, it was quite your aunt's doing. She wished to amuse you, I believe." "Then I wish I had known," said Phyllis, "I would rather have gone to bed. I did not want to see that ridiculous performance." "Hetty took some trouble to make us laugh. And if she has not been very wisely brought up we must not blame her too much for that." "I do not like her; I wish she would go away," said Phyllis with quiet determination. "She is going to-morrow," said Mrs. Enderby. "She is not a lady, mother, and I am quite tired of her restless ways," persisted Phyllis. "I hope she will never come back here." Mrs. Enderby in her heart echoed this hope, but she controlled her feeling against Hetty and said: "I fear your aunt is not the sort of person to understand the bringing up of a girl; but remember, Phyllis, that I rely on you to help me to be of service to this poor child. Go to bed now, my daughter, and be wise, as you usually are." Phyllis looked troubled, and thought over her mother's words as she lay in bed. But hers was not one of those natures that relent easily. She tried to satisfy her conscience by assuring herself that she wished no ill to Hetty, but quite the reverse. "Only she is different from us," she reflected, "and she ought to keep away with the people who suit her. I hope aunt Amy will not bring her here again." CHAPTER VIII. HETTY DESOLATE. Mrs. Rushton and Hetty departed. Phyllis was satisfied, and everything went on as usual at Wavertree Hall. No one was sorry to lose the visitors, except Nell, who was secretly rather fond of Hetty. She was not a very brave child, and was much influenced by the opinion of others, especially of those whom she loved and admired; so, though there was a soft corner in her heart for Hetty, she was a little ashamed of the fact, seeing that none of the rest of the family shared her feeling. With Phyllis especially she was careful to be silent about Hetty, having a high opinion of her sister's good sense, and being greatly afraid of her contempt. And so it came that after a few days had passed Hetty's name was mentioned no more in the house. Meantime Hetty at Amber Hill was enjoying her life more than she had ever enjoyed it before. She had her own pony, and went out to ride as often as, and at any hour she pleased. Half-a-dozen dogs and as many cats belonged to her, and they all loved her. Almost her entire time was spent out of doors, for Mrs. Rushton was too great an invalid now to care for much of her company. Grant was almost always in attendance on her mistress, and so had very little opportunity for interference with Hetty. Polly was easily kept in order, and the housekeeper always took the child's part if any of the other servants annoyed or neglected her. This wild uncontrolled life, spent chiefly in the open air, wandering through the woods, running races with the dogs, or galloping up hill and down hill with them all flying after the pony's heels, suited Hetty exactly. She thought the world delightful because she was allowed to live a healthy active life, and nobody thwarted her. When Mrs. Rushton sent for her to the drawing-room or to her bed-room Hetty would steal in quietly, and, bringing a story-book with her, would sit down at her adopted mother's feet, and remain buried in her book till notice was given her that it was time for her to depart. In this way she gave very little trouble, and Mrs. Rushton was more than ever convinced that she had made an excellent choice in adopting Hetty, and that she was the most satisfactory child in the world. One day Hetty had come in from her ride, and was sitting in her own room with her story-book waiting for the usual evening summons from Mrs. Rushton. The days were now very short, and the little girl's head was close to the window-pane as she tried to read. The door opened and she started up, shutting the book and preparing to go down-stairs; but there was something unusual about Polly's look and manner as she came into the room. "Mrs. Rushton is taken very ill," she said, "and the doctor is sent for. So you will please come down and have your tea in the drawing-room by yourself, Miss Hetty." "Is she more ill than usual? Much more?" asked Hetty. "The doctor was here this morning." "She's as ill as can be," said Polly, "and all of a sudden. But you can't do her any good. And you'd better come down to your tea." Hetty followed Polly without saying more, though she felt too anxious to care about her tea. She was greatly frightened, yet hardly knew why, as Mrs. Rushton was often ill, and the doctor was often sent for. There was a general impression in the household that the mistress sometimes made a great fuss about nothing, fainted, and thought she was going to die, and in a few hours was as well as usual. But no one in the house felt as anxious about her as Hetty. During the pleasant weeks that had lately passed over her head Hetty had been more drawn to her benefactress than she had ever been before. No longer snubbed and neglected in strange uncomfortable places, she had, in becoming more happy, also become more loving. She knew that she owed all the enjoyments of her present life to Mrs. Rushton, and if she was not allowed to be much in the company of her adopted mother she thought it was not because she was forgotten, but because Mrs. Rushton was too ill to see her. She believed herself really very greatly beloved by her benefactress, and had begun to love her very much in return. Seeing her lying on her couch, quiet and gentle, making no cruel remarks and laughing no cynical laughs, Hetty had constructed a sort of ideal mother out of the invalid, and endowed her with every lovable and admirable quality. This comfortable little dream had added much to the child's happiness in her life of late; and now she felt a wild alarm at the thought of the increased illness of her protectress. The doctor came and was shut up in the sick-room, and after some time Grant came out and spoke to the housekeeper, and a messenger was sent off on horseback to Wavertree Hall. When Grant came back to Mrs. Rushton's door Hetty was there with her face against the panel. "Oh, Grant, do tell me what is the matter!" she whispered. "Illness is the matter," said Grant. "There! we don't want children in the way at such times. Go up to your bed, miss. You'll be better there than here." "I can't go to bed till I know if she is better," said Hetty. "Why have you sent a message to Wavertree?" But Grant pursed up her lips and would say no more, and Hetty saw her pass into Mrs. Rushton's room and close the door. The child crept back to the drawing-room, where no lamps had been lighted and there was only a little firelight to make the darkness and emptiness of the large room more noticeable. She knelt down on the hearth-rug and buried her face in the seat of Mrs. Rushton's favourite arm-chair. The dearest of all her dear dogs, Scamp, came and laid his black muzzle beside her ear, as if he knew the whole case and wanted to mourn with her. Two hours passed; Hetty listened intently for every sound, and wondered impatiently why Mr. and Mrs. Enderby did not arrive. She got up and carefully placed some lumps of coal on the fire, making no noise lest some one should come and order her off to bed. She was resolved to stay there all night rather than go to bed without learning something more. At last a sound of wheels was heard, and Hetty went and peeped out of the drawing-room door and saw Mr. and Mrs. Enderby taking off their wraps in the hall. Their faces were very solemn and they spoke in whispers. She saw them go upstairs, and though longing to follow them, did not dare. Then she retreated back into the drawing-room and buried her face once more in the depths of the chair. In this position, with Scamp's rough head close to hers, she cried herself to sleep. The wintry dawn was just beginning to show faintly in the room when she was awakened by the sound of voices near her. Chilled and stiff she gathered herself up and rose to her feet; and Scamp also got up and shook himself. Then Hetty saw Mr. and Mrs. Enderby standing in earnest conversation at the window. They started when they saw her as if she had been a ghost, and Mrs. Enderby exclaimed in a low voice: "The child! I had quite forgotten her!" "Yes, there will be trouble here," muttered Mr. Enderby; while Hetty came forward, her face pale and stained with crying, her dress disordered, and her curly hair wild and disarranged. She looked so altered that they scarcely knew her. "How is she? Oh, Mrs. Enderby, say she is better," cried Hetty, swallowing a sob. "My dear child," said Mrs. Enderby, "how have you come to be forgotten here, have you not been in bed all night?" "I stayed here," said Hetty, "I wanted to know; will you not tell me how she is?" "My child, she is well, I hope, though not as you would wish to see her. It has pleased God to take her away from you." "Do you mean that she is dead?" "Yes, my poor Hetty, I am grieved to tell you it is so." Hetty uttered a sharp cry and turned her back on her friends standing in the window. The gesture was an unmistakable one, and touched the husband and wife. It seemed to say so plainly that she expected nothing from them. She retreated into the furthest corner of the room and flung herself on the floor, and Scamp, hanging his head and wagging his tail, followed her mournfully, and lay down as close to her as he could. "Leave her alone awhile," said Mr. Enderby, for his wife had made a movement as if she would follow her; "she is a strange child, and we will give her time to take in the fact of her loss. You must not be hurried into making rash promises through pity; all this brings a great change to the girl, and it is better she should feel it from the first." The truth was Mrs. Rushton had been dead when her brother and sister-in-law arrived. A sudden attack of fainting had resulted in death. This abrupt termination of her illness was not quite unexpected by herself or her friends, as it was known she had disease of the heart, and the doctors had given warning that such might be her end. However, she herself had not liked to look this probability in the face, and had preferred to dwell on the faint hope held out to her that she might linger on as an invalid for many a year. CHAPTER IX. WHAT TO DO WITH HER? After Mrs. Rushton had been laid to rest in her grave her worldly affairs had to be looked into. She had died possessed of a great deal of property, and her relations were well aware that she had never made a will. Her brother had lately urged her to make a will, but she had always put off the unpleasant task. Now there was nothing to be done but to divide the property among the relatives to whom it reverted by law. After the funeral her late husband's relations and Mr. Enderby met at Amber Hill and discussed these matters of business. In the meantime Hetty had been left at Amber Hill in the care of the housekeeper, for Mr. Enderby would not allow his wife to carry her off to Wavertree. "It would be a mistake," he said, "to begin what we may not think proper to go on with afterwards. If the child comes home with us now she may feel herself aggrieved, later, at being sent away. To act with prudence is our first duty towards her." So Hetty had been left with the housekeeper, who, being a kind woman in her way, tried to comfort her with cakes and jam. Her only real comfort was her darling Scamp, and with her arms round his shaggy neck she shed many a tear of loneliness and terror. Her heart was full of anxious fears as to what was going to become of her. She had stolen into the room where the dead woman lay to take her last farewell of her benefactress. Nobody watched there, and Hetty easily found an opportunity for paying her tearful visit. Scamp, who never left her side, accompanied her with a sad solemnity in his countenance, and these were perhaps the two most real mourners whom the wealthy lady had left behind her. Now all was over, and Mrs. Rushton's room looked vacant and with as little sign of her presence as if she had never inhabited it. The wintry sunshine smiled in at all the windows of her handsome house, and made it cheerful even though the blinds were drawn down. The robins twittered in the evergreens outside, and the maids had their little jokes as usual over their sewing, though they spoke in lowered tones. No great and terrible change seemed to have happened to any one but Hetty, except indeed to Scamp, and it was plain that he suffered only for Hetty's sake. On the day when Mrs. Rushton's relations met at Amber Hill Hetty sat in the housekeeper's room in a little straw chair at the fire, with Scamp clasped in her arms and her head resting against his. She felt instinctively that her fate was being sealed upstairs. Indeed a few words which had passed between Grant and the housekeeper, and which she had accidentally overheard, assured her that such would be the case. "If Mrs. Rushton has left her nothing," said Grant, "she'll be out on the world again, as she was before. Mrs. Kane may take her, unless the gentlemen do something for her." "Mr. Enderby will never allow her to go back to poor Anne Kane," said the housekeeper. "There's many a cheap way of providing for a friendless child, and it wouldn't be fair to put her on a woman that can hardly keep her own little home together." Hetty's anguish was unspeakable as these words sank into her heart, each one making a wound. She shuddered at the thought of going back to Mrs. Kane, but felt even more horror of those unknown "cheap ways of providing for a friendless child," alluded to by the housekeeper. A perfect sea of tribulation rolled over her head as she bent it in despair, and wept forlornly on Scamp's comfortable neck. In the meantime, as Hetty surmised, her fate was being decided upstairs. No provision had been made by Mrs. Rushton for the child whom she had taken into her home, petted and indulged, and accustomed to every luxury. The relations of Mrs. Rushton's late husband, who lived at a great distance and had not been on intimate terms with her, were not much impressed by the lady's carelessness of Hetty. But Mr. Enderby, who knew all the circumstances, felt that a wrong had been done. "Some provision ought to be made for the child," he said; "that is a matter about which there can be no doubt." "Certainly," said Mr. Rushton, who had inherited most of his sister-in-law's property. "There are cheap schools where girls in her position can be educated according to their station. Afterwards we can see about giving her a trade, millinery and dressmaking, I suppose, or something of that kind." Mr. Enderby looked troubled. "I do not think that would be quite fair," he said, "I would urge that she should receive a good education. She ought to be brought up a lady, having been so long accustomed to expect it." "I quite disagree with you," said Mr. Rushton; "there are too many idle ladies in the world. And who is to support her when she is grown up?" "I do not wish to make her an idle lady," said Mr. Enderby, "but I would fit her to be a governess." "There are too many governesses; better keep her down to a lower level and teach her to be content to be a tradeswoman. As far as I am concerned, I will consent to nothing better than this for the girl." "Then we need not speak of it any more," returned Mr. Enderby. "I will take the responsibility of the child upon myself." Mr. Rushton shrugged his shoulders. "Do as you please," he said, "but remember it is your own choice. If you change your mind, call upon me." So the matter ended. When the library door opened, and the gentlemen were heard preparing to depart, Hetty flew upstairs and stole into the hall, where Mr. Enderby, who was the last to go, suddenly saw her little white face gazing at him with a dumb anxiety. "Well, my dear," he said kindly, "how are you getting on?" "Oh sir, will you please tell me where I am to go to?" implored Hetty. "Don't fret yourself about that," said Mr. Enderby, buttoning up his coat. "We are not going to let you be lost. You just stay patiently with Mrs. Benson till you hear again from me." And then he nodded to her and took his departure. That evening he had a serious conversation with his wife about Hetty Gray. "I have made up my mind it will be better to bring her here," he said abruptly. "My dear! is that wise?" exclaimed his wife, thinking with sudden anxiety of Phyllis's great dislike to Hetty, and Hetty's uncompromising pride. "It is the best plan I can think of, but do not mistake me. If Hetty comes here it will be expressly understood by her and others that she is not to be brought up as my own daughter. She will merely enjoy the security of the shelter of our roof, and will receive a good education such as will fit her to provide, later, for herself." "Will it be easy to carry out this plan?" asked Mrs. Enderby. "That I must leave to you, my dear. You are firm enough and wise enough to succeed where others would probably fail. The only alternative that I can think of is to send her to an expensive school where she will certainly not be prepared for the battle of life. As for sending her to a lower style of place, and making a charity girl of her after all that has been done to accustom her to the society of well-bred people, the bare thought of such injustice makes me angry." Mrs. Enderby looked admiringly at her husband. "You are right," she said; "and I will try to carry out your plan. It will add greatly to my cares, for I fear Hetty's will be a difficult nature to deal with, especially when she finds herself in so uncertain a position in our house." The next day Mrs. Enderby drove over to Amber Hill and desired Mrs. Benson to send Hetty to her in the morning-room. When the child appeared she was greatly struck by the traces of suffering on her countenance, and felt renewed anxiety as to the difficulty of carrying out her husband's wishes. "My child," she said kindly, taking the little girl's hand and drawing her to her knees, "I have a good deal to say to you, and I hope you will try to understand me perfectly." Hetty gave her one swift upward glance in which there was keen expectation, mingled with more of fear than hope. "I will try," she whispered. "You know, my dear, that Mrs. Rushton was very good to you while she lived, yet you had no real claim on her, and now that she is gone you are as much alone as if you had never seen her." Mrs. Enderby was surprised by Hetty's swift answer. "More alone," she said, with a stern look in her young face; "for if she had not taken me I could have stayed with Mrs. Kane. I should have loved Mrs. Kane, and now I do not love her." "There is some truth in all that," said Mrs. Enderby; "but at all events, my dear, you have enjoyed many advantages during the last five or six years. There is no question now of your going back to Mrs. Kane. Mr. Enderby will not allow it." "Grant says there are cheap ways of providing for friendless children," said Hetty, whose tongue had become dry in her mouth with fear of what might come next. "Never mind what Grant says," said Mrs. Enderby; "attend only to what I tell you. Mr. Enderby and I have thought deeply over your future, Hetty, and we are really anxious to do what is best for you." Hetty said nothing. All the powers of her mind were strained in wondering expectation of what she was now going to hear. "We have been advised to send you to a school where you would be made fit to provide for yourself when you become a woman," continued the lady, "but we have decided to take you into our own house instead; on condition, however, that you try to be industrious and studious. By the time you have grown up, I hope you will be able to make use of the good education we shall give you, and will have learned the value of independence. Do you understand me completely, Hetty? We are going to educate you to be a governess. You shall live in our house and join in the studies of our children, and enjoy the comfort and protection of our home. But of course you cannot look forward to sharing the future of our daughters." "I understand," said Hetty slowly; and the whole state of the case, in all its bearings, appeared in true colours before her intelligent mind. "I hope you are satisfied also," said Mrs. Enderby, who was determined, even at the risk of being a little hard, that the child should thoroughly know her place, and learn to be grateful for the protection afforded her. "When you are older, my child, you will comprehend what your elders now know, that my poor sister, Mrs. Rushton, made a great mistake in raising you from the station in which she found you, and showering luxuries upon you as she did. We also see, however, that an injustice was done to you, and that we whom she has left behind her are bound to make amends to you for that. Therefore it is that we are keeping you with ourselves, instead of allowing you to run the risk of being made unhappy by strangers." For all answer to this Hetty burst into a fit of wild weeping. Her proud little heart was broken at the prospect of returning to Wavertree to be snubbed and humbled by Phyllis, and possibly by servants of the same disposition as Grant. For the moment she could not remember all those worse horrors which her imagination had been conjuring up, and from which she was actually saved. She stood trembling and shaking in the storm of her grief, trying to stem her floods of tears with her quivering little hands, and unable to keep them from raining through her fingers on to the floor. Mrs. Enderby sighed. Though she could not know all Hetty's thoughts, she guessed some of them, and her heart sank lower than ever at the thought of the trouble which might come of the introduction of so stormy an element into her hitherto peaceful household. However, she was not a woman to flinch from a duty, when once she had made up her mind to recognize it. "Come, come, my child!" she said, "you have been passing through a great trial, but you must try to be brave and make yourself happy with us." Had Mrs. Enderby taken poor Hetty in her arms and given her a motherly kiss, much would have been done to heal the wounds made in the child's sensitive heart. But it was part of her plan, conscientiously made, that she must not accustom Hetty to caresses, such as she could not expect to receive later in life. So she only patted her on the shoulder, and, when her passion of crying had a little subsided, bade her run away and get on her things, and be ready as soon as possible to come with her to Wavertree Hall. CHAPTER X. THE NEW HOME. Before going to Amber Hill that day, Mrs. Enderby had sent for her two girls to come to her in her room, where she informed them of the fact that Hetty was coming to the Hall. "I am going to tell you some news, my children, and I hope you will feel it to be good news. I know my little daughters have kind hearts, and I am sure they will pity one even younger than themselves who has been left without home or protection." "I suppose you are speaking of Hetty, mother?" said Phyllis. "Yes, dear. Your father and I have arranged to bring her here." A faint colour passed over Phyllis's fair pale face, and she said: "Did Aunt Amy not leave her any money, mother?" "No; I am sorry to say she did not leave her anything." "She ought to have done so," said Phyllis. "Your Aunt Amy was a very peculiar person, Phyllis, and nothing would induce her to make a will. She put off the task too long, and died without fulfilling it." "Could those who have got her money now not make it all right?" said Phyllis. "Could they not settle some money on her?" "That would be a difficult matter to arrange, dear. Almost all Mrs. Rushton's property has gone to her husband's brother, who is not a very generous man, I fear, and the rest, which returns to your father, is in trust for his children. He does not feel himself called upon to deprive you of what is lawfully yours in order to give a fortune to a foundling child." "I would rather give her some of my money than have her here," said Phyllis bluntly. "You must get over that feeling, Phyllis. It is perhaps a little trial to us all to have a stranger among us, but we will endeavour to be kind, and all will be for the best." "And is Hetty to be our own, own sister?" said Nell, fixing her blue eyes on her mother's face and speaking for the first time. "No, my love, not quite. That would not be fair to Hetty, as we cannot make her one of our own children. She will be a companion for you and join in all your studies. But it is to be understood that such advantages are to be given to her only to fit her to be a governess. I am anxious that every one should be good to her, but I do not intend her to have such luxuries as would but prepare her for great unhappiness later on in her life." "Hetty will never get on with that sort of thing," said Phyllis. "She is too proud and too impertinent." "My dear Phyllis, I believe she has a good heart; and she has been, and will be, severely tried. Any failure of generosity on the part of my good little girl will disappoint me sadly." Phyllis closed her lips with an expression which meant that for reasons of propriety she would say no more, but that nothing could prevent her from feeling that justice and right were on her side; that she had a better apprehension of the matter in question than mother or father, or any one in the world. When Hetty arrived that afternoon she was led straight into the school-room, where tea was just ready, Mrs. Enderby judging that it would be well to set her to work at once, giving her no time for moping. When she appeared, looking pale and sad in her black frock, her eyes heavy and red with weeping, even Phyllis was touched, and the school-room tea was partaken of in peace and almost in silence. Hetty was so full of the recollection of the last time she had been brought in here by Mrs. Enderby, and so conscious of the change that had come upon her since then, that she could scarcely raise her eyes for fear of crying. Nell kept pushing cakes and bread and butter before her, Phyllis made general remarks in a softer tone than usual, and Miss Davis, who perhaps understood Hetty's position better, and sympathized more with her, than any of the rest, could think of nothing better to say to the forlorn child than to ask her occasionally if she would like some more sugar in her tea. After tea Phyllis and Nell set to work to prepare their lessons for the next day, and Hetty was thankful to have a book placed before her, and a lesson appointed for her to learn. It was a page in the very beginning of a child's English history, and Hetty read it over and over again till she had the words almost by heart without in the least having taken in their sense. Her thoughts were busy all the time with the looks and words of her companions, and with going back over all that had occurred that day. Phyllis had been gentler than she expected. Perhaps she was not going to be unkind any more. It was a good thing after all to be obliged to sit over books, as it would prevent her being talked to more than she could bear. Nell was very kind. Would Phyllis allow her to be always kind? She had remarked at the first moment that the frocks of the two other girls were made of finer stuff than hers, and were trimmed with crape. Mrs. Benson had got her her mourning-frock, and had got it, of course, as inexpensive as she thought fit under the circumstances. "Of course they wear crape," thought Hetty, "because Mrs. Rushton was their aunt. She was nothing to me, after all, except my mistress. Grant used to say things like that and I would not believe her. She was right when she said I was only a charity child." Phyllis and Nell were accustomed to go to the drawing-room for an hour or two in the evening after their father and mother had dined, and on this occasion Hetty was invited to accompany them. It was not Mrs. Enderby's intention that she should always do so, but she considered that it would be well to include her to-night. The last evening spent by Hetty in the drawing-room at the Hall was that one on which she had entertained the company with her mimicries. Then, full of pride and delight in her own powers of giving amusement, she had felt herself in a position to despise all disapproval and dislike. Now, how was she fallen! Yet Mr. and Mrs. Enderby received her kindly, and paid her as much attention as if she had been an ordinary visitor. When bed-time came she was taken, not to the pretty room she had occupied when last in the house, but to a neat little plain chamber which was to be henceforth her own. It was not on the same landing with the bed-rooms of Phyllis and Nell, as she was quick to remark, but at the end of a long passage off which were the upper maids' bed-rooms, a fact which stabbed her pride. It was, however, a nice little room, placed above the passage and ascended to by a few steps, and it had a picturesque lattice window, embowered in ivy and passion-flowers. She had hardly comforted herself by observing this when she was overcast again by a fresh and unpleasant discovery. Her trunk, which had been sent after her by Mrs. Benson, had already been unpacked and her things disposed of in a wardrobe. But, alas! all her handsome clothing had disappeared. Her velvet and silk frocks trimmed with lace and fur, her sashes and necklaces, silk stockings and shoes with fantastic rosettes, these and numbers of other treasures were no longer to be seen in her room. A sufficient quantity of plain underclothing, a black frock to change the one she wore, a black hat and jacket, and one or two of her plainest white frocks, these were all that remained of the possessions which had but yesterday been hers. When she had recovered herself sufficiently after this disappointment to be able to look around the chamber, she saw that her desk and work-box, and some of her favourite story-books, had been placed on a table at the window. These she was glad to see, and recovering her spirits began to remember that after all she had now no right to any of those costly articles which she had been allowed to use during Mrs. Rushton's lifetime. As she was to live henceforth a humble dependent in this house she could have no further need of such luxuries. She had remarked that Phyllis and Nell were always simply dressed, and yet they had more right to finery than she had. Hetty had sufficient good sense to know all this without being told. Her peculiar experiences had sharpened her reasoning faculties and made her keenly observant of what passed before her, and had also given her an unusually acute perception of the meanings and influences floating in the atmosphere about her from other people's thoughts and words. Child as she was, she was able to take, for a moment, Mrs. Enderby's view of her own position, and admitted that the kind yet cold lady had acted justly in depriving her of useless things. Yet her wilful heart longed for the prettinesses that she loved, and she wept herself to sleep grieving for their loss, and for the greater loss which it typified. The next morning her head was aching and her eyes redder than ever when she appeared in the school-room, and she seemed more sullen and less meek than she had been yesterday. She could not fix her mind on the lesson Miss Davis gave her to learn, and made a great display of her ignorance when questioned on general subjects. All this was not improving to her spirits, and in becoming more unhappy she grew more irritable. Miss Davis felt her patience tried by the troublesome new pupil, and Phyllis eyed her with strong disapproval over the edges of her book. Phyllis loved order, regularity, good conduct, and in her opinion Hetty was an intolerably disagreeable interruption of the routine of their school-room life. That was a bad day altogether. Some friends of Mr. and Mrs. Enderby were dining with them, and when the school-room tea was over Phyllis and Nell told Miss Davis that their mother wished them to come to the drawing-room for a short time. Hetty looked up, as she thought herself included in the invitation; but Miss Davis, who had received general instructions from Mrs. Enderby, said to her quietly: "You will stay here with me, Hetty, for this evening." Hetty flushed crimson and her pride was kindled in an instant. She was not to go to the drawing-room any more, because she was only a charity child. Tears rushed into her eyes, but she forced them back and pretended to be very busy with a book. After the other girls had been gone some time Miss Davis said: "I am going to my own room for half an hour, Hetty, and I suppose you can amuse yourself with your book till I come back." When left alone Hetty flung away her book, went down on her face on the hearth-rug, and cried with all her might. She thought of evenings when she had tripped about gaily in Mrs. Rushton's drawing-room and every one was glad to see her. Now, it seemed, she must live all alone in a school-room. She forgot that she had ever been unhappy with Mrs. Rushton, ever been left alone, or snubbed or neglected in her house; for Hetty, like many other people, old and young, lost all her excellent power of reasoning when overmastered by passion. In the old time she had been happy, she thought, cared for, loved, made much of. Now she was beloved by nobody, not even for an hour. In her desolation she could not think of any creature that loved her except Scamp, the dog who had been her only comfort since this trouble had befallen her; and he was left behind at Amber Hill. She had begged to be allowed to bring him with her to Wavertree, but Mr. Enderby objected, saying that there were already too many dogs about the place. As soon as Miss Davis returned to the school-room Hetty asked to be allowed to go to bed. "I have just been looking out some materials for needlework for you," said Miss Davis. "It is quite time you learned to sew; I hope you will find amusement in the occupation. However, if you are tired you may go to bed. As a rule the girls do not go to bed till nine o'clock." Hetty shuddered as she looked at the needle-work which was prepared for her. In her eyes it was only a new instrument of torture. She did not even know how to hold a needle; she did not want to know. Mrs. Rushton had never been seen sewing; it was only the maids who had any occasion to sew. "I hate sewing," said Hetty despairingly. "Then you must learn to like it," said Miss Davis briskly; "little girls are not allowed to hate anything that is useful, especially little girls who must look forward to providing for themselves in the world by their own exertions. But go to bed now. Tomorrow I hope you will be in a better humour." And Hetty vanished. CHAPTER XI. HETTY TURNS REBEL. Hetty cried herself to sleep as she had done the night before, and her last thought was of Scamp. About the middle of the night she had a dream in which she fancied that Scamp's paws were round her neck, and that he was barking in her ear his delight at seeing her. The barking went on so long that it wakened her, for it was real barking that had caused the dream. Hetty sat up in her bed and listened. Surely that was Scamp's bark, loud, sharp, and impatient, as if he was saying, "Where's Hetty? I want Hetty. I will not go away till I have found Hetty." In the stillness of the night it sounded to the lonely child like the voice of a dear friend longing to comfort her. She jumped out of bed, threw open the window, and listened again. Could it be that he had found the way from Amber Hill, and come so many miles to look for her? Darling old Scamp, was it possible he loved her so much? Yes, it was indeed his voice; he was outside the house, almost under her window, and she must and would go down and take him in. She opened the door cautiously and went out into the passage. The barking was not heard so distinctly here, and she hoped that no one would hear it but herself. How dreadful if somebody should go and beat him away before she could reach him! She pattered down-stairs with her little bare feet and made her way through the darkness to the great hall door. But she had forgotten how great and heavy that door was, and had not thought of the chain that hung across it at night, and the big lock in which she could not turn the key. Scamp heard her trying to open the door, and barked more joyfully. Unable to unfasten this door she made her way to another at the back of the house, and, withdrawing a bolt, she stood in the doorway, her little white night-dress blowing in the winter's night air, and her bare feet on the stones of the threshold. "Scamp, Scamp!" she called in a soft voice, and, wonderful to tell, he heard her and came flying round the house. "Oh, Scampie, dear, _have_ you come, and do you really love me still?" whispered Hetty as the dog leaped into her arms, and she clasped his paws round her neck and kissed his shaggy head. Scamp uttered a few short rapturous exclamations and licked her face and hands all over. "But you must be very quiet," she said, "or you will wake the house and we shall be caught. Come now, lovie, and I'll hide you in my own room." She closed the door as quietly as possible and crept upstairs again, carrying the dog hugged in her arms. As she stole along the passage to her room, one of the maids whispered to another who was sleeping in the room with her: "Oh, I have heard a great noise down-stairs, and one of the dogs was barking. And just now I am sure I heard feet in the passage." "Some one has got into the house then," said the other maid listening. "Oh, lie still, don't get up!" said the first maid. "It must be burglars." "I will go and waken the men," said the other courageously. And down-stairs she went and wakened the butler and footman. Soon they were all searching the house, the butler armed with a gun, the others with large pokers. No burglars were to be found, and the butler was very cross at having been called out of his bed for nothing at all. The maids persisted that some one had been in the house, some one who must have escaped while they were giving the alarm. Mr. Enderby heard the noise and came out of his room and learned the whole story. After an hour of searching and questioning and discussion all went to bed again, everybody blaming everybody else for the silly mistake that had been made. Next morning Hetty slept long and soundly after her midnight adventure, and when the maid who called her went into her room she was astonished to see a dog's head on the pillow by the sleeping child. Scamp put up his nose and barked at the intruder, and Hetty wakened. "Laws, Miss Hetty, you are a strange little girl," said the maid, who was the very girl who had alarmed the house during the night. "How ever did you get a dog into your room?" "It's only Scamp, my own Scamp, and he wouldn't hurt anybody," said Hetty; "please don't beat him away, Lucy. He came in the middle of the night trying to find me, and I took him in. Perhaps Mrs. Enderby will let me keep him now." "That I am sure she will not," said Lucy. "You naughty little girl. And so it was you who disturbed the house last night, frightening us all out of our senses, and getting me scolded for giving an alarm. Wait till Mr. Enderby hears about it." "You are _very_ unkind," said Hetty; "as if I could help his coming in the night-time!" "And I suppose you could not help letting him into the house and taking him into your bed?" said Lucy scornfully. "No, I couldn't," said Hetty. "And you can go and tell Mr. Enderby as soon as you please." At this Lucy flounced out of the room quite determined to complain of the enormity of Hetty's conduct. When the little girl appeared in the school-room with Scamp following at her heels she was not in the best of tempers, and held her chin very high in the air. Miss Davis met her with a stern face. "Hetty, what is this I hear of you? How could you dare to bring a strange dog into the house in the middle of the night?" "It wasn't a strange dog; it was Scamp," said Hetty, putting on her most defiant air. "I don't think it was any harm to let him in." "Not, though I tell you it was?" said Miss Davis. "No," said Hetty. "Then I must ask Mrs. Enderby to talk to you," said Miss Davis. "Meantime the dog cannot stay here while we are at breakfast." And she rang the bell. "Tell Thomas to come and fetch this dog away to the stable-yard," she said to the maid who answered the bell. "Scamp always stayed in the room with me at Amber Hill," said Hetty, two red spots burning in her cheeks. "You must learn to remember that you are no longer at Amber Hill," said Miss Davis. Phyllis and Nell now came into the school-room and looked greatly surprised at sight of the dog, Hetty's angry face, and Miss Davis's looks of high displeasure. They took their places in silence at the breakfast table. "I am not likely to forget it," retorted Hetty bitterly. "At Amber Hill everybody was kind to me. Nobody is kind here." "You are a most ungrateful girl," said Miss Davis. "What would have become of you if Mr. and Mrs. Enderby had not been kind?" At this moment Thomas entered. "Take away that dog to the stable-yard," said Miss Davis. Hetty threw her arms round Scamp's neck and clung to him. "You shall not turn him out," she cried. "He came and found me, and I will not give him up." "Do as I have told you, Thomas," said Miss Davis; and Thomas seized Scamp in spite of Hetty's struggles, and carried him off, howling dismally. "Now, you naughty girl, you may go back to your own room, and stay there till you are ready to apologize to me for your conduct," said Miss Davis. "Oh, please don't send Hetty away without her breakfast," pleaded Nell. "I will go. I will not stay here. I will run away!" cried Hetty wildly. "Let her go, Nell," said Phyllis, giving her sister a warning look; and Miss Davis said: "When she is hungry she can apologize for her conduct. In the meantime she had better go away and be left alone till she recovers her senses." Hetty fled out of the room and away to her own little chamber, where she locked herself in and flung herself in a passion of rage and grief on the floor. "I _will_ go away," she sobbed. "I will run away with Scamp and seek my fortune. Miss Davis is going to be as bad as Grant, reminding me that I am a charity child. Oh, why was I not born like Phyllis and Nell, with people to love me and a home to belong to? It is easy for them to be good. But I shall never be good. I know, I know I never shall!" After half an hour had passed a knock came to the door, and Lucy demanded to be admitted. "Go away, you cruel creature!" cried Hetty. "I will not have you here." Lucy went away, and after some time Hetty heard Mrs. Enderby's voice at the door. "I hope you will not refuse to let me in," she said. "I request that you will open the door." Hetty rose from the floor very unwillingly and opened the door, and Mrs. Enderby came in. "Hetty, what is the meaning of this strange conduct?" she said, looking at the marks of wild weeping on the child's swollen face. "Everybody's conduct has been bad to me," wailed Hetty. "What has been done to you?" asked Mrs. Enderby. "Everyone hates Scamp, and they have taken him away. And I have no one to love me but him." "Perhaps people would love you if you were not so fierce and wild, Hetty," said Mrs. Enderby. "Now, try and listen to me while I talk to you. It was very wrong of you to get up in the night and open the door, so as to alarm the house by the noise. And it was very wrong of you to take a dog into your room and into your bed." "It was Scamp," mourned Hetty. "Scamp loves me. And how could I leave him outside when he wanted to be with me?" "You could have done so because it would have been right," said Mrs. Enderby. "You knew that Mr. Enderby had refused to allow the dog to come here. You ought to have remembered his wishes. He has been very good to you, and you must learn to obey him." "It is cruel of him not to let me have Scamp," persisted Hetty; "he never bites anyone, and he is better than the other dogs. Why can I not have him for my own?" "I will not answer that question, Hetty; it must be enough for you that you are to obey. You must stay here by yourself till you are in a better state of mind." Then Mrs. Enderby went away, and Hetty fell into another agony of grief, thinking about Scamp. She forgot the breakfast which she had not yet tasted, and felt every moment a greater longing to see her dog again. Where had they taken him? she wondered. Was he still in the stable-yard? Perhaps they would drown him to get rid of him. Possessed by this fear she seized her hat and flew out of the room, quite reckless of consequences, and as it chanced, she met no one on her way down-stairs and along all the back passages leading towards the stable-yard. Arrived there she was guided by his barking to the spot where Scamp was. He was chained in a kennel in a corner of the yard, where it was intended he should remain till a new master or mistress could be found for him. Hetty watched her opportunity, and when there was no one about flew into the yard, slipped the chain off his neck, and sped out of the place again, with the dog following joyfully at her heels. In acting thus the little girl had merely followed a wild impulse, and had formed no plan for her future conduct with regard to Scamp. Finding herself in his company now, she thought only of prolonging the pleasure and escaping with him somewhere out of the reach of unfriendly eyes. She darted through the outer gate of the stable-yard just as the great clock above the archway was striking ten; and was soon plunging through a copse on the outskirts of the village, and making for the open country. Scamp snuffed the breeze and barked for joy, and Hetty danced along over the grass and through trees, forgetting everything but her own intense enjoyment of freedom in the open air that she loved. Over yonder lay the forge, where, as a baby of four, she had watched the great horses being shod, and the sparks flying from their feet; and further on were the fields and the bit of wood where she had roamed alone, up to her eyes in the tall flag leaves and mistaking the yellow lilies for butterflies of a larger growth. She did not remember all that now, but some pleasant consciousness of a former free happy existence in the midst of this fresh peaceful landscape came across her mind at moments, like gales of hawthorn-scented air. Mrs. Enderby's mild lectures, Phyllis's contempt, Miss Davis's shocked propriety, even Nell's easily snubbed efforts to stand her friend, all vanished out of her memory as she went skimming along the grass like a swallow, thrilling in all her young nerves with the freshness and wildness of the breeze of heaven, and the vigour and buoyancy of the life within her veins. Five miles into the open country went Hetty, by a road she had never seen before. She knew not, nor did she think at all of where she was going; she only had a delightful sense of exploring new worlds. However, about the middle of the day she felt very hungry. She began to remember then that she could not keep on roving for ever, and that there was probably trouble before her at Wavertree, waiting for her return. She sat down on a bank to rest, and Scamp nestled beside her, alternately looking in her face and licking her hands. It occurred to Hetty that perhaps he was hungry too, and that if she had left him in the stable-yard he would at least have got his dinner. Remorse troubled her, and she cast about to try and discover something they two could eat. A tempting-looking bunch of berries hung from a tree near her, and she thought that if she could reach them they might be of some slight use in allaying the pangs of hunger felt by both her and her dog. She was at once on her feet, and straining all her limbs to reach the berries. They were caught, the branch broke, and Hetty fell down the bank, twisting her foot and spraining her ankle badly. After the first cry wrung from her by the shock she was very silent; and having gathered herself up as well as she could, she sat on the ground, unable to attempt to stand. The pain was excessive, and great tears rolled down her cheeks as she endured it. Scamp gazed at her piteously, snuffed all round her, and looked as if he would like to take her on his back and carry her home. She threw her arms round his neck and hugged him. "No, you can't help me, Scampie, dear, and I don't know what is to become of us. I can't move, and nobody knows where I have gone to. Of course it is all my fault, for I know I have been very disobedient. But I didn't feel wicked, not a bit." Scamp licked her face and huffed and snuffed all round her. Then he made several discontented remarks which Hetty understood quite well, though it is not easy to translate them here. Then he hustled round her, and scurried up and down the road looking for help; and finally sat on his tail on the top of the bank, and pointing his nose up at the unlucky tree on which the berries had hung, howled out dismally to the world in general that Hetty was in real trouble now, and somebody had better come and look to it. After a long time some one did come at last. The wintry evening was just beginning to close in and the short twilight to fall on the lonely road, blotting out the red berries on the trees, when a sound of wheels and the cracking of a carter's whip struck upon Hetty's ears. Scamp had heard them first and rushed away barking joyfully in the direction of the sound, to meet the carter, whoever he might be, and to tell him to come on fast and take up Hetty in his cart and bring her safely home. Presently Scamp came frolicking back, and soon after came a great team of powerful horses, drawing a long cart laden with trunks of trees, which John Kane, the carter, was bringing from the woods to be chopped up for firewood for the use of the Hall. At this sight a dim recollection of the past arose in Hetty's brain. Had she not seen this great cart and horses long ago, and was not the face of the man like a face she had seen in a dream? She had not had time to think of all this when John Kane pulled up his team before her and spoke to her. "Be you hurt, little miss?" he said good-naturedly; "I thought something was wrong by the bark of your dog. He told me as plain as print that I was wanted. 'Look sharp, John Kane!' he said; and how he knows my name I can't tell. There, let me sit you in the cart, and I'll jolt you as little as may be." Hetty was thankful to be put in the cart, and it seemed to her a very strange chance that had brought John Kane a second time in her life to rescue her. He did not know her at all, and she did not like to tell him who she was. "Now, where can I take you to?" he said, as they neared the village. "I came from Wavertree Hall," said Hetty, hanging her head, "and," she added with a great throb of her heart, "my name is Hetty Gray." "Law, you don't say so!" said honest John; "our little Hetty that is turned into a lady! Well, child, it's not the first time you have got a ride in John Kane's cart. You cannot remember, but you used to be main fond of these very horses, watching them getting shod and running among their feet. However, bygones is bygones, and you won't want to hear anything of all that. Now, I can't drive you up to the door of the Hall in this lumbering big vehicle; but if you'll condescend to come to our cottage for an hour, I'll take a message to say where you are, and Mrs. Enderby will send for you properly, no doubt." Hetty's heart was full as she thanked John Kane for his kindness. She had almost been afraid that he would break out into raptures and want to hug her as Mrs. Kane had done; but when she found him so cold and respectful a lump rose in her throat, and something seemed to tell her that as she had pushed away from her the love of these good honest people, she deserved to be as lonely and unloved as she was. Fortunately it was quite dark when the cart passed through the village, so that no one noticed whom John Kane had got cowering down in his cart behind the logs of timber. When he stopped at his own door his wife came out, and he said to her in a low voice: "Look you here, Anne, if I haven't brought you home little Hetty a second time out of trouble. Found her on the road I did, with her ankle sprained. We'll take her in for the present, and I'll go to the Hall and tell the gentlefolks." Mrs. Kane had just been making ready her husband's tea, and the fire was burning brightly in her tidy kitchen, making it look pretty and homelike. She was greatly astonished at her husband's news, and came to the cart at once, though with a soreness at heart, remembering her last meeting with Hetty, and thinking how little pleasure the child would find in this enforced visit to her early home. "Now hurry away to the Hall and give the message," said Mrs. Kane; "your tea will keep till you come back. Little Miss Gray will be anxious to get home to those who are expecting her." "Oh, please let him take his tea first," cried Hetty; "there will be no hurry to get me back. I have been very naughty and everyone will be angry with me. Please, Mr. Kane, take your tea before you go." John Kane smiled. "Thank you, little maid; but you see the horses are wanting to go home to their stable. And I'd rather finish all my work before I sit down." He went away and Hetty was left alone in the firelight with her first foster-mother. "Perhaps you are hungry, little miss," said Anne. "You have had a long walk, maybe, with your dog." Scamp had curled himself up on the "settle" at Hetty's feet. Hetty felt a pang at the words "little miss," but she knew it was her own pride that had brought this treatment upon her. Perhaps Mrs. Kane had once loved her as Scamp did now; but of course she would never love her again. At all events she was dear and good for taking Scamp in without a word of objection, and allowing him to rest himself comfortably at her fireside. "I am _dreadfully_ hungry," said Hetty, in a low ashamed voice, and looking up at Mrs. Kane with serious eyes. "I have not eaten anything to-day. I sprained my ankle getting the berries, and they fell so far away I could not pick them up." "Not eaten to-day? What,--no breakfast even?" "No," said Hetty. "I was bad in the morning, or I should have got some. At least they said I was bad, but I did not feel it." "What did you do?" "I took in Scamp in the night when he barked at the window, and I wanted to keep him, though Mr. Enderby would not have him about the place; and I fought to get him. And I told Mrs. Enderby that I ought to have him. And then I took him out of the stable-yard and ran away with him." "I'm afraid that was badness in the end," said Mrs. Kane. "It began with goodness, but it ran to badness. Deary me, it's often the same with myself. I think I'm so right that I can't go wrong. But all comes straight again when we're sorry for a fault." "But I can't be sorry for keeping Scamp when he loves me so. Nobody else loves me," cried Hetty, with a burst of tears. Mrs. Kane was by her side in a minute. "Not love you! don't they, my dear? Well, there's somebody that loves you more than Scamp, _that_ I know. Come, now, dry your eyes and eat a bit. There's a nicer cup of tea than they'd give you at the Hall; for the little brown pot on the hearth makes better tea than ever comes out of silver. I was a maid in a big house once myself, and I know the difference." In answer to this Hetty sat up as well as the pain of her foot would allow, and flung her arms round Mrs. Kane's neck. "Oh, keep me here with you!" she cried. "I am tired of being grand. I will stay with you and learn to be a useful girl, if only you will love me." Mrs. Kane heaved a long sigh as Hetty's arms fastened round her neck. Now she felt rewarded for all the love and care she had poured out on the child during the three years she had had her for her own. A little bit of hard ice that had always been lying at the bottom of her heart ever since Hetty had left her, now melted away, and she said, half laughing and half crying: "Come now, deary, don't be talking nonsense. Nice and fit you'd be to bear with a cottage life after all you've been seeing. Don't you think the gentlefolks would give you up so easily as that. But whenever you want a word of love and a heart to rest your bit of a head upon like this, mind you remember where they're always waiting for you, Hetty." Hetty sobbed and clung to her more closely, and it was some time before she could be induced to eat and drink. When she did so the homely meal set before her seemed to her the most delicious she had ever tasted. "Oh I am so glad I have found my way back to you," she said; "I never should have done it if I hadn't got into such trouble. Oh, you don't know how proud and bad I have been! I know I've been bad, now that you are so good to me." After about an hour John Kane came back. He had been obliged to wait to put up his horses and see to their wants for the night before he could come home. The message he brought from the Hall was that Hetty must stay where she was till her foot was better, as moving about was so bad for a sprain. Mrs. Enderby would see Mrs. Kane about her to-morrow. The tiny whitewashed room where she slept that night was the one in which she had slept when a toddling baby, and Hetty wondered at herself as she looked round it thankfully. A patchwork quilt covered the bed, and a flower-pot in the one small window, and some coloured prints on the wall, were its only adornments. But it was extremely clean and neat, and, in spite of the pain in her foot, Hetty felt more content as she laid her head on the coarse pillow than she had felt for a great many weeks past. CHAPTER XII. A COTTAGE CHILD AGAIN. Some time passed before Hetty saw any of the family at the Hall again. Mr. Enderby was much displeased at her escapade, and resolved she should be punished. He thought the best way to punish her was to leave her in the care of Mrs. Kane. The hard and lowly living she would have to endure there would, he thought, subdue her pride and teach her to be meek and grateful on her return to a more comfortable home. By his desire Mrs. Enderby refrained from going to see the child. Mrs. Kane was sent for to the Hall and directed to take every care of her charge; but on no account whatever to pamper her. At first Hetty was startled to find how very ready they were at the Hall to let her completely drop out of their lives, and at times she repined, but on the whole she was happier, and every day seemed to arouse her more and more to a better sense of the duties that lay round her in life, While seated on her old settle she watched Mrs. Kane sweeping and washing the floor, polishing up the windows and bits of furniture, and making the humble home shine. Hetty longed to be able to take broom and scrubbing-brush from her hands and help her with the troublesome work. When she found that by learning to hold her needle she could help to darn and mend for her dear friend, she eagerly gave her mind to acquiring the necessary knowledge. Books were scarce in John Kane's house, but Hetty did not miss them. At this time of her life all books, except stories, were hateful to her, and she thought she had read enough stories. It became a perfect delight to her to see Mrs. Kane shake out an old flannel jacket and hold it up to the light and declare that Hetty had mended it as well as she could have done it herself. "And that will save my eyes to-night," she would say, to Hetty's intense pleasure, who, now for the first time in her young life, tasted the joy of being useful to others. When her foot was sufficiently better to allow her to limp about, John Kane made her a crutch, and Hetty felt more gladness at receiving this present than Mrs. Rushton's expensive gifts had ever given her. After this she used to hop about the cottage, dusting and polishing, and doing many little "turns" which were a great help to Mrs. Kane. She soon knew how to cook the dinner and make the tea, and when Mrs. Kane was busy or had to go out, it was Hetty's delight to have everything ready for her return. To save her black frock from being spoiled by work she had learned to make herself a large gingham blouse, in which she felt free to do anything she pleased without harming her clothes. In this simple active life Hetty developed a new spirit which surprised herself as much as it astonished her humble friends. She worked in the garden and tended the poultry, besides performing various tasks which she took upon herself indoors. And in this sort of happy industry several weeks flew, almost uncounted, away. One evening Mrs. Kane and Hetty were sitting at the fire waiting for John to come in. They were both tired after their day's work. Mrs. Kane was sitting in a straw arm-chair and Hetty rested with her feet up on the settle. The little brown tea-pot was on the red tiles by the hearth, and the firelight blinked on the tea-cups. "Mrs. Kane," said Hetty, "will you let me call you mammy?" "Will I?" said Mrs. Kane. "To be sure I will, darling, and glad to hear you. But wouldn't mother be a prettier word in your mouth?" "Phyllis calls Mrs. Enderby mother," said Hetty, "and it sounds cold. Mammy will be a little word of our own." "And when you go back to the Hall you will sometimes come to see your old mammy?" "I think I am going to ask you to let me stay here always," said Hetty. "Nay, dear, that wouldn't be right. You've got to get educated and grow up a lady." "I could go to the village school," said Hetty; "I'm not clever at books, and they could teach me there all I want to learn. When I grow up I might be the village teacher. And you and Mr. Kane could live with me in the school-house when you are old." "Bless the child's heart! How she has planned it all out. But don't be thinking of such foolishness, my Hetty. Providence has other doings in store for you." One of the happiest things about this time was that Scamp was as welcome in the cottage as Hetty was herself. He slept by the kitchen fire every night, and shared all Hetty's work and play during the daytime. Indeed, nothing could be more satisfactory than the child's life in these days with Mrs. Kane. What in the meantime had become of her extraordinary pride? Love and service seemed to have completely destroyed it. One day, however, there came an interruption to her peace. Lucy, the maid, arrived with a message to know when Hetty would be able and willing to return to the Hall. Mrs. Kane was out and Hetty was sitting in the sun at the back-garden door with one of John Kane's huge worsted stockings pulled over one little hand, while she darned away at it with the other. At sight of Lucy her pride instantly waked up within her and rose in arms. Hetty stared in dismay at smart flippant Lucy, and felt the old bad feelings rush back on her. Tears started to her eyes as she saw all her lately acquired goodness flying away down the garden path, as it seemed to her, and out at the little garden gate. "I don't think I am ready to go yet," said she; "but I will write to Mrs. Enderby myself. Would you like to see Scamp, Lucy? He has grown so fat and looks so well." Hetty could not resist saying this little triumphant word about the dog. However, Lucy was ready with a retort. "I suppose he was used to cottages," she said. "People generally do best with what they have been accustomed to." Hetty's ears burned with the implied taunt to herself, but she said with great dignity: "You can go now, Lucy. I don't think I have anything more to say to you." And Lucy found herself willing to go, though she had intended saying a great many more sharp things to the child, whom she, like Grant, regarded as an impertinent little upstart. That evening Hetty made a tremendous effort and wrote a letter to Mrs. Enderby. "Deer Madam,--My foot is well, but Mrs. Kane is making me good and I would like to stay with her. I am sorry for Badness and giving trubbel. I could lern to work and be Mrs. Kane's child. Yours obeedyentley, HETTY." Mr. and Mrs. Enderby smiled over this letter together that evening. "Poor little monkey," said the former, "there is more in her than I imagined. But what spelling for a girl of her age!" "Might it not do to allow her to stay where she is, coming up here for lessons, and to walk occasionally with the girls?" "I do not like the idea of it," said Mr. Enderby. "I would rather she stayed here and went as often as she pleased to see her early friends. It is evident they have a good influence upon her. Yet it would not be fair to let her grow up with their manners if she is to earn her bread among people of a higher class." So when Mrs. Enderby went next day to visit Hetty she was firm in her decision that the little girl should return to the Hall. She discovered Hetty busy sweeping up the cottage hearth in her gingham blouse. Hetty dropped her broom and hung her head. "I was pleased to get your letter, Hetty. I am glad you are sorry for what occurred." "I am sorry," said the little girl looking up frankly. "I am very sorry while I am here. But I might not be so sorry up at the Hall. The sorryness went away when I saw Lucy. Afterwards it came back when Mrs. Kane came in." "And that is why you want to stay here? Because Mrs. Kane makes you feel good? It is an excellent reason; but why can you not learn to be good at the Hall too? What has Mrs. Kane done to make you good?" "Oh! she loves me, for one thing," said Hetty; "and then she makes me pray to God. I never heard about God at Mrs. Rushton's; and Miss Davis always told me I made him angry. Mrs. Kane's God is so kind. I would like to make him fond of me." "You have a strange startling way of saying things, Hetty. You must try and be more like other children. Mrs. Kane's God is mine, and yours, and every one's, and we must all try to please him. But if you like her way of speaking of him you can come here as often as you please and talk to Mrs. Kane." "Then I must go back to the Hall?" said Hetty. "I am sorry you look on it as a hardship, Hetty. Mr. Enderby and I think it will be more for your good than staying here." "I am only afraid of being bad," said Hetty simply. "Oh! come, you will say your prayers and learn to be a good child," said Mrs. Enderby cheerfully; and then she went away, having settled the matter. She was more than ever convinced that Hetty's was a curious and troublesome nature; but she had not sounded the depths of feeling in the child, nor did she guess how ardently she desired to be good and worthy of love, how painfully she dreaded a relapse into the old state of pride and wilfulness which seemed to shut her out from the sympathies of others. After Mrs. Enderby was gone, Hetty sat for a long time with her chin in her little hand looking out of the cottage door, and seeing nothing but her own trouble. How was she to try and be like other children? Could she ever learn to be like Phyllis, always cold and well-behaved, and never the least hot about anything; or could she grow quiet and sweet and so easily silenced as Nell? How was she to hinder her tongue from saying out things just in the words that came to her? She wished she could say things differently, for people so seldom seemed to understand what she meant. Tears began to drip down her cheeks as she thought of returning to her corner in the stately Hall, where she felt so chilled and lonely, of sitting no more at the snug homely hearth where there was always a spark of love burning for her. As she wiped her eyes a gleam of early spring sunshine struck upon an old beech-tree at the lower end of the garden, and turned all its young green into gold. The glorified bough waved like a banner in the breeze, and seemed to bring some beautiful message to Hetty which she could not quite catch. The charm of colour fascinated her eye, the graceful movement had a meaning for her. Springing up from her despondent attitude she leaned from the doorway, and felt a flush of joy glow in her heavy little heart. The same thrill of delight that had enraptured her when, as a babe not higher than the flag leaves, she stretched her hands towards the yellow lilies, pierced her now, but with a stronger, more conscious joy. When Mrs. Kane returned she found her ready to take a more hopeful view of the future that was at hand. "I have got to go," she said; "and I am going. But I may come to you when I like. And when the pride gets bad I will always come." Mrs. Kane promised to keep Scamp for her own, and so Hetty could see all her friends at once when she visited the cottage. CHAPTER XIII. A TRICK ON THE GOVERNESS. Two years passed over Hetty's head, during which she had plenty of storms and struggles, with times of peace coming in between. There were days when, but for Mrs. Kane's good advice, she would have run away to escape from her trials; and yet she had known some happy hours too, and had gained many a little victory over her temper and her pride. The pleasantest days had been those when Mark Enderby, brother of Phyllis and Nell, was at home for his holidays, for he always took Hetty's part, not in an uncertain way like Nell's, but boldly and openly, and often with the most successful results. He was the only boy Hetty had ever known, and she thought him delightful; though like most boys he would be a little rough sometimes, and would expect her to be able to do all that he could do, and to understand all that he talked about. He sometimes, indeed, got her into trouble; but Hetty did not grudge any little pain he cost her in return for the protection which he often so frankly afforded her. Not that anyone meant to be unkind to her. Mr. and Mrs. Enderby continued to take a friendly interest in everything that concerned her, though strictly following their well-meant plan of not showing her any particular personal affection. "We must not bring her up in a hothouse," they said, "only to put her out in the cold afterwards." In this they thought themselves exceptionally wise people; and who shall say whether they were or not? It suited Phyllis admirably to follow in the footsteps of her father and mother; but what was merely prudence on the part of her elder benefactors often appeared something much more unamiable when practised towards Hetty by a girl not many years her senior. Miss Davis, who was a rigid disciplinarian and trusted as such by her employers, thought chiefly of breaking down the pride and temper of the child, and of bending her character so as to fit her for the hard life that was before her; a life whose difficulties and trials had been bitterly experienced, and not yet all conquered or outlived by the conscientious governess herself. Nellie, who was Hetty's only comfort in the great and, as it seemed to her, unfriendly house, too often showed her sympathy in a covert way which made Hetty feel she was half ashamed of her affection; and this deprived such tenderness of the value it would otherwise have had. Hetty, now above eleven years old, was very much grown and altered. Her once short curly hair was long, and tied back from her face with a plain black ribbon. Her face was singularly intelligent, her voice clear and quick, her eyes often much too mournful for the eyes of a child, but sometimes flashing with fun, as, for instance, when Mark engaged her in some piece of drollery. Then the old spirit that she used to display when she performed her little mimicries for Mrs. Rushton's amusement would spring up in her again, and she would take great delight in seeing Mark roll about with laughing, and hearing him declare that she was the jolliest girl in the world. One Easter time, just two years after Hetty's return to the Hall, when Mark was at home for his holidays, he proposed to Hetty to play a trick on Miss Davis. Hetty's eyes danced at the thought of a trick of any kind. She did not have much fun as a rule, and Mark's tricks were always so funny. "It isn't to be a bad trick, I hope," she said, however. "Oh! no, not at all. Only to dress up and pretend to be people from her own part of the world coming to see her and to bring her news. We will be an old couple who know her friends, and are passing this way." "She will find us out." "No; we must come in the twilight and go away very soon. She will be so astounded by what I shall tell her that she won't think about us at all." "What will you tell her?" "Oh! news about her old uncle. She has a rich uncle and she expects to be his heiress. Somebody told me of it. I will tell her he is married, and you will see what a state she will be in." "I don't believe Miss Davis wants anybody's money," said Hetty; "she works hard for herself, and I think she supports her mother. _I_ shall have to work some day as she does, and I mean to copy her. Only I shall have no mother to support," said Hetty, swallowing a little sigh because Mark could not bear her to be sentimental. "Oh! well, we shall have some fun at all events," said Mark; "and don't you go spoiling it, proving that Miss Davis is a saint." "Where can we get clothes to dress up in?" asked Hetty. "Farmer Dawson's son is going to bring them to me, and you will find yours in your room just at dusk. Hurry them on fast and I shall be waiting in the passage." That evening two rather puny figures of an old man and woman were shown up into the school-room where Miss Davis was sitting alone, looking into the fire and thinking of her distant home. Hetty was supposed to be arranging her wardrobe in her own room, and the other girls were with their mother. The governess was enjoying the treat of an hour of leisure alone, when she was informed that Mr. and Mrs. Crawford from Oldtown, Sheepshire, wished to see her. "Show them up," said Miss Davis, and waited in surprised expectation. "Who are they?" she thought; "I do not know the name. But any one from dear Sheepshire--ah, what a strange-looking pair!" They were odd-looking indeed. Mark was tall enough to dress up as a man, and he wore a rough greatcoat, and a white wig, and spectacles. Hetty had little gray curls, and gray eyebrows under a deep bonnet, and was wrapped in a cloak with many capes. In the uncertain light their disguise was complete. "I have not the pleasure--" began Miss Davis. "No, you don't know us," said Mark, "but your friends do, and we know all about you. We were passing this way and have brought you a message from your mother." "Indeed!" said Miss Davis, and her heart sank. A letter she had been expecting all the week had not arrived. Her mother was sick and poor. What dreadful thing had happened at home? "Oh, she is not worse than usual," put in Hetty, in the shrill piping tone which she chose to give to Mrs. Crawford. "Don't be alarmed." Miss Davis did not easily recover from her first shock of alarm. She remained quite pale, and Hetty wondered to see so much feeling in a person whom she had often thought to be almost a mere teaching-machine. "The news is about your uncle," went on Mark. "Perhaps you have not heard that he is married." "No, I had not heard," murmured Miss Davis; and she looked as if this indeed was a terrible blow to her. Hetty was immediately annoyed at her and disappointed in her. Was Mark right in his estimate of her character? Hetty had thought her a wonder of high-mindedness and independence of spirit, if very formal and cold. Was she now going to be proved mercenary and mean? "Your mother did not write to you about it, fearing it would be a disappointment to you." "My uncle has a right to do as he pleases," said Miss Davis, "and I hope he will be happy"; but her lips were trembling and she looked pained and anxious. "I thank you very much for your trouble in coming to tell me. I daresay my mother will write immediately." Now Mark was not satisfied with the result of his trick. He had hoped that Miss Davis would have got very angry, and have said some amusing things. Her quiet dignity disappointed him, and with an impulse of wild boyish mischief he resolved to try if he could not startle her. "I am sorry to say I have not told you everything," he blurted out suddenly. "I ought to prepare you for the worst, but I don't know how." "Speak, I beg of you," faltered Miss Davis. "Your uncle is dead, and has left all his fortune, every penny, to his wife." A look came over Miss Davis's face which the children could not understand. "My brother!" she said, "can you tell me what has become of my little brother?" "Run away," said Mark, who had not known till this moment that she had a brother. Miss Davis gasped and leaned her face forward on the table. The next moment they saw her slip away off her chair to the floor. She had fainted. Mark was greatly alarmed, and struck with sudden remorse. Hetty sprang up crying, "Oh, Mark, how could you?" "What are we to do?" said Mark in despair. "Here," said Hetty, "take away all this rubbish of clothes, and hide them." And she pulled off her disguise and flew to raise Miss Davis from the floor. "No, lay her flat," said Mark; "and here is some water, dash it on her well. I will come back in a few moments." He cast off his own disguise and vanished with his arms full of the articles he and Hetty had worn. When he returned he found Miss Davis beginning to breathe again, and Hetty crying over her. "Oh! Mark, I will never play a trick again as long as I live," whispered Hetty; "we were near killing her. How could we dare to meddle with her affairs?" "How was I to know she had a brother?" grumbled Mark under his breath. "And what has he to do with the joke of her uncle's marrying?" "And dying?" said Hetty. "But that's just it, you see, we don't know anything about it." "Children," murmured Miss Davis, "what has happened to me? Give me your hands, Mark, and help me to rise." They raised her up and laid her on the sofa. "What was the matter?" repeated Miss Davis, seeing the tears flowing down Hetty's cheeks. "Oh! two nasty old people came to see you and frightened you," said Mark, "and then they walked off, and Hetty and I found you on the floor." Hetty gave Mark a reproachful look, coloured deeply, and hung her head. Mark cast a warning glance at her over Miss Davis's shoulder. He did not want to be discovered. "Oh! I remember," moaned Miss Davis. "My poor mother!" Mark could not bear the unhappy tone of her voice, and turned and fled out of the room. "Don't believe any news those people brought you, Miss Davis," said Hetty. "I am sure they were impostors." She was longing to say, "Mark and I played a trick for fun," but did not dare until she had first spoken to Mark. "Why do you think so? Hetty, is it possible you are crying for me? I did not think you cared so much about me, my dear." "I am sorry, I am sorry," cried Hetty, bursting into a fresh fit of crying; "I did not know you had a little brother, Miss Davis." "I have, Hetty; next to my mother he is the dearest care of my life. I could not have told you this but for your tears. My mother and I are very poor, Hetty, and my uncle had lately taken my boy and promised to put him forward in the world. He is rather a wilful lad, my poor darling, and is very delicate besides. Now, it seems, by my uncle's marriage and death he has lost all the prospect he had in life. And worst of all he has run away. And my mother is so ill. It will kill her." Miss Davis bowed her pale worn face on her hands, and Hetty, young as she was, seemed to feel the whole meaning of this poor woman's life, her struggles to help others, her unselfish anxieties, her love of her mother and brother hidden away under a quiet, grave exterior. What a brave part she was playing in life, in spite of her prim looks and methodical ways. Hetty was completely carried away by the sight of her suffering, and could no longer contain her secret. She forgot Mark's warning looks, and his sovereign contempt, always freely expressed, for those who would blab; and she said in a low eager voice: "Oh, Miss Davis, I _must_ tell the truth. It was all a trick of me and Mark. He made it up out of his head, without really knowing anything about your people. Only for fun, you know." "What do you mean, Hetty?" "We were the old man and woman, Mr. and Mrs. Crawford. Indeed we were, and there are no such people. And your uncle is neither married nor dead. And your brother has not run away. And your mother will be all right; and do not grieve any more, dear Miss Davis." Hetty put her arms round the governess's neck as she spoke, and laughed and sobbed together. Miss Davis seemed quite stunned with the revelation. "Are you sure you are not dreaming, Hetty? I want a few moments to think it all over. None of these dreadful things have really happened! Well, my dear, I must first thank God." "Oh, Miss Davis, I wish you would beat me." "No, dear, I won't beat you. Only don't another time think it good fun to cut a poor governess to the heart. Perhaps you thought I had not much feeling in me." "Not very much," said Hetty. "I knew you were very good, and strong, and wise, and learned; but I did not know you could love people." "You know it now. For the future do not think that because people are colder in their manner than you are they are therefore heartless. Persons who lead the life that I lead, have to keep many feelings shut up within themselves, and to accustom themselves to do without sympathy." Hetty pondered over these words. She wanted to say that she thought it would do quite as well to show more feeling, and look for a little more sympathy. She was now sure that she could always have loved Miss Davis, had she only known her from the first to be so warm-hearted and so truly affectionate. But she did not know how to express herself and remained silent. "Miss Davis," she said presently; "must governesses always keep their hearts shut up, and try to look as if they loved nobody? You know I am going to be a governess some day, and that is why I ask." Miss Davis was startled. "Do I look as if I loved nobody?" she asked. "A little," said Hetty. "Then I must be wrong. It cannot be good to look as if one loved nobody. At the same time it _is_ very necessary to curb all one's feelings. Phyllis, for instance, would not respect me if she thought me what she would call sentimental. And even Nell would perhaps smile at me as a simpleton if she saw me looking for particular affection. Even you, Hetty--you who think so much about love!--could I manage you at all if I did not know how to look stern?" "You could," said Hetty; "you could manage me better by smiling at me; just try, Miss Davis. But oh, I forgot; I have got to be a governess too, and perhaps I had better be hardened up." Miss Davis was silent, thinking over Hetty's words. That this ardent child found her "hardened up" was an unpleasant surprise to her; but she was not above taking a hint even from one so young and faulty as Hetty. She would try to be warmer, brighter with this girl. And then she reflected sadly on the prospect before Hetty. With a nature like hers, how would she ever become sufficiently disciplined to be fit for the life of toil and self-repression that lay before her? The next day Hetty looked out anxiously for an opportunity of speaking privately to Mark. "I have something to say to you, Mark," she said; "I had to tell Miss Davis that we played the trick." "You had to tell her!" said Mark scornfully; "well, if ever I trust a tell-tale of a girl again. You are just as sneaky as Nell after all." "Nell is not sneaky; and you ought not to call me a tell-tale. You ran away and left me with all Miss Davis's trouble on my shoulders. I didn't want to tell; but it was better than having her suffer so dreadfully." "Oh, very well. You can make a friend of her. Go away and sit up prim like Phyllis. You shall have no more fun with me, I can tell you." A lump came in Hetty's throat. She knew Mark was in the wrong, and was very unkind besides; but still he had so often been good to her that she could not bear to quarrel with him. "I am very sorry," she said; "but I don't think you need be afraid that Miss Davis will complain to anyone about us." This made Mark more angry; for he did not like to hear the word "afraid" applied to himself; and yet his chief uneasiness had been lest the occurrence of last evening should come to the ears of his father, who had a great dislike for practical jokes. "Afraid? I am not afraid of anything, you little duffer. She can tell all about it to the whole house if she likes," he said, and turning on his heel went off whistling. Hetty was right in the guess she had made regarding Miss Davis, who did not say a word to anyone about the trick that had been played on her. She was too thankful to know that she had suffered from a false alarm, that her beloved brother was safe under the protection of the uncle who had promised to befriend him, and that her dear mother was spared the terrible anxiety that had seemed to have overtaken her; she was much too glad thinking of all this to feel disposed to be angry with anyone. Besides, this accident had brought to light a side of Hetty's character which she had hardly got a glimpse of before. The child had evinced a warmth of feeling towards herself which neither of her other two pupils had ever shown her, and this in forgetfulness of the somewhat hard demeanour with which she had been hitherto treated. The little girl was, it appeared, capable of knowing that certain things she did not like were yet for her good, and of respecting the persons who were to her rather a stern providence. Her extreme sorrow for giving pain was also to be noted, and the fact that she had realized the work that was before her in life. All these things sank deeply into Miss Davis's mind, and made her feel far more interested in Hetty than she had ever felt before. But Hetty did not know anything of all this. She saw Miss Davis precise and cold-looking as ever, going through the day's routine as if the events of that memorable evening had never happened; and she thought that everything was just as it had been before, except that Mark had quarrelled with her and would scarcely speak to her. She felt this a heavy trial, and but for occasional visits to Mrs. Kane and Scamp would have found it harder than she could bear. CHAPTER XIV. HETTY'S CONSTANCY. "I hope Hetty is getting on better in the school-room now," said Mrs. Enderby to Phyllis one day; "I have not heard any complaints for some time." "I think she is doing pretty well, mother; at least she behaves better to Miss Davis. As for me, I have very little to do with her. I notice, however, that she has quarrelled with Mark. He and she used to be great friends, because she is such a romp and ready for any rough play. But now he does not speak to her." "That does not matter much," said Mrs. Enderby smiling; "she will be better with Miss Davis and you. You must continue to take an interest in the poor child, dear Phyllis. I wish she gave as little trouble as you do." Phyllis was one of those girls for whom mothers ought to be more uneasy than for the wilder and naughtier children who cause them perpetual annoyance. She was so proper in all her ways, and so well-behaved as never to seem in fault. Her reasons for everything she said and did were so ready and so plausible, that it required a rather clever and far-seeing person to detect the deep-rooted pride and self-complacency that lay beneath them. To manage all things quietly her own way, to be accounted wise and good, and greatly superior to ordinary girls of her age, was as the breath of life to Phyllis. To have to stand morally or actually in the corner with other naughty children was a humiliation she had unfortunately never experienced, but was one which would have done her a world of good. All those early storms of remorse, repentance, compunction, which do so much to prepare the ground for a growth of virtue in children's hearts, were an unknown experience to her. She believed in herself, and she expected others, young and old, to believe in her. Such characters, if not discovered and humbled in time, are likely to have a terrible future, and to grow up the unconscious enemies of their own happiness and that of the people who live around them. Mark kept up his indignation towards Hetty for a week. He did not grieve over the quarrel as she did, but he missed her sadly in his games. However, an accident soon occurred which made them friends again. Mark had had a piece of land given to him in a retired part of the grounds, and he was full of the project of making a garden of his own, according to his own particular fancy. His father was pleased to allow him to do this, being glad of anything that would occupy the restless lad while at home for his holidays. "I will draw all the beds geometrically myself," said Mark, "and make it quite different from anything you have ever seen. And then I will build a tea-house all of fir, and line it with cones, and it will have a delightful perfume." Then he said to himself that if Hetty had not turned out so badly he would have asked her to make tea very often in his nice house among his flowers. But, of course, he could not ask a tell-tale duffer of a girl to do anything for him. He set to work to plan his beds, and one afternoon was busy marking off spaces with wooden pegs and a long line of cord. After working some time he came to the end of his pegs, and was annoyed to find that he had not enough to finish the particular figure he was planning. He did not like to drop his line to go for more pegs, as he feared his work was not secure enough, and would fall astray if the string was not held taut till the end should be properly secured. Just as he looked around impatiently, not knowing what to do, he saw Hetty coming along the path above him, walking slowly and reading. She was very often reduced to the necessity of taking a story-book as companion of her leisure hours, now that Mark would have nothing to do with her. This afternoon Phyllis and Nell were out driving with their mother, and Miss Davis had seized the opportunity to write letters. Hetty was therefore thrown on her own resources and was roaming about with a book. She would have rushed away to Mrs. Kane's at once, but she knew that this was John Kane's dinner hour. But half an hour hence she would set off for the village, and have a nice long chat with her foster-mother. Hetty descended the winding path with her eyes on her book, and before she saw him, nearly stumbled against Mark. "Do you mean to walk over a fellow?" said Mark in an aggrieved tone. "Oh, Mark, I beg your pardon. I did not know you were here. Now," she added, looking round wistfully, "if you wouldn't be cross with me what a nice time we could have working at your garden together." "If you weren't disagreeable, I suppose you mean. Well, yes, we could. But you see we're not friends." "And you won't, won't be?" said Hetty anxiously. "Well, look here, if you hold this string for me a bit I'll think about it. My pegs are shaky until the string is fastened up tight, and I can't drop it, and I must go to the stable-yard for some more pegs. If you hold this string till I come back, perhaps I will forgive you." "Oh yes, I will hold it," said Hetty; and down went her book on the grass, and she took the cord and held it as Mark directed. "Be sure to keep steady till I come back," he said; "and you mustn't mind if I am kept a little while. I may have to look for Jack, who has the key of the storehouse where the pegs are kept." And off he went. When he got to the stable-yard he met a groom who was coming to look for him, saying that his father wanted him to go out riding. Mr. Enderby was already in the saddle, and Mark's pony was waiting beside him at the door. Mark, who loved a ride, especially in company with his father, at once vaulted on the pony's back and was soon trotting out of the gates, laughing and chatting with his papa. He had completely forgotten Hetty, and the pegs, and the cord that had to be held taut till he should come back. In the meantime Hetty was standing just where he had left her, looking in the direction from which he was to return. A quarter of an hour passed, and her finger and thumb, which held the string exactly as Mark had directed, were a little stiff. Another quarter passed, and lest the cord should relax she changed it from one hand to the other. "Jack must have gone out," she thought, "and Mark is waiting for him. I wish he would come back, for I do want to see Mrs. Kane." However, another quarter passed and Mark did not appear. Hetty was very cold, for it was damp wintry weather with a sharp wind, and one gets chilly standing perfectly still so long in the open air. She felt tempted to put down the string and go to look for Mark, but on reflection thought it would be disloyal to do so. He should not be disappointed in her again. Something extraordinary had happened to keep him away, but he should find her at her post when he came back. Then he would be sure to forgive her, and she would be happy again. Another half-hour passed and her toes were half-frozen, and her fingers and her little nose pinched and red. She wished she had put on her gloves before she took the cord in her hands. Now she could not drop it to put them on. The jacket she wore was not a very warm one. Oh, why did not Mark come back? It occurred to her that perhaps he might be playing a trick to punish her; but she could not believe he would be so cruel. Should she drop the string at last, and tell him afterwards that she had held it as long as she could endure the cold? No, she would go on holding it. He should see that she could bear something for his sake. Hetty had been about an hour shivering at her post when Mark, riding gaily along the road many miles from home, suddenly remembered Hetty and the cord. He felt greatly startled and shocked at his carelessness. "I ought to have sent Jack with the pegs to finish the work, and to tell her I was going to ride," he reflected; "but it can't be helped now. She will never be such a goose as to stay there long." And he felt more sorry thinking of how the string would be lying slack until his return than for treating Hetty so inconsiderately. Trying to put the whole thing out of his head he began to chatter to his father about something that had happened at school, and thought no more about the matter till he had returned home an hour later. Then he sprang from his pony and ran off to his garden to see if he could tighten up the string before it became quite dark night. Could he believe his eyes? There was Hetty holding the string as he had left her. "Do you mean to say you have been there ever since?" he said in utter amazement. "Yes," said Hetty, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "You told me not to mind if you were kept a while. And I did not mind." "But do you know that I have been two hours away, and have had a long ride with father?" said Mark. "It seemed a long time," said Hetty; "but I did not know what you were doing. I promised to stay and I stayed." "Well, you were a precious goose," he said, taking the string out of her hand. "Nobody but a stupid of a girl would do such a thing." Hetty said nothing, but slapped her hands together, and tried to keep the tears of disappointment from coming into her eyes. "Here, hold the string a moment longer while I put this peg properly into the ground. Can't you catch it tight? Oh, your fingers are stiff. There, that will do for to-night Now, come home and get warm again." They walked up to the house together. Hetty was too cold, and tired, and hurt to speak again, and Mark was too much annoyed at his own carelessness, and what he called Hetty's stupidity, to be able to thank her, and offer to make friends with her. Hetty went up to her own room to take off her things, and when she came down to the school-room she found that the tea was over and she was in disgrace for staying out so long. Phyllis cast a disapproving glance at her as she entered. Punctuality was one of Phyllis's virtues. Miss Davis rebuked Hetty for staying out alone so late. "I must tell Mrs. Kane," she said, "not to keep you so late when you go to see her." Then Hetty was obliged to say that she had not been to see Mrs. Kane. "Where, then, can you have been for two hours all alone?" "I was all the time in the grounds," said Hetty. She had made up her mind that she would not "tell" this time of Mark, and the consciousness that she was in an awkward position made her colour up and look as if guilty of some fault she did not wish to own. Phyllis looked at her narrowly and glanced at Miss Davis, who had a pained expression on her face, but who said nothing more at the time, being willing to screen Hetty if she could. "Hetty, I am sure you have got cold," said Nell after some time; "you are all shivery-shuddery." "My head is aching," said Hetty; "I don't feel well." "I suppose you were sitting all the time reading a story-book," said Phyllis, "that would give you cold in weather like this." "No, I was not reading, at least not long," said Hetty. "But were you sitting?" "No." "Walking?" "No, not much." "My dear, you must not cross-question like that," said Miss Davis. "Perhaps Hetty will tell me by and by what she was doing." A frown gathered on Phyllis's fair brows and she turned coldly to her lesson book which she was studying for the next day. She could not bear even so slight a rebuke as this, but she knew how to reserve the expression of her displeasure to a fitting time. She herself believed that she bore an undeserved reproof with dignity, but some day in the future the governess would be made to suffer some petty annoyance or disappointment in atonement for her misconduct in finding fault with her pattern pupil. Hetty raised her eyes with a thankful glance at Miss Davis, who saw that they were full of tears. A sudden warmth kindled in Miss Davis's heart as she saw that Hetty trusted in her forbearance, and she said presently: "I think you had better go to bed now, Hetty. You look unwell; and bed is the best place for a cold." "May I go with her, and see that she is covered up warm?" said Nell. "Yes," said Miss Davis, "certainly." And the two little girls left the room together, Hetty squeezing Nell's hand in gratitude for her kindness. When they got up to Hetty's room Nell's curiosity could no longer restrain itself. "Oh, Hetty," she said, "will you tell me what you were doing? I can see it is a great secret. And I won't tell anybody." "Neither will I," said Hetty laughing; "but I was not hurting anyone, nor breaking the laws." "Now, you are making fun of me," said Nell; "it is too bad not to tell me. And Phyllis will be cool with me to-night for running after you." "Then why did you not stay in the school-room?" said Hetty sadly. "I don't want to make coolness between you and Phyllis." "I shouldn't mind Phyllis if you would let me have a secret with you. It is so nice to have a secret, and it is so hard to get one. Everybody knows all about everything." "I don't agree with you; I hate secrets," said Hetty. "This is not much of one, I think, but it is somebody else's affair, and I will not tell it." Having wrung so much as this from Hetty, Nell grew wildly excited over the matter, and was so annoyed at not having her curiosity gratified that she went away out of the room in a hurry without having seen whether Hetty was warm enough or not. On her return to the school-room she announced that Hetty could not tell anything about how she had passed the afternoon, because it was somebody else's secret. "Perhaps she has been bringing some village girl or boy into the grounds," said Phyllis quietly. "I will talk to her myself about this," said Miss Davis; "pray attend to your studies." Miss Davis on reflection thought Phyllis might be right, and that having made acquaintance with some young companion in Mrs. Kane's cottage, Hetty might have been induced to admit her or him to the grounds so as to give pleasure. She knew how strongly the child was influenced by her likings and lovings, and feared that this might be the case of Scamp over again, with the important difference that Hetty was now a girl in her twelfth year, and that her new favourite might prove to be a human being instead of a dog. The next day Hetty was seriously ill. She had caught a severe cold and lay tossing feverishly in her bed. Miss Davis came up to see her in the afternoon and sat at her bedside for half an hour. "Hetty," she said, "I fear you must have been very foolish yesterday, and that your cold is the consequence. Now that we are alone I expect you will tell me exactly all that you did." "I can't indeed, Miss Davis." "You disappoint me exceedingly. I had been thinking so much better of you; I conclude you were not alone yesterday." "Not all the time, but most of it." "Who was with you when you were not alone?" Hetty hesitated, and then said, "Mark." "But Mark was out riding with his father." "Yes." "And you were alone all that time." "Yes." "And yet there is something behind that you will not tell. Hetty, I always thought you frank till now. Why are you making a mystery?" "I can't tell you, Miss Davis; I was not doing any harm." "How am I to believe that?" said Miss Davis. "Oh, my head!" moaned Hetty, as the pain seemed crushing it. She thought that if she were to die for it she would not tell that Mark had treated her badly. Miss Davis went away hurt and displeased, and Hetty was very much alone for several days, being too ill to leave her room, and too deeply in disgrace to be petted by anyone. She was very unhappy, and lay wondering how it was that with a strong desire to do right she seemed always going wrong. If she had dropped the string, gone away to see Mrs. Kane as she had been longing to do, and returned in good time to the school-room to tea, Mark would perhaps have been better pleased with her than he actually was. He had not guessed that she had meant to please him, to make up for telling Miss Davis that they two had played her a trick. He did not ask about her now she was ill, or notice that she was keeping silence and allowing herself to be misunderstood in order that he might not be blamed. If all were told he could not be much blamed, it was true, for what was a mere piece of forgetfulness. But that carelessness of his was a fault of which his father was very impatient, and which always brought on him a severe reprimand. "And I will not tell this time," said Hetty to herself, as her eyes feverishly danced after the spots on the wall-paper. "When I told before, it was to save Miss Davis from suffering, this time there is nobody to suffer but myself." In the meantime Mark was spending a few days with a school-fellow at a distance of some miles, and had gone away without hearing about Hetty's illness. As soon as he returned home he missed her, and learned that she was shut up in her room. He immediately went to inquire for her, and met Miss Davis on the stairs. "I'm sure I don't wonder she got a cold," he said, "but I never meant her to do it." "To do what?" asked Miss Davis. "Why, did she not tell you?" "I have not been able to get her to tell me what she was about that day for two hours alone in the grounds. She has not behaved well, I am sorry to say; she has been in disgrace as well as ill." "Then it was a jolly shame!" burst forth Mark. "I left her to hold a string for me, and I forgot all about her, and went away to ride. And she stood holding the string for two hours in the cold. And I called her a duffer for not running away and letting all my pegs go crooked in the ground. Oh, I say, Miss Davis, it makes a fellow feel awfully ashamed of himself." "So it ought," said Miss Davis, who now understood the whole thing. "She would not tell for fear of getting you blamed." "And I called her a tell-tale before," said Mark, "because she told you about the trick. I've been punishing her for weeks about that. Miss Davis, can't I go in and see her and beg her pardon?" "Certainly," said Miss Davis; "she is sitting at the fire, and her eyes are red with crying. Come in with me and we will try to make her happy again." "Why, Hetty, you do look miserable!" cried Mark, coming into the room and looking ruefully at her pale cheeks and the black shadows round her eyes. "And to think of you never telling after all I made you suffer!" "I wanted to show you that I am not a tell-tale, Mark; but oh, I am so glad you have come. I thought you were never going to be friends with me again." "I was away four days," said Mark; "and of course I thought you knew. But Hetty, you are a jolly queer girl I can tell you, and I can't half understand you. Think of anyone standing two hours to be pierced through and through with cold, rather than drop a fellow's string and run away!" Hetty looked at him wistfully, recognizing the truth that he never could understand the sort of feeling that led her into making, as he considered, such a fool of herself. Miss Davis gazed at her kindly and pityingly, thinking of how many hard blows she would get in the future, in return for acts like that which had so puzzled Mark. And she resolved that another time she would be slow in blaming any eccentric conduct in Hetty, and would wait till she could get at the motive which inspired it. CHAPTER XV. THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. One day during these Christmas holidays a lady came to visit at Wavertree Hall, bringing her two little girls. Phyllis and Nell had gone with Miss Davis to see some other young friends in the neighbourhood, and Hetty, who was spending one of her lonely afternoons in the school-room with her books and work, was sent for to take the little visitors for a walk in the grounds, while their mother had tea with Mrs. Enderby. Hetty was pleased at being wanted, and soon felt at home with the strange little girls, who at once took a great fancy to her. Seeing she could give pleasure her spirits rose high, and she became exceedingly merry, and said some very amusing things. "I think," said Edith, the elder of the young visitors, "that you must be the girl who told such funny stories one evening when mamma dined here. She said it was as good as going to the theatre." "That was a long time ago," said Hetty; "I am not funny now. At least, very seldom." "I think you are funny to-day," said Grace, the second sister; "I wish you would come to our house and act for us, as you did then." "I don't go to houses," said Hetty, shaking her head; "I belonged to Mrs. Rushton then, and she meant me to be a lady. But now she is dead, and it is settled that I am not to be a lady when I am grown up. I am only to be a governess, and work for myself." "But governesses are ladies," said Edith; "a dear friend of ours is a governess, and there never was a nicer lady." "Oh, I know," said Hetty; "Miss Davis is quite the same. But I mean, I am not to be the kind of lady that goes out to parties." "Well, I will try and get you leave to come to our party," said Edith. "We are going to have one before the holidays are over." "I don't think you will get leave from Mrs. Enderby," said Hetty; "and then I have no frock." "They must get you a frock somewhere," said Grace; "I could send you one of mine." "That would give offence, I am sure," said Hetty smiling. "It is not for the trouble of getting the frock that Mrs. Enderby would keep me from going. She does not wish me to get accustomed to such things." "Then she is horrid," cried Edith; "making you just like Cinderella." "No, no," said Hetty, "you must not say that. Cinderella was a daughter of the house, and I am nobody's child. That is what the village people say. And only think if they had sent me to a charity school!" Edith and Grace gazed at her gravely. Hetty stood with her hands behind her back, looking them in the eyes as she stated her own case. "And you have nobody belonging to you, really, in the whole world?" said Edith. "Nobody," said Hetty, "and nothing. At least nothing but a tiny linen chemise." "Did you drop down out of the clouds in that?" asked Grace with widening eyes. "No," said Hetty laughing; "but I came out of the sea in it. I was washed up as a baby on the Long Sands. There were great storms at the time and a great many shipwrecks. And nobody ever asked about me. They must have been all drowned. John Kane, one of Mr Enderby's carters, picked me up. So you see I am not the kind of girl to be going out to parties." "You will have to be very learned if you are going to be a governess," said Grace; "I suppose you are always studying." "I work pretty hard at my books," said Hetty; "but I am not clever. And how I am ever to be as well informed as Miss Davis I don't know. Some things I remember quite well, and other things I am always forgetting. I am sure if I ever get any pupils they will laugh at me. I wish I could live in a little cottage in the fields, and work in a garden and sell my flowers." "I should always come and buy from you," said Grace; "what kind of flowers would you keep?" "Oh, roses," said Hetty; "roses and violets. When I was in London I saw people selling them in the streets. I would send them to London and get money back." "I think I will come and live with you," said Grace eagerly. "Grace, don't be a goose," saith Edith; "Hetty has not got a cottage, and she is going to be a governess." "Yes," sighed Hetty; "but I shall never remember my dates." A few days after this conversation occurred, an invitation to a children's party came from Edith and Grace to all the children at Wavertree Hall, including Hetty Gray. Mrs. Enderby did not wish Hetty to know that she had been invited, but Nell whispered the news to her. "Mamma and Phyllis think you ought not to go," said Nell; "but Mark and I intend to fight for you. Mark says he was so nasty to you lately that he wants to make up." Hetty's eyes sparkled at the idea of having this pleasant variety. "I shall never be allowed to go," she said. "Oh, if it is only a frock, you can have one of mine," said Nell; "I got a new one for the last party, and my one before is not so bad." "It isn't the frock, I am sure," said Hetty; "it is because I am not to be a lady. At least," she added, remembering Edith's rebuke, "I am not to be a party-lady, not a dancing-and-dressing-lady. I am only to be a book-lady, a penwiper-lady, a needle-and-thread-lady, you know, Nell." "Oh, Hetty! a penwiper-lady!" "Yes, haven't you seen them at bazaars?" said Hetty, screwing up her little nose to keep from laughing. "I never know whether you are in earnest when you begin like that," said Nell pouting; "I suppose you don't want to come with us." However, when Hetty heard that she had really got leave to go "for this once, because Edith and Grace had made such a point of it," there was no mistake about her gladness to join in the fun. "How will you ever keep me at home after this?" she said, as Phyllis and Nell stood surveying her dressed in one of their cast-off frocks, of a rose-coloured tint which suited her brunette complexion. "I shall be getting into your pockets the next time, and tumbling out in the ball-room with your pocket-handkerchief." "No one wants to keep you at home, except for your own good," said Phyllis with an air of wisdom. "Never mind, Phyllis, it won't be into your pocket that I shall creep," said Hetty gaily. Phyllis did not feel like herself that evening, and was dissatisfied about she knew not what. She could not admit to herself that she was displeased because another was to enjoy a treat, even though she thought she had a right to her belief that it would have been better if Hetty had been made to stay at home. "Of course, as mother consents, it is all right," she had said; but still she did not feel as much enjoyment as usual in dressing for the party. Half suspecting the cause of this, and willing to restore her good opinion of her own virtue, she brought a pretty fan to Hetty and offered to lend it to her. Hetty took it with a look and exclamation of thanks; but Phyllis thought she hardly expressed her gratitude with sufficient humbleness. However, Phyllis had now soothed away that faint doubt in her own mind as to her own kindness and generosity, and took no further notice of her unwelcome companion. Arrived at the ball, Hetty was warmly received by Edith and Grace, and was soon in a whirl of delightful excitement. She had "as many partners as she could use," as a tiny girl once expressed it, and she was not, like Cinderella, afraid that her frock would turn to rags, or anxious to run home before the other dancers. Everybody was very kind to her, and if anyone said, "That is the little girl whom Mr. Enderby is bringing up for charity," Hetty did not hear it, and so did not care. "Oh, Hetty, you do look so nice!" said Nell, dancing up to her. "A gentleman over there asked me if you were my sister. And I did not tell him you were going to be a governess." "You might have told him," said Hetty. "I don't care. I have been speaking to such a nice governess. She is here in care of some little children. I think she is the prettiest lady in the room; and she looks quite happy. I wish I could turn out something like her. Only I shall never remember the dates." Hetty sighed, and the next minute was whirled away into the dance again. Now Phyllis had told herself over and over again in the course of the evening that she was very pleased poor Hetty should be enjoying the pleasure of this party, always adding a reflection, however, that she hoped she might not be spoiled by so foolish an indulgence. "If I were going to be a governess," thought she, "I should try to fit myself for the position. Of course it is father's and mother's affair, but when one has a little brains one can't help thinking, I believe if I were in mother's position I should be wiser; but then, of course, I cannot have any things or people to manage till I am grown up. It is the duty of a girl to do what she is told; afterwards people will have to do what she tells them. When the time comes for me to be a mistress I shall take good care that everybody does what is right." These reflections occurred to Phyllis while she was sitting out a dance for which Hetty had got a partner. Soon afterwards, while the breathless flock of young dancers were fanning themselves on the sofas, the lady of the house requested Hetty to recite or act something to amuse the company. At this proposal Hetty was startled and dismayed. It was a very long time since she had done anything of the kind, except for the amusement of Mark and Nell, and she had forgotten all the old stories and characters that used to be found so entertaining by grown people. She felt a shyness amounting to terror at being obliged to come forward and perform before this company; and, besides, she was very sure that Mrs. Enderby would disapprove of her doing so. She therefore begged earnestly to be excused, and retreated into a corner. The lady of the house desisted for a time from her persuasions, but after another dance was finished she renewed her request. Hetty's distress increased, but she felt quite unable to explain to her hostess the reasons why it was impossible she could comply with her wishes. She could only repeat: "I forget how to do it; indeed I do. And Mrs. Enderby does not like it." "Mrs. Enderby would like you to please me," said the hostess. "And I cannot think you forget. My daughters tell me you were most amusing last week when they saw you." "Was I?" said Hetty, dismayed. "But that was in the garden and came by accident. I could not do anything before all this crowd." "Well, if you were a shy child I could understand," said the lady; "but you know I heard you long ago when you were much younger. If you were not shy then you cannot be so now." Hetty could not explain that it was just because she was older now that she was shy. Long ago she had been too small to realize the position she was placed in. She felt ready to weep at being found so disobliging, yet when she thought of the performance required of her, her tongue clove to her mouth with fright. The hostess now crossed the room to Phyllis, who had been watching what had passed between her and Hetty from a distance. "I have been trying to persuade little Miss Gray to recite for us, or to do some of her amusing characters, but she has all sorts of reasons why she cannot oblige me. Is she always so obstinate?" Phyllis hesitated. "I think she has a pretty strong will of her own," she said. "I am afraid she will not yield." "Well, my dear, you know her better than I do, and it is nice of you not to be too ready to blame her. But I like little girls who do as their elders bid them. And I confess I expected to find her agreeable when I invited her here this evening." Now if Phyllis had been as generous as she would have liked to believe herself she would have said, "I know my mother does not approve of Hetty's performances, and Hetty knows it too. Perhaps this is why she refuses." But Phyllis, quite unconsciously to herself, was pleased to hear Hetty blamed, and was willing to think that she ought to have put all her scruples aside in order to oblige Mrs. Enderby's friend. While she considered about what it would be pretty to say, her hostess went on: "I suppose she is a little conceited and spoiled. She is certainly exceedingly pretty and clever." It was much more difficult now for Phyllis to make her amiable speech; yet she had not the least idea that she was a jealous or an envious girl. She always felt so good, and everybody said she was so. Jealous people are always making disturbance. Therefore it was quite impossible that Phyllis could be jealous. "I will go and speak to her," she said to the lady of the house, and crossed the room to where Hetty sat, looking unhappy. "Hetty," said Phyllis, "I think you ought to do as you are asked. It was exceedingly kind of Mrs. Cartwright to invite you here. Of course she expected you to be obliging." "You mean that she asked me, thinking I would amuse the company?" said Hetty quickly. "Then I am very sorry you have told me so, Phyllis, for I should never have guessed it. And now I shall feel miserable till I get away." "Can't you be agreeable?" "No, I can't. Just think of trying it yourself." "Of course it would not be suitable for me," said Phyllis. "Our positions are different. However, if you choose to be ungrateful you must." And she walked away, leaving Hetty sitting alone reflecting sadly on her words. So after all it was not kindness and liking for her that had made these people include her in their invitation. It was only the desire to have their party made more amusing by her performance. She wished she could do what was required of her, so that she need owe them nothing. But she could not; and how hateful she must seem. All her pleasure was over now, and she was glad when the moment came to get away. Her silence was not noticed during the drive home, for every one else was too sleepy to talk. But Hetty was too unhappy to be sleepy. The next morning Miss Davis asked at breakfast if the party had been enjoyable. "It was all very nice," said Phyllis, "until towards the end, when Hetty put on fine airs and refused to be obliging. After that we all felt uncomfortable." "That is not true, Miss Davis," said Hetty bluntly. Her temper had suddenly got the better of her. Phyllis's blue eyes contracted, and her lip curled. "Please send her out of the room, Miss Davis," she said. "Hetty, I am sorry for this," said Miss Davis, "I could not have believed you would speak so rudely." "You have not heard the story, Miss Davis." "I have heard you put yourself very much in the wrong. Phyllis would not tell an untruth of you, I am sure." "She said I put on fine airs," said Hetty, trembling with indignation. "I did not put on airs. They wanted me to perform, and I could not do it. If I had done it Phyllis would have been the first to blame me. I remember how she scorned me for doing it long ago." "I hope you will make her apologize to me, Miss Davis," said Phyllis quietly. The more excited poor Hetty became, the quieter grew the other girl. "She is ungenerous," continued Hetty, striving valiantly to keep back her tears; "she knew her mother would not approve of my performing; and besides, I told her I was afraid. If I had done it she would have complained to Mrs. Enderby of my doing it." This passionate accusation hit Phyllis home. She knew it was true--so true that though she had arraigned Hetty before Miss Davis for the pleasure of humbling her, she yet had no intention of carrying the tale to her mother, fearing that Mrs. Enderby would say that Hetty had been right. Had Hetty made "a show of herself" by performing, Phyllis would perhaps have made a grievance of it to her parents. Stung for a moment with the consciousness that this was true, before she had had time to persuade herself of the contrary, Phyllis grew white with anger. The injury she could least forgive was a hurt to her self-complacency. "She must apologize, Miss Davis, or I will go to papa," said Phyllis, disdaining to glance at Hetty, but looking at her governess. Miss Davis was troubled. "This is all very painful," she said. "Hetty, you had better go to your room till you have recovered your composure. Whatever may have been your motives last night you have now put yourself in the wrong by speaking so rudely." Hetty flashed out of the room, and Phyllis, quiet and triumphant, turned to her lesson-books with a most virtuous expression upon her placid face. Hetty wept for an hour in her own room. Looking back on her conduct she could not see that she had been more to blame than Phyllis. Oh, how was it that Phyllis was always proved to be so good while she was always forced into the wrong? She remembered a prayer asking for meekness which Mrs. Kane had taught her, and she knelt by her bedside and said it aloud; and just then she heard Miss Davis calling to her to open the door. "My dear," said the governess, "I have come to tell you that you really must apologize to Phyllis. It was exceedingly rude of you to tell her so flatly that her words were untrue." Hetty flushed up to the roots of her hair and for a few moments could not speak. She had just been on her knees asking for strength from God to overcome her pride, and here was an opportunity for practising meekness. But it was dreadfully hard, thought Hetty. "I will try and do it, Miss Davis. But may I write a letter in my own way?" "Certainly, my dear. I am glad to find you so willing to acknowledge yourself in fault." Left alone to perform her task Hetty opened her desk and sat biting her pen. At last she wrote: "Dear Phyllis,--I am very sorry I said so rudely that you did not tell the truth. But oh, why did you not tell it, and then there need not have been any trouble? "HETTY." Hetty brought this note herself into the school-room, and in presence of Miss Davis handed it to Phyllis. "Do you call that an apology?" said Phyllis, handing the note to Miss Davis. "I don't think you have made things any better, Hetty," said Miss Davis. "I said what I could, Miss Davis. Phyllis ought to apologize to me now." Phyllis gave her a look of cold surprise, and took up a book. "Pray, Miss Davis, do not mind," said she over the edges of her book. "I expect nothing but insolence from Hetty Gray. Mother little knew what she was providing for us when she brought her here." Hetty turned wildly to the governess. "Miss Davis," she cried, "can I not go away somewhere, away from here? Is there not some place in the world where they would give a girl like me work to do? How can I go on living here, to be treated as Phyllis treats me?" Miss Davis took her by the hand and led her out of the room and upstairs to her own chamber. Having closed the door she sat down and talked to her. "Hetty," she said, "when you give way to your pride in passions like this you forget things. You asked me just now, is there any place where people would give work to a girl like you to do? I don't think there is--no place such as you could go to." "I would go anywhere," moaned Hetty. "Anywhere is nowhere," said Miss Davis. "Just look round you and see all that is given to you in this house. There is your comfortable bed to sleep in, you have your meals when you are hungry, you have good clothing, you have a warm fireside to sit at, you have the protection of an honourable home. Yet you would fling away all these advantages because of a few wounds to your pride. Phyllis is trying, I admit--I have to suffer from her at times myself--but you and I must bear with something for the sake of what we receive." Hetty raised her eyes and looked at Miss Davis's worn face and the line of pain that had come out sharply across her brow, and forgot herself for the moment, thinking of the governess's patient life. "But, Miss Davis, _you_ need not suffer from Phyllis; you are not like me. Any people would be glad to get you, who are so clever and so good. You could complain of her to her mother, and if she did not get better you could go away." "Should I be any more safe from annoyance in another family? Hetty, my dear, there are always thorns in the path of those who are poor and dependent on others, and our wisest course is to make the best of things. I might say to you, _you_ have no one to think of but yourself. For me, I have a mother to support, and I have to think of my dear young brother, who is not too wise for his own interests, and whose prospects are at the mercy of a rather capricious old uncle." "Oh that I had a mother and a brother to work for!" cried Hetty passionately. "Perhaps that would teach you wisdom, my dear. However, profit by my experience and be cheered up. Take no notice if Phyllis is unkind. It is better to be here, even with her unkindness, than straying about the world alone, meeting with such misfortunes as you never dreamed of." After Miss Davis had left her, Hetty sat a long time pondering over that lady's words. It seemed to her that the governess, good and patient as she was, had no motive for her conduct high enough to carry her through the trials of her life. It was certainly an excellent thing to be prudent for the sake of her mother and brother; to bear with present evils for fear of worse evils that might come. But yet--but yet, was there not a higher motive than all this for learning to be meek and humble of heart? Looking into her own proud and stubborn nature, the little girl assured herself that Miss Davis's motives would never be in themselves enough for her, Hetty--never sufficiently strong to crush the rebellion of self in her stormy young soul. Instinctively her thoughts flew to Mrs. Kane, and seizing her hat and cloak she flew out of the house, and away down the road to the labourer's cottage. Fortunately it was a good hour for her visit. John had gone out after his dinner. The cottage kitchen was tidied up, the fire shining, the two old straw arm-chairs drawn up by the hearth. Mrs. Kane was just screwing up her eyes, trying to thread a needle, when Hetty dashed in and flung her arms around her neck. "Oh, Mrs. Kane, the pride has got so bad again; and I have been quarrelling with Phyllis and wanting to run away." "Run away!" said Mrs. Kane; "oh, no, dearie, never run away from your post." "What is my post?" said Hetty weeping; "I have no post. I am only a charity girl and in everybody's way. Phyllis hints it to me in every way she can, even when she does not say it outright. Oh, how can I have patience to grow up? Why does it take so long to get old?" Mrs. Kane sighed. "It doesn't take long to grow old, dear, once you are fairly in the tracks of the years. But it does take a while to grow up. And you must have patience, Hetty. There's nothing else for it but the patience and meekness of God." Hetty drew a long breath. All that was spiritual within her hung now on Mrs. Kane's words. The patience of God was such a different thing from the prudence of this world. That was the difference between Miss Davis and Mrs. Kane. "There was something beautiful you said one day," said Hetty in a whisper; "say it again. It was, 'Learn of me--'" "Learn of me; for I am meek and lowly of heart," said Mrs. Kane. "That is the word you want, my darling, and it was said for such as you." Hetty's tears fell fast, but they were no longer angry tears. She was crying now with longing to be good. "There was something else," she said presently, when she could find her voice; "something that was spoken for me too." "Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," said Mrs. Kane, stroking her head. And then Hetty cried more wildly, thinking with remorse of her own pride. "If He is for you, my dear, you needn't care who is against you," continued Mrs. Kane; "take that into your heart and keep it there." After that they had a long talk about all Hetty's difficulties, and when at last the little girl left the cottage, it was with a lighter step than had brought her there. When she walked into the school-room just in time for tea the signs of woe were gone from her countenance, and she looked even brighter than usual. Without giving herself time to think, or to observe the looks of those in the room, she went straight up to Phyllis and said cheerfully: "Phyllis, I am sorry I gave you offence. I hope you will forget it and be friends with me"; and then she took her seat at the table as if nothing had happened. Miss Davis, who had been rather dreading her appearance, fearing a renewal of the quarrel, looked up at her and actually coloured all over her faded face with pleasure and surprise. Hetty had really taken her lessons to heart, and was going to be a wise and prudent girl after all. She little thought that a far higher spirit actuated the girl than had at all entered into her teachings. Phyllis glanced round with a triumphant air as if saying, "Now I am indeed proved in the right. She herself has acknowledged it!" and then she said gently: "I accept your apology, Hetty, and I will not say anything of the matter to my mother." "Is not Phyllis good," whispered Nell afterwards, "not to tell mamma? Because you know, you were very naughty to her, Hetty, and she is papa's daughter and the eldest." Nell's friendly speeches were sometimes hard to bear, as well as Phyllis's unfriendly ones. Hetty would have been glad if the whole affair could have been laid before Mrs. Enderby, and saw no reason to congratulate herself on Phyllis's silence to her mother as to the quarrel and its cause. But the others judged differently. Miss Davis was pleased that by her own tact she had been able to arrange matters without calling in the aid of Mrs. Enderby, who, she was aware, liked a governess to have judgment and decision sufficient to keep the mistress of the house out of school-room squabbles. Nell was delighted that there was to be no more "fuss." Phyllis above all was pleased, for now she felt no more necessity for questioning her own motives and conduct, no more danger of being told by her mother that Hetty had in the beginning been in the right, while she, by opposing her, had brought on the wrong which had followed. Falling back upon her own doctrine, that she must be right because her judgment told her so, Phyllis was coldly amiable to Hetty for the rest of the evening; while Hetty, having made her act of humility, rather suffered from a reaction of feeling, and had to struggle hard to keep the moral vantage-ground she had gained. CHAPTER XVI. A TRIAL OF PATIENCE. Two more years passed over Hetty's head. She had grown tall and looked old for her age, her large gray eyes were full of serious thought, her brow was grave, and the expression of her mouth touched with sadness. The haughtiness and mirth of her childhood were alike gone. Earnest desire to attain to a difficult end was the one force that moved her, and this had become visible in her every word and glance. She was painfully aware that the time was approaching when she must go forth to battle with the world for herself, and that on her own qualifications for fighting that battle her position in the world must depend. That she had not sufficient aptitude for learning out of books, or for remembering readily all that she gathered from them, she greatly feared. Her memory gave her back in pictures whatever had engaged her imagination; but much that was useful and necessary was wont to pass away out of her grasp. Thorough determination, close application, did not remove this difficulty, and she was warned by those around her that unless she could make better use for study of the three years yet before her than she had made of those that lay behind her, she could never be a teacher of a very high order. Of all that this failure meant, Hetty understood more clearly now than when she had wished to live with Mrs. Kane and be the village schoolmistress. Loving all that was beautiful and refined in life, she had learned to dread, from another motive than pride, the fate of being thrown upon a lower social level. And yet this was a fate which seemed now to stare her in the face. Mr. Enderby, who had of late taken a personal interest in her studies, examining her from time to time on various subjects, said to her: "My little girl, if you do not wake up and work harder I fear you will have to take an inferior position in life to that which I desired for you." Poor Hetty! Was she not wide awake? So wide awake that when he and all the household were asleep she lay staring her misfortune in the face. And how could she work harder than she did, weeping in secret over the dry facts that would not leave their mark upon her brain? Thus it was that life looked dreary to her, and her face was grave and pale. Phyllis and Nell, who were three and two years older than herself, had begun to talk of the joys which the magic age of eighteen had in store for them. They would leave off study and go forth into the enjoyment of their youth in a flattering world. Idleness, pleasure, happiness awaited them. No one could say they were not sufficiently well educated to take that graceful place in life which Providence had assigned to them; Hetty was rebuked for being less learned than she ought to be, because for her there was no graceful place prepared; only a difficult and narrow path leading away she knew not where. Of the difference between their position and hers she could not help thinking, but she had been so long accustomed to realize it that she did not dwell upon it much. Miss Davis was the person on whom her eyes were fixed as an image of what she ought to hope to become. To be exactly like Miss Davis. To look like her, think like her, be as well informed, as independent, as much respected; to teach as well, speak as wisely, be called an admirable woman who had fought her own way against poverty in the world, this was what Hetty had been assured by Mr. and Mrs. Enderby ought to be the object of her ambition and the end of all her hopes. And Hetty tried honestly to will as they willed for her good. But her face was not less sad on that account. Things were in this state when one day, a day never to be forgotten by her, Hetty was feeling more than usually unhappy. Only the evening before Mr. Enderby had examined her on several subjects, and had found her wanting. He had spoken to her with a little severity, and at the same time looked at her pityingly, and the girl had felt more miserable than can be told at having disappointed him. To-day she was left to spend a long afternoon by herself, as Miss Davis had taken Phyllis and Nell to visit some friends, and, though her morning's work ought to have been over, she still sat at her lessons, labouring diligently. At last becoming thoroughly tired she closed her book and raised her eyes wearily, when they fell on a jar of wild flowers which yesterday she had arranged and placed upon a bracket against the wall. It was spring, and in the jar was a cluster of pale wood-anemones with some sprays of bramble newly leafed. Hetty's eyes brightened at the sight of these flowers, and noted keenly every exquisite outline and delicate hue of the group. It seemed to her at the moment that she had never seen anything so beautiful before. Mechanically she took up her pencil and began to imitate on a piece of paper the waving line of the bramble wreath, and the graceful curves of the leaves. To her own great surprise something very like the bramble soon began to appear upon the paper. A sharp touch here, a little shadow there, and her drawing looked vigorous and true. After working in great excitement for some time Hetty got up and pinned her drawing to the wall, and stood some way off looking at it. Where had it come from? she asked herself. She had never learned to draw. She had not known that she could draw. Oh, how delightful it would be if she could reproduce the flowers as they grew! Not quite able to believe in the new power she had discovered in herself, she set again to work, altering the arrangement of the flowers in the jar, and taking a larger sheet of paper. It was only ruled exercise paper, but that did not seem to matter when the flowers blossomed all over it. The second drawing was even better than the first; and Hetty stood looking at it with flushed cheeks and throbbing heart, wondering what was this new rapture that had suddenly sprung up in her life. As her work was done, and the afternoon was all her own, she was able to give herself up to this unexpected delight, and spent many hours composing new groups of flowers, and arranging them in fanciful designs. When a maid brought up her solitary tea she lifted her flushed face and murmured, "Oh, can it be tea-time?" and then spread out all her drawings against the wall, and stared at them while she ate her bread and butter. She felt nervous at the thought of letting anybody see them, and locked them up in her desk before Miss Davis and the other girls came home. In earliest dawn of the next morning, however, she was out of bed and studying the drawings as she stood in her night-dress and with bare feet. Were they really good, she asked herself, or were her eyes bewitched; and would Mr. Enderby laugh at them if he saw them? Anguish seized on her at the thought, and she dressed herself with trembling hands. A new idea, striving in her mind, seemed to set all nature thrilling with a meaning it had never borne for her before. There had been great painters on the earth, as she knew full well, whose existence had been made beautiful and glorious by their genius; and there were artists living in the present day, small and great, who must surely be the happiest beings in the world. Their days were spent, not in drudgery, and lecturing, and primness, but in the study and reproduction of the beauty lying round them. Oh, if God should have intended her to be one of these! When the maids came to dust the school-room they found Hetty hard at work upon a new wreath of ivy which she had hastily snatched from the garden wall and hung against the curtain, and they thought she was doing some penance at Miss Davis's bidding. By eight o'clock the drawings were hid away, the flowers and wreaths disposed of in the jars, and Hetty was sitting at the table with a book in her hand. No one need know, she thought, of how she spent those early hours when everybody else was in bed. And so day after day she worked on steadily with her pencil, and there was a strange and unutterable hope in her heart, and a new light of happiness in her eyes. After some time she became more daring and attempted to bring colour into her designs. Using her school-room box of paints, the paints intended only for the drawing of maps, she placed washes of colour on her leaves and along her stems, making the whole composition more effective and complete. Day by day she improved on her first ideas, till she had stored up a collection of really beautiful sketches. With this new joy tingling through her young veins from morning till night, and from night till morning again, Hetty began to look so glad and bright that everyone remarked it. Miss Davis looked on approvingly, thinking that her own excellent discipline of the girl was having an effect she had scarcely dared to hope for. Nell was full of curiosity to know why Hetty had become so gay. "May I not have the liberty to be gay as well as you?" said Hetty laughing. "Of course; but then you are so suddenly changed. Miss Davis says it is only because you are growing good. But I think there must be something that is making you good." "I am glad to hear I am growing good. Something is making me very happy, but I cannot tell you what it is." Nell, always on the look-out for a secret, opened her eyes very wide, but could get no further satisfaction from Hetty, who only laughed at her appeals to be taken into confidence. That evening, however, she told Miss Davis that Hetty had admitted that there was _something_ that was making her so happy. "I knew she had a secret," said Nell mysteriously. "Then it is the secret of doing her duty," said Miss Davis. "She has made great improvement in every respect during the last few weeks." "I know she gets up earlier in the mornings than she used to do," said Nell, "and I don't think she is at her lessons all the time." "I hope she has not been making any more friends in the village," said Phyllis. "I am sorry such thoughts have come into your minds, children," said Miss Davis; "I see nothing amiss about Hetty. If she is happier than she used to be, we ought all to feel glad." Phyllis did not like the implied rebuke, and at once began to hope that she might be able to prove Miss Davis in the wrong. If Hetty could be found to have a secret, as Nell supposed, Phyllis decided that it ought to be found out. Her mother did not approve of children having secrets. Even if there was no harm in a thing in itself, there was a certain harm in making a mystery of it. So, having arranged her motive satisfactorily in her mind, Phyllis, feeling more virtuous than ever, resolved to observe what Hetty was about. The next morning she got up early and came down to the school-room an hour before her usual time. And there was Hetty working away at her drawing with a wreath of flowers pinned before her on the wall. Phyllis came behind her and was astonished to see what she had accomplished with her pencil; and Hetty started and coloured up to her hair, as if she had been caught in a fault. "Well, you are a strange girl," said Phyllis; "I did not know drawing was a sin, that you should make such a mystery over it." "I hope it is not a sin," said Hetty in a low voice. She felt grieved at having her efforts discovered in this way. She wished now that she had told Miss Davis all about it. Phyllis opened the piano and began to practise without having said one word of praise of Hetty's work; and the poor little artist felt her heart sink like lead. Perhaps the beauty that she saw in her designs existed only in her own foolish eyes. She worked on silently for about half an hour, and then put away her drawing materials and her flowers, and began to study her lessons for the day. "Of course you do not expect me to keep your secret from Miss Davis," said Phyllis, looking over her shoulder. "I have been always taught to hate secrets, and my conscience will not allow me to encourage you in this." "Do exactly as you please," said Hetty; "I shall be quite satisfied to let Miss Davis know what I have been doing." "Then why did you not tell her before?" asked Phyllis. "I am not bound to explain that to you," said Hetty; but finding her temper was rising she added more gently, "I am willing to give an account of my conduct to any one who may be scandalized by it"; and then, fearing to trust herself further, she went out of the room. On the stairs she met Miss Davis, and stopped her, saying: "Phyllis has a complaint to make of me. I shall be back in the school-room presently after she has made it." "What is it about, my dear?" "She can tell you better than I can," said Hetty. "Please go down now, Miss Davis, and then we can have it over before breakfast." "Miss Davis, I find Nell was right in thinking that Hetty was doing something sly," began Phyllis, as the governess entered the school-room. "I am sorry to hear it. What can it be?" "Nothing very dreadful in itself perhaps. It is the secrecy that is so ugly, especially as there was no reason for it in the world." "What has Hetty done?" repeated Miss Davis. "Why, she has been getting up early in the mornings to draw flowers," said Phyllis, unwillingly perceiving that the fault seemed a very small one when plainly described. "I did not know she could draw," said Miss Davis; "but, if she can, I see no harm in her doing it." "I think she ought to spend the time at the studies father is so anxious she should improve in," said Phyllis; "and I imagine she knows it too, or she would not have been so secret." "There is something in that, Phyllis; though I would rather you had not been so quick to perceive it." Phyllis curled her lip slightly. "Intelligence is given us that we may use it, I suppose," she said coldly; "but I have done my duty, and I have nothing more to say in the matter." Breakfast passed over without anything being said on the subject of the great discovery; but after the meal was finished, Miss Davis desired Hetty to fetch her her drawings that she might see them. Hetty went to her own room immediately, and returned bringing about a dozen drawings in a very primitive portfolio made of several newspapers gummed together. Miss Davis was no artist, but she felt that the designs were good, and remarkable as having been executed by a girl so untaught as Hetty. They increased her opinion of her pupil's abilities, yet she looked on them chiefly from the point of view Phyllis had suggested to her, and considered them in the light of follies upon which valuable time had been expended. "My dear," she said, "these are really very pretty, and I am sure they have given you a great deal of pleasure. But I cannot countenance your going on with this sort of employment. Think of how usefully you might have employed at your books the hours you have spent upon these trifles. I presume you were aware of this from the first yourself, and that this is why you have been so silent as to your new accomplishment." "No," said Hetty decidedly; "I did not feel that I was wasting time. On the contrary, my drawing gave me better courage to work at my lessons. The hours I spent were taken from my sleep. I was always at my books before Phyllis was at hers." "Phyllis is not to be made a rule for you, my dear. She has not the same necessity to exert her powers to the utmost. If you can do without part of your sleeping time, you ought to devote it to your books. And pray, if you did not think you were committing some fault, why did you say nothing to anyone of what you were about?" "I cannot tell you that, Miss Davis," said Hetty, her eyes filling with tears; "I mean I cannot explain it properly. I could not bring myself to show what I had done; but I had no idea of _wrongness_ about the matter." "Well, my dear, we will say no more about it. Take the drawings away; and in future work at your lessons every moment of your time. I will put you on your word of honour, Hetty, not to do any more of this kind of thing." "Do not ask me to give you such a promise, Miss Davis." "But Hetty, I must, and I do." "Then, Miss Davis, I will speak to Mr. Enderby." The governess and her two pupils gazed at Hetty in amazement. "I mean," Hetty went on, "that I hope he will think drawing a useful study for me. Will you allow me to speak to him this evening, Miss Davis?" "Certainly, my dear," said Miss Davis stiffly. "There is nothing to hinder you from consulting Mr. Enderby on any subject. I am sure he will be kind enough to give you his advice. Only I think I know what it will be beforehand; and I would rather you had shown more confidence in me." Hetty could not give her mind to her lessons that day, nor get rid of the feeling that she was in disgrace. When evening came, the hour when Mr. Enderby was usually to be found in his study, she asked Miss Davis's permission to go to him, and with her portfolio in her hand presented herself at his door. "Come in, Hetty," said Mr. Enderby; "what is this you have got to show me? Maps, plans, or what? Why, drawings!" Hetty's mouth grew dry, and her heart beat violently. The tone of his voice betrayed that the master of Wavertree had no more sympathy for art, or anything connected with it, than had Miss Davis. He was an accurate methodical man with a taste for mathematics, who believed in the power conferred by knowledge on man and woman; but who had little respect for those who concerned themselves with only the beauties and graces of life. Art was to him a trifle, and devotion to it a folly. Therefore Hetty with her trembling hopes was not likely to find favour at his hands. "My child, I am sure they are very pretty; but this sort of thing will not advance you in the world." "But, Mr. Enderby,--I have been thinking--artists get on as well as governesses. I do these more easily than I learn my dates. If I could only learn to be an artist." Mr. Enderby put his eye-glass to his eye, and gazed at her a little pityingly, a little severely, with a look that Hetty knew. "You would like to become an artist? Well, my girl, I must tell you to put that foolish idea out of your head. In the first place, you are not to imagine that because you can sketch a flower prettily, you have therefore a genius for painting; and such fancies are only calculated to distract your mind from the real business of your life. Besides, remember this, I have given, am giving, you a good education as a means of providing for you in life. Having bestowed one profession upon you already, I am not prepared to enter into the expense and inconvenience of a second. So run away like a sensible girl and stick to your books. You had better leave these drawings with me and think no more about them." Saying this, Mr. Enderby opened a drawer and locked up Hetty's designs within it; and, humbled and despairing, Hetty returned to the school-room. Her face of grief and her empty hands told sufficiently what the result of her errand had been. No remark was made by Miss Davis or the girls, though Nell, who thought the drawings wonderfully pretty, was impatient to know what her papa had said of them. She was too much in awe of Miss Davis to seek to have her curiosity gratified just then; and the evening study went on as if nothing had happened. CHAPTER XVII. HETTY'S FUTURE IS PLANNED. This was the severest trial Hetty had ever encountered. Longing for special love, and delight in reproducing the beautiful, were part of one and the same impulse in her nature, and, crushed in the one, all her heart had gone forth in the other direction. Now both had been equally condemned in her as faults, and she fell back, as before, on the mere dull effort towards submission which had already carried her surely, if joylessly, over so many difficult years of her young life. She worked patiently at her books and fulfilled her duties; and she grew thinner and paler, and the old sad look became habitual to her lips and eyes. Another year passed, and as Phyllis and Nell approached nearer and nearer to the period for "coming out" they were more frequently absent from the school-room, and Hetty's days were more solitary than they used to be. All her mind was now fixed on the idea of fitting herself as soon as possible for some sort of post as governess. She knew she never could take such a position as that which Miss Davis filled, and had meekly admitted to herself that a humble situation must content her. She often wondered how it would be with her when the Enderby girls should no longer need Miss Davis; and decided according to her own judgment that she ought to be ready to seek a place for herself in the world as soon as the elder girls should have completed their studies. One evening she sat opposite to Miss Davis at the school-room fireside. Phyllis and Nell were in the drawing-room with their mother. Miss Davis was netting energetically, and Hetty, who had been studying busily, dropped her book and was gazing absently into the fire. "Hetty," said Miss Davis presently, "put away your book, I want to talk to you." Hetty obeyed, and looked at her governess expectantly. "My dear, you know very well that in another year I shall no longer be needed here. Phyllis and Nell will then be eighteen and seventeen, and their mother has decided that they shall come out at the same time. When I am gone there will no longer be any object in your staying in this house. And yet, as you will then be only sixteen, you will be young to begin your life among strangers." "Yes," said Hetty with a sinking of the heart; "but it is very good of you to think about me like this. Of course I shall have to go. I suppose I can get in somewhere as a nursery governess." "I have been thinking of something else. Of course it will remain for yourself to decide." Hetty's heart leaped. A wild idea crossed her mind that perhaps Miss Davis was going to suggest some way by which she might study to be an artist. Though she had never spoken on the subject since Mr. Enderby had pronounced sentence upon her hopes, still the dear dream of a possible beautiful future had always lain hidden somewhere in the most distant recesses of her brain. Now a sudden bright light shone into that darkened chamber. What delightful plan had Miss Davis been marking out for her? "I have made up my mind," said Miss Davis, "that instead of entering another family I will open a school in the town where I was born. My mother is getting old and she is lonely. If I succeed in my project I shall be able to live with her and continue to make an income at the same time." "How delightful!" murmured Hetty. Miss Davis smiled sadly. "I don't know about that. The plan will have its advantages, but there are many difficulties. However, I think it is worth a trial." Hetty said nothing, only wondered why Miss Davis was not more wildly glad at the thought of being always with her mother. She could not realize how long years of trial and disappointment had made it impossible to the governess to feel vivid anticipations of delight. "Now as regards you--" Hetty started. She had so completely thrown herself into Miss Davis's personality for the moment that she had entirely forgotten her own. "As regards you, I have been thinking that you might come with me and help me as an under teacher. In this way you might begin to be independent at the age of sixteen, and at the same time continue your own studies under my superintendence. Later, when you were more thoroughly fitted to be a governess, I could endeavour to place you out in the world." "Oh, how good of you to think of it! You are very, very kind!" said Hetty, though tears of disappointment rushed to her eyes. She crushed back the ungrateful feeling of dismay which pressed upon her at the thought of trying to teach in school. Her common-sense told her that nothing could be more advantageous for her interests than the plan Miss Davis had sketched for her. And she keenly appreciated the thoughtfulness for her welfare which had led the governess to include her in the scheme for her own future. "You would only have little children to teach at first," Miss Davis went on, "until you grow accustomed to the work and gain confidence in yourself. Of course this is only a suggestion which I make to you, that you may turn it over in your thoughts and be ready to make arrangements when the moment shall arrive. Perhaps by that time, however, Mr. Enderby will be able to provide you with a pleasanter home." "I do not think so," said Hetty. "He could recommend me only as a nursery governess, and if I were once in that position I could never have any further opportunity to improve. With you I can continue my studies." "This is precisely what I think," said Miss Davis, "and I am glad you take such a sensible view of the matter. However, we need not speak of this for a year to come." And so the conversation ended. Hetty longed to put her arms round Miss Davis's neck and thank her warmly for her kindness, but she felt instinctively that the governess would rather she abstained from all such demonstrations. It was only when she went up to bed that she allowed her thoughts to go back to the beautiful moment when she had fancied Miss Davis might have been thinking of making her an artist; and then she cried sadly as she thought of how foolish she had been in imagining even for a second that such a wild improbability had come true. However, Hetty awakened next morning with a wholesome feeling of satisfaction in her mind which she could not at first account for. In a few moments the conversation with Miss Davis rushed back upon her memory, and she knew that her contentment was due to the prospect of independence that had been put before her as so real and so near. Once installed under Miss Davis's roof, teaching in school and earning the bread she ate, neither servants nor companions could taunt her with being a charity girl any more, Mr. Enderby's fears for her would then be laid to rest, and the dread of disappointing him would be lifted off her mind. In Miss Davis's school she could live and work until she had acquired all that learning which to her was so hard to attain. With a sweet and brave, if not a glad, look on her face, Hetty came into the school-room that morning and found Phyllis and Nell chatting more gaily than usual at the fire. "Oh, Hetty," cried Nell, "you must hear our news! We are going to have such a delightful visitor in the house." "How you rush to conclusions, Nell!" said her sister. "You have not seen her yet, and you pronounce her delightful." "I know from what mamma told us," cried Nell. "She is pretty, amiable, clever--and ever so rich. Only think, Hetty--to be an heiress at twenty-one without anyone to keep you from doing just as you please! She has a country house in France, and a house in London, with a good old lady to take care of her, who does exactly what she bids her." "Mother did not say all that," said Phyllis. "Oh! but I gathered it all from what she did say." "Is she an orphan then?" asked Hetty. "She has neither father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister. Now, Hetty, don't look as if that was a misfortune. It is natural for you to feel it, of course. But if you had houses, and horses, and carriages, and money, you would not think it so bad to be able to do what you liked." "Nell, I am shocked at you," said Miss Davis. "Would you give up your parents for such selfish advantages as you describe?" "Oh dear no!" cried Nell. "But if I never had had them, like Reine Gaythorne, and did not know anything about them, I daresay I could manage to amuse myself in the world." This was the first mention of the name of Reine Gaythorne in the Wavertree school-room, and it was certainly far from the last. Mrs. Enderby had met the young lady at a neighbouring country house, and had thought she would be a desirable acquaintance for her daughters. There was something interesting about the circumstances which had placed a young, beautiful, and wealthy girl alone, and her own mistress, in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Enderby had been greatly attracted by her, and had invited her to pay a visit at their house. In the course of a few days she arrived at the Hall, and then Phyllis and Nell were but little in the school-room. Hetty and Miss Davis went on as usual filling their quiet hours with work in their secluded corner of the house. A week passed away during the visit of the charming stranger, and Hetty had never once seen Miss Gaythorne. CHAPTER XVIII. REINE GAYTHORNE. Mrs. Enderby, her visitor, and her two daughters were sitting together one morning at needlework in the pretty morning-room looking out on an old walled garden, at Wavertree Hall. The distant ends of this old garden, draped with ivy and creepers, had been made into a tennis ground, a smooth trim green chamber lying behind the brilliant beds of flowers. Sitting near the window the figures of the girls looked charming against so picturesque a background. Miss Gaythorne's face, upraised to the light, was full of goodness, sweetness, and intelligence. A low broad brow, soft bright dark eyes, a rich brunette complexion, and red brown hair, so curly as to be gathered with difficulty into a knot at the back of her neck, were some of this girl's beauties which the eye could take in at a glance. A longer time was necessary to discern all the fine traits of character that were so artlessly expressed in turn by her speaking countenance. She wore a pretty dress of maroon cashmere and velvet, with delicate ruffles of rich old yellow lace. Her dainty little French shoes and fine gold ornaments were immensely admired by the two young girls beside her, who were not yet "out," and were accustomed to be clothed in the simplest attire. Not only her dress, but her accent, which was slightly foreign, her peculiarly winning smiles, her merry little laugh and graceful movements all seemed to the Enderbys more charming than could be described. Even Phyllis, usually so critical, was taken captive by their new friend, Reine. Miss Gaythorne was just finishing a piece of embroidery. She was very skilful with her needle, and her work was pronounced perfection by Phyllis and Nell. Mrs. Enderby joined her daughters in warm praise of the delicate production to which their visitor was just now putting the last touches. "I could so easily work one like it for you while I am here," said Reine, "if I had only a new design. I do not like repeating the same design." "I am sure Hetty could draw one for you," said Nell. "But I mean something original." "Oh! Hetty's drawings are original. She gathers a few flowers, and that is all she wants to begin with." "She must be very clever. Who is Hetty, if I may ask?" "Oh! Hetty is--Hetty Gray. She lives in this house. She is an orphan girl whom papa is educating to be a governess. She is always in the school-room with Miss Davis." "Can she draw so cleverly?" "Yes; it comes to her naturally. I will get a bundle of her drawings from papa to show you. He locked them up because she wanted to be an artist and he did not approve of it." "It is well she did not want to go on the stage," said Phyllis. "She used to be an extraordinary actress. However, she gave that up and took a dislike to it. Perhaps she has now taken a dislike to drawing, and will not care to make a design for Reine." "I am sure she will," said Nell. "Drawing is different from acting. People don't feel shy about drawing. I will go directly and ask her." "Perhaps you would let me see her drawings first," said Miss Gaythorne. "Certainly," said Nell; "papa is in his study, and I will go and fetch them." Mr. Enderby willingly surrendered the drawings to amuse and oblige the cherished guest, and Hetty's work was spread out on a table before Reine. "Why, these are beautiful," cried she; "and they are really done by a girl of fourteen who never learned to draw!" "Really," said Nell, enjoying Miss Gaythorne's surprise. "And now, may I ask Hetty to make you a design?" "If she would be so very good. If it would not give her too much trouble--" "Why, Hetty will be simply enchanted at the request. She is not allowed to draw, and of course the permission to do so will be delightful." "Not allowed to draw?" exclaimed Reine in astonishment. "Nell, how strangely you put things!" said Phyllis. "Father warned her not to squander her time in drawing, while she has so much need to study." Nell shrugged her shoulders. "Put it as you like, Phyllis," she said; "Hetty is a born artist, and she is going to be thrust into the harness of a governess." "It is well neither father nor mother is in the room," said Phyllis. "They would be much grieved to hear you make such a speech. I don't know where you get such ideas." "I don't know," said Nell; "they come to me sometimes." Reine listened in silence while she studied the drawings more closely. She was something of an artist herself, and had a cultivated taste; and a keen interest in the orphan girl who had a talent like this, and could not be allowed to draw, was springing up within her. Nell soon danced off to tell Hetty what was required of her. "Miss Gaythorne wants you to make a design for her, of the size and style of this, and you can use any flowers or foliage you please. Mother hopes Miss Davis will allow you time to do it." Hetty felt a rush of delight, which made the colour mount to her forehead. "Thank you, dear Nell," she said; "I know it is you who have got me this piece of good fortune. I shall have some delicious hours over the work." "Now, mind you make it beautiful," cried Nell; "for I have staked my reputation on you!" Hetty thought she had never been so happy in her life before, as she went out to pick and choose among the flowers, looking for a theme for her composition. At last she satisfied herself, and came back to the school-room, and went to work. Miss Davis, who had been much pleased with her of late, looked on with approval. She thought the girl had fairly earned a holiday and a treat. Hetty was more nervous over this drawing than she had been over any of the others. With them she had been only working to please herself, and of her own free will; but now it seemed as if the eyes of the world were upon every line she drew. She spoiled several beginnings; and at last, flushed and feverish, had to put away the work till to-morrow. "Drawing seems to be not all unmixed happiness any more than dates," said Miss Davis, smiling at her anxious face. "Come now and have some tea, or you will get a headache." The next day Hetty went to work again, and succeeded at last in producing a striking and beautiful design. She was far from satisfied with it herself, and said to Nell, "I fear your friend will not think it good enough, but it is the best I can do." "I think it is lovely," said Nell; "and what trouble you have taken with it! She will be hard to please if she does not like it." And then Nell fled away with it, and Hetty turned to her books again with a happy feeling at her heart. It seemed to her that she had never before had an opportunity of performing any voluntary service for those who had been so generous towards her, but now she had been able to do something which would really give pleasure to the guest in their house. And then she wished she could see that charming Miss Gaythorne, who was said to be fond of drawing, and to know a great deal about it. She dreamed that night that she was walking through a picture-gallery with the girl called Reine, who was pointing out all the beauties to her as they went. In the meantime Reine was greatly delighted with the drawing. "The girl is really a little genius," she said; "will you not allow me to make her acquaintance?" "I will ask mamma to invite her to the drawing-room some evening," said Nell. "Mother does not like her to come often, for fear of spoiling her. Phyllis has an idea that Hetty needs a great deal of keeping down; but I think it is only because Phyllis is so good herself that she thinks so badly of Hetty." Reine laughed, and a look of fun remained in her eyes a few moments after this naive speech of Nell's. The peculiarities of Phyllis's style of goodness had not escaped Miss Gaythorne's quick intelligence. "And mother minds what Phyllis thinks a great deal more than she minds me; because Phyllis is so wise, and never gives her any trouble." The next morning at breakfast Reine said: "Do you know, Mr. Enderby, little Miss Gray has made me such a beautiful drawing. She has a great talent. I can't help wishing you would let her be an artist." "Has she been enlisting you against me?" said Mr. Enderby, with half a smile and half a frown. "I have never even seen her," said Reine; "but I am greatly struck with her work." "It is clever," assented the master of Wavertree; "but pray do not arouse foolish ideas in the child's head--ideas which have been fortunately laid to rest. I have great faith in the old warning, 'Beware of the man of one book'; and I think Hetty will do better to stick to what she has begun with. Under Miss Davis she has excellent opportunities of becoming fitted to be a governess, which, after all, is the safest career for a friendless woman. She lives in a respectable home and is saved from many dangers. I do not hold with the new-fangled notion of letting girls run about the world picking up professions." And then Mr. Enderby deliberately changed the conversation. However, Reine could not forget the little artist; and that evening, being dressed for dinner rather early, she suddenly bethought her of making her way uninvited to the school-room. "I really must see her and thank her," she reflected; "and I will ask pardon of Mrs. Enderby afterwards for the liberty." And then she set out to look for the school-room. It happened that Hetty was sitting all alone at the school-room table; her chin in her hand, her eyes fixed on the pages of a book. A window behind her, framing golden sky and deep-coloured foliage, made her the foreground figure of a striking picture. Her dark head and flowing hair, her pale but richly-tinted face with its thoughtful brow and intelligent mouth, her little warm brown hand and wrist were all softly and distinctly defined against the glories of the distance. As Reine opened the door and came in, Hetty looked up as much startled as if an angel had come to visit her. Reine was dressed all in white shimmering silk, which enhanced the beauty of her bright brunette face. Her soft luminous eyes beamed on Hetty as she advanced to her with outstretched hands. "I came to see you and thank you," she began; "I am Reine Gaythorne and--" Suddenly, as Hetty sprang to her feet and came forward smiling and facing the light, Reine's little speech died on her tongue, and a sharp cry broke from her. "My mother!" she exclaimed in a tone of deep feeling, and stood gazing at Hetty as if a ghost had risen up before her. Hetty retreated a step, and the two girls stood gazing at each other. Miss Gaythorne recovered herself quickly, but her hands and voice were trembling as she took Hetty's fingers in her own. "Have I frightened you, dear?" she said; "but oh, if you knew how strangely, how wonderfully like you are to my darling mother." "Your mother?" stammered Hetty. "Such a sweet beauty of a young mother she was as I remember her--and I have a likeness of her at your age;--it seems to me that you are the living image of it." "How very strange!" said Hetty, with a thrill of delight at the thought that she was like anybody belonging to this charming girl, especially her mother. Hetty had fascinating fancies of her own about an ideal mother; no real mother she had known had ever reached her standard. But Reine's mother must surely have been up to the mark. And to be told that she, Hetty, was like her! She drew nearer to Reine, who put her arms round her neck and kissed her. "I can't tell you how I feel," said Reine, holding her off and looking at her. "I feel as if you belonged to me someway." "Don't turn my head," pleaded Hetty wistfully. "Please remember I have no relations and must not expect to be loved. I have had great trouble about that; and it has been very hard for them to manage me." "Has it?" said Reine doubtfully. "As I'm now nearly grown up," said Hetty, "of course I have had to learn to behave myself; so don't spoil me." "I wish I could," said Reine. "I mean I wish I could get the chance. Oh, don't look at me like that. But yes, do. Oh, Hetty, my mother, my mother!" And Reine leaned her arms on the table, and laid her head on them, and wept. Hetty stood by wondering, and stroked her head timidly for sympathy. "Don't think me a great goose," said Reine, looking up. And then suddenly silent again she sat staring at Hetty. After a few moments she sprang up and folded her arms round her and held her close. "You strange darling, where have you come from; and how am I ever to let you go again?" A step was heard at the door, and Reine and Hetty instinctively withdrew from each other's embrace. There was something sacred about the feeling which had so suddenly and unexpectedly overpowered them both. Nell came in. "Reine, I have been looking for you everywhere." "I came here to thank Miss Gray for her design," said Reine, "and I don't think I have even mentioned it yet." "You are as pale as death," said Nell. "What has Hetty been saying to you?" "Nothing," said Reine absently, her eyes going back to Hetty's face and fixing themselves there. "How you stare at each other!" said Nell, "and I declare your two faces are almost the same this moment." "Nell!" "I always said you were like each other, though Phyllis could not see it. Now I am sure of it." A wild look came into Reine's face. "That would be too strange," she said; "for she is so like--so like--some one--Oh, Nell, she is the very image of my mother!" "Your mother!" echoed Nell, gazing at Hetty and thinking she did not look like anybody's mother, with her short frock and flowing hair. "But there is the dinner-bell!" she cried, glad of the interruption; for Nell had a great dislike of anything like a sentimental scene. "You must talk about all this afterwards, for we must not be late." "I will come," said Reine, passing her handkerchief over her face. "Do I look as if I had been crying." "Your nose is a little red," said Nell; "but they will think it is the cold." "Then don't say anything about this," said Reine; "but I must come and see Hetty again. Goodnight, darling little mother!" "Reine, all my respect for you is gone," said Nell as they hastened toward the dining-room. "I thought you were as wise as Phyllis. And to think of you crying and kissing like that because Hetty reminds you of--" "Don't, Nell," said Reine. "I can't bear any more just now." CHAPTER XIX. IF SHE WAS DROWNED, HOW CAN SHE BE HETTY? A few friends had joined the Wavertree family circle that evening, and Reine had no further opportunity of speaking about Hetty. She was absent and thoughtful; but wakened up when asked to sing, and sang a thrilling little love song with such power and sweetness as went to everybody's heart. She was thinking as she sang of Hetty's face, and it was her strange yearning for Hetty's love that inspired her to sing as she did. That night she could not sleep. Her mother's eyes, with the loving look she remembered so well, were gazing at her from all the corners of the room. Her mind went back over the recollections of her childhood; and her father's voice and her mother's smiles were with her as though she had only said good-night to both parents an hour ago. The lonely girl, who had everything that the world could offer her, except that which she longed for most, the affection of family and kindred, felt the very depths of her heart shaken by the experience of the past evening. That a girl who seemed so much a part of herself should have risen up beside her, and yet be nothing to her, seemed something too curious to be understood. Her imagination went to work upon the possibilities of Mr. Enderby's being induced to give Hetty up to her altogether, to be her adopted sister and to live with her for evermore. She was aware that people would distrust this sudden fancy for a stranger, and that opposition would probably be offered to her plan; but then she was not her own mistress; and by perseverance she must surely succeed in the end. Oh, the delight of having a sister! Reine had had a sister, a baby sister lost in infancy, and had often taken a sad pleasure in fancying what that sister might have been like if she had lived. She had been six years younger than Reine. Hetty was fifteen, about the age that the little sister might now have been. Reine sat up in her bed and counted the years between fifteen and twenty-one twice over on her fingers to make perfectly sure. Hetty was the very age of the little sister. And so like her mother! If the baby sister of whom she had been bereft could be still alive, then Reine would have declared she must be Hetty. She was now in a fever of excitement. Her curly brown hair had risen in a mop of rings and ringlets around her head with tossing on her pillow, her eyes were round and bright, and a burning spot was on each of her cheeks. At last she sprang out of bed and in a minute was at Nell's bed-room door. Nell was awakened out of a sound sleep by the opening of her door. "Don't be frightened, Nell; I'm not a burglar--only Reine." "What's the matter?" said Nell, rubbing her eyes. "Have you got the toothache?" "I never had toothache. I want to know something." "I often want to know things," said Nell, now sitting bolt upright in her little bed; "I'm sometimes _dying_ of curiosity. But it never routed me out of my sleep in the middle of the night." "It's about Hetty," said Reine, sitting on the floor in a faint streak of moonlight, and looking like a spirit--if spirits have curly hair. "You've gone Hetty-mad!" said Nell; "wouldn't Hetty keep till morning? We're not going to transport her or lock her up. You will have all next week to sit looking at her." "Where did you get her?" asked Reine. "I know she is a foundling; but she must have had a beginning somewhere." "Of course she had; and a most peculiar one. She was found on the Long Sands. That is a place three miles from Wavertree on the sea-shore, where wrecks often come in. John Kane, one of the carters, found her, and Mrs. Kane took her home. Then Aunt Amy, who is dead, fancied her and adopted her. When Aunt Amy died she was left unprovided for, and papa brought her here; and here she is." "Found on the shore where wrecks come in! And she is just fifteen. Oh, Nell, are you sure you are telling the truth?" There was a sound in Reine's voice that startled Nell. "The plain truth. Every village child knows it. What has it got to do with you?" "I don't know. I don't know. I am afraid to think. Why, Nell, listen to me. When I was a child of seven years old, my mother and father took me to France. They had inherited a property there and were going to take possession of it. They were fond of the sea, and they long travelled by sea. While still near this coast the vessel was overtaken by storm and wrecked. My father, mother, and myself were saved. But my little baby sister was washed out of my mother's arms and drowned." "Well?" "Well!" "If she was drowned how can she be Hetty, if that is what you mean?" "They thought she was drowned. We were taken into another vessel and carried on to France." "And never asked any more questions about the baby?" "I don't know. My father and mother are both dead," said Reine pathetically; "I am sure they did all they could. But I know they thought they saw her drowned before their eyes." "And I suppose they did. Reine, stop walking about the floor like Crazy Jane, in your bare feet, and either come into my bed or go back to your own." "I am going," said Reine; "please forgive me, Nell, for spoiling your sleep." "Don't mention it. We can talk all the rest in the morning. If you are allowed to go on any more now, you will be mad to-morrow, and, what is worse, you will have a cold in your head." Nell curled herself up in her pillows again, and was soon fast asleep. But Reine could not sleep; and came down to breakfast next morning looking as pale as a ghost. After Mr. Enderby had gone to his study Nell began: "Mamma, do you know Reine has got a bee in her bonnet!" "My dear, where did you get such an expression?" "Never mind. It is quite accurate. She believes that Hetty is her sister who was drowned when she was a baby." Mrs. Enderby looked at Reine with a face of extreme surprise. "Nell talks so much nonsense," she said, "that I scarcely know what to think of her speeches sometimes." And then seeing Reine's eyes full of tears, she added kindly: "Dear child, is there any grain of truth in what this wild little scatter-brain has said?" Reine burst into tears. "Don't mind me, Mrs. Enderby, please; I have been awake all night, and I don't feel like myself. It is only that Hetty Gray is so--so _distressingly_ like my mother. And Nell says she was found on the sea-shore after a storm and wrecks. And it is fourteen years ago. And that is the very time when our vessel was wrecked, and my father and mother believed that our baby was drowned. Oh, Mrs. Enderby, only think! Is it not enough to turn my head?" "It is a very remarkable coincidence at least," said Mrs. Enderby; "but, dear Reine, try to compose your thoughts. You must not jump too hastily at conclusions. At the end of fourteen years it will be very difficult to find evidence to prove or disprove what you imagine may be true." Reine shook her head. "I have thought of that; I have thought of it all night." "In the first place, are you quite sure about the dates?" "Quite, on my own side. I have a little New Testament in which my father wrote down, the day after our rescue, the date of the wreck and a record of the baby's death." "We must send for Mrs. Kane," said Mrs. Enderby; "and hear what she has to say before we allow our imaginations to run away with us." "And oh, Mrs. Enderby,--if you saw the likeness of my mother at just Hetty's age! May I telegraph for it at once--to let you see it?" "Certainly, my dear; for it and that copy of the Testament. But not a word to Hetty. It would be cruel to run the risk of subjecting her to a heavy disappointment" The telegram was sent; and Mrs. Kane appeared, wondering greatly why she was wanted at the Hall in such a hurry. "Now, Mrs. Kane," said Mrs. Enderby, "here is a young lady who is greatly interested in the story of the finding of Hetty Gray on the Long Sands by your husband, and I have promised she shall hear of it from your own lips." They were all gathered round a sunny window in the great brown hall, lined with carved oak and decorated with armour and antlers. Mrs. Enderby herself pushed a stately old oaken chair towards the rose-framed sash and said encouragingly: "Sit down, Mrs. Kane, and make yourself comfortable. There is nothing to be nervous about. You know we are all friends of your favourite, Hetty." Mrs. Kane was trembling with some curious excitement, and could not remove her eyes from Reine Gaythorne's face. "I do not know who the young lady may be, ma'am," she said, "but this I will say, that she is as like my Hetty as if she was her own born sister." A flood of colour rushed over Reine's pale face, and she clasped her hands and fixed her eyes on Mrs. Enderby. "Never mind that," said Mrs. Enderby, "tell the young lady what you remember." "There's but little to tell," said Mrs. Kane, "beyond what everybody knows. John happened to be down upon the sands that night, and he got the baby lying at his feet. He brought her to me wrapped in his coat, and says he, 'Anne, here's God has sent us a little one.' And we kept it for our own, seeing that nobody asked for it. I have the day and the year written in my prayer-book; for I said to myself, some day, may-be, her friends will come looking for her--out of the sea, or over the land, or whatever way providence will send them. And for one whole week we called her nothing but 'H.G.'" "H.G.!" echoed Reine. "Those were the letters wrought upon the shoulder of her beautiful little shift," said Mrs. Kane. "And afterwards we made out that they stood for Hetty Gray." "She had on a little shift?" "Mrs. Rushton got it," said Mrs. Kane. "The finest bit of baby clothes I ever set my eyes on." Reine had come close to Mrs. Kane, and her lips were trembling as she went on questioning her: "Were the letters in white embroidery--satin stitch they call it? Were they all formed of little flowers curling in and out about the letters; and was the chemise of fine cambric with a narrow hem?" "That's the description as plain as if you were looking at it," said Mrs. Kane. "I have half a dozen like it at home in one of my mother's drawers," said Reine turning red and pale. "Where is this little garment? is it not to be found?" "I have it, dear," said Mrs. Enderby quietly. "After Mrs. Rushton's death I took possession of it. I hardly anticipated so happy a day as this for poor Hetty, but I thought it my duty to take care of it." The little chemise was produced, and Reine identified it as one of the set belonging to her baby sister supposed to have been drowned, and marked with her initials standing for Helen Gaythorne. "My mother marked them herself," said Reine, examining the embroidery as well as she could through eyes blinded by tears. "She was wonderfully skilful with her needle, and took a pride in marking all our things with initials designed by herself. Oh, Mrs. Enderby, is not this evidence enough?" "It seems to me so," said Mrs. Enderby, "especially taken with the dates and the likeness to your family. When your mother's portrait comes----" "I must send for the little baby-garments too," said Reine; "but oh, why need we wait for anything more? May I not run to my sister, Mrs. Enderby?" "Calm yourself, my dear Reine, and be persuaded to take my advice. We must consult a lawyer and get information as to the wrecking of the vessel, and the place where the shipwreck occurred. It will then be seen whether it was possible for a child lost on the occasion to have lived to be washed in upon this shore." "Possible or not, it happened!" cried Reine. "Oh, Mrs. Enderby, unless you can make me sleep through the interval I shall never have patience to wait." The portrait of Reine's mother taken at fifteen years of age and the packet of tiny embroidered chemises arrived the next morning from London. The former looked exactly like a picture of Hetty; the latter was the counterpart of the baby-garment produced by Mrs. Enderby from a drawer of her own. Mr. Enderby was then consulted, and admitted that the case seemed established in Hetty's favour. However, prudent like his wife, he insisted that nothing should be said to Hetty till lawyers had been consulted, and information about the wreck of the vessel obtained. In the meantime Reine was abruptly sent home to London. "She will make herself ill if she is allowed to stay in the house with Hetty, and obliged to be silent towards her as to her discovery," said Mr. Enderby. "When the chain of evidence is complete, we can think of what to do." So Mr. Enderby himself carried off Reine to London that very night. "It will be necessary to come, my dear," he said, "and make inquiries at once. You will thus arrive more quickly at your end. Now just run into the school-room for a minute and say good-bye to Hetty. But if you love her, say nothing to disturb the child's peace." It cost Reine a great struggle to obey these sudden orders; but she saw their drift, and was wise enough not to oppose them. In her travelling dress she appeared in the school-room, where Hetty, all unconscious of the wonderful change for her that was hanging in the balance of Fate, sat at work as usual with Miss Davis. "I have come to say good-bye," said Reine; "I am called off to London in a hurry. But you must not forget me. We shall surely meet again." Hetty's heart sank with bitter disappointment She had been living in a sort of dream since yesterday, a dream of happiness at being so suddenly and unexpectedly loved by this sweet girl who had risen up like an angel in her path. The hope of seeing her again and enjoying her friendship had kept a glow of joy within her, which now went out and left darkness in its place. She strove to keep her face from showing how deeply she felt what seemed like caprice in Reine. Reine looked in her face with that long strange gaze which had so impressed Hetty's heart and imagination, smothered a sob, snatched a kiss from her sister's quivering lips, held her a moment in a close embrace, and then turned abruptly and was gone. "Miss Gaythorne seems a rather impulsive young lady," said Miss Davis disapprovingly. "I wish she had taken a fancy to some one else than my pupil. You must try to forget her, Hetty. Girls like her, with wealth and power and nobody to control them, are apt to become capricious, and work mischief with people who have business to attend to. I hope you understand me, Hetty." "Yes," said Hetty with a long sigh. "You must not expect to see Miss Gaythorne again. She will probably have forgotten you to-morrow." Miss Davis was not in the secret which was occupying the minds of several of the inmates of Wavertree Hall. CHAPTER XX. HAPPY HETTY. About three weeks had passed away. Hetty had endured the worst throes of her disappointment, and had almost succeeded in banishing Reine out of her thoughts. She had steadily turned away her eyes from looking back at that beautiful evening, when, as if by enchantment, a girl who looked and spoke like a sister had held her in a loving embrace, lavishing kisses and loving words upon her, Hetty, who was known to be nobody's child. The quiet studious days went on as if no brilliant interruption had ever flashed in upon them. Miss Davis, at Mrs. Enderby's desire, kept Hetty more than ordinarily busy, and hindered her from paying her customary visits to Mrs. Kane. Mrs. Enderby distrusted the good woman's ability to keep a secret, and, with that prudence which had always distinguished her in her dealings with Hetty, she was resolved that the girl should hear no whisper to disturb her tranquillity till such time as her identity should be considered satisfactorily proved. At the end of three weeks' time, however, news came from London to Mr. Enderby which placed it beyond a doubt that Hetty was Helen Gaythorne, the baby who had been supposed to be drowned. Although Mrs. Enderby and her daughters had been prepared for this result of the inquiries that had been on foot, yet the established fact, with its tremendous importance for Hetty, seemed to come on them with a shock. The child who had been protected in their house, no longer needed their protection. The girl who was to have been sent out soon as a governess to earn her bread, would henceforth have pleasant bread to eat in a sister's luxurious home. The dependant, whom it had been thought judicious to snub, was now the equal of those who had so prudently dealt with her according to their lights. Mr. and Mrs. Enderby were extremely pleased at the child's good fortune, and thankful that they had not been induced to send her to a charity school. "You are always right, dear," said Mrs. Enderby, looking at her husband with pride. "When I was a coward in the matter you insisted on having her here. And if she had gone elsewhere she would never have met Reine, and her identity could hardly have been discovered." "And her sister may thank you that she does not receive her a spoiled, passionate, unmanageable monkey. Your prudent treatment of the girl has had admirable results. Her demeanour has pleased me very much of late. Meekness and obedience have taken the place of her wilfulness and pride." Nell was perfectly wild with excitement and delight, clapped her hands over her head and danced about the room. "I was always the one who liked Hetty the best," she said triumphantly, "and now she will remember it. She will ask me to France to stay with her. And nobody can warn me any more not to give her too much encouragement. I can be allowed to make a companion of Miss Helen Gaythorne." "What a very unpleasant way you always have of twisting things!" said Phyllis, who had been remarkably silent all along as to the change in Hetty's circumstances. "I am as glad as anyone of Hetty's discovery; but I do not see why it should make any difference to us." "Phyllis takes a more disinterested view of the matter than you do, Nell," said Mrs. Enderby smiling; "but then my Phyllis was always a wise little girl." Nell pouted, and Phyllis held her head high. Mrs. Enderby thought she knew the hearts of both. But the woman who could be so exceedingly prudent in the management of "nobody's child" was blind to a great deal that required skilful treatment in the characters and dispositions of her own daughters. Miss Davis was more affected than anyone in the house by the news of Hetty's extraordinary good fortune. Unconsciously to herself she had learned to love the girl, whom she had counted upon having by her side for many years to come, and it was not without a pang that she saw the young figure disappear suddenly out of her future. Hetty alone knew nothing of the change that had befallen her. "No, my dear," said Mrs. Enderby to Nell, "I will not allow you to tell her. Indeed, I am a little nervous about the matter, for Hetty is such a strangely impressionable girl one never knows what way she will take things. I must break the truth to her myself." So Hetty was sent for to Mrs. Enderby's dressing-room, and went with rather a heavy heart, thinking some complaint had been made of her. She had never been so sent for except when trouble was impending. "I must try to be patient," she was thinking as she went up the stairs. "I do not know what I can have done so very wrong, but I suppose there must be something." But her sadness was soon turned into amazement and joy. "Hetty," said Mrs. Enderby, "Miss Gaythorne wishes to have you with her in London, on a visit. Mr. Enderby and I have consented to allow you to go; and I suppose you will not object to give her pleasure." "Miss Gaythorne!" exclaimed Hetty, scarcely believing she had heard rightly. "She has taken a fancy to you, and wishes to have you with her. She is a charming girl, and I am sure she will make you happy." Hetty's face, glowing with delight, sufficiently answered this last speech; but her tongue could find no words. "In fact, I may as well tell you," continued Mrs. Enderby, "that Reine has discovered you are some kind of relation of hers; and, as she is her own mistress and very independent, she will be disposed to make the most of the relationship." Hetty was turning slowly pale. "Relationship!" she murmured. "Am I really related to Miss Gaythorne?" and Reine's cry, "My mother, oh, my mother!" seemed to ring again in her ears. "I believe so, my dear. There, do not think too much of it. At all events, you are to go to her now, and she will tell you all about it. But mind, you and she are to come back and spend Christmas with us. Mark will be at home then, and he will be anxious to see his old playfellow." "Christmas!" echoed Hetty, in new astonishment. This was only the end of September. "You see, I fancy Reine will not let you go in a hurry once she has got you," said Mrs. Enderby; "and now, my dear, don't stand there in a dream any longer, but run away and get ready for the mid-day train. Mr. Enderby has to do some business in London, and he will leave you in Portland Place. No, you will not have time to go to see Mrs. Kane. I will give her your love, and tell her you will see her when you come back." "I am not going to have her told till she is in her sister's house," reflected Mrs. Enderby; "and Mrs. Kane would be sure to pour out everything suddenly. The child is of so excitable a nature, I do not know what might be the consequences to her." That she could not say good-bye to Mrs. Kane made the only flaw in Hetty's happiness; but she left a little note for her with Miss Davis, who promised to have it safely delivered. And then, with smiles and good wishes from everyone, and pondering over a few mysterious glances which she caught passing from one person to another over her head, Hetty took her place by Mr. Enderby in his trap, and was whirled away to the railway-station. Mr. Enderby talked to her kindly as they went along, about the pleasures in store for her in London, especially in the picture-galleries, as she had a taste for art. "And always remember, my dear," he said, "that in the rules I laid down for your education with a view to your future, I acted as I thought best for your good." Hetty said warmly, "I know--I am sure of that"; and then she began to wonder at his curious manner of speaking, as if all his dealings with her were in the past, and he had no longer any control over her. Could it be, she asked herself, that Reine was going to take her and have her taught to be an artist? The thought was too delightful to be borne with, considering the likelihood of disappointment. She tried to put it out of her head, and listened to Mr. Enderby as he talked to her of Westminster Abbey and the Tower. That afternoon about five o'clock, in a certain handsome drawing-room in Portland Place, Reine was flitting about restlessly with flushed cheeks, now re-arranging the roses in some jar, now picking up her embroidery and putting a few stitches in it, then going to the window and looking out. The afternoon tea equipage was on a little table beside her, but she did not help herself to a cup. She was evidently waiting for some one. At last there was a sound of wheels stopping, and Reine's trembling hands dropped her work into her basket. A ring came to the door, and Reine was in the middle of the room, pressing her hands together, and listening to the closing of the door with impatient delight. "Miss Helen Gaythorne!" announced the servant, who knew that his mistress's young sister was expected, and who had not asked Hetty for her name. In the excitement of the moment Hetty heard, but hardly understood the announcement. She thought the servant had made a curious blunder. "Mr. Enderby will come in the evening," began Hetty advancing shyly, and then, as the servant disappeared, she raised her eyes and saw Reine. "Hetty--Helen! my darling! my sister!" cried Reine, snatching her into her arms and laughing and crying on her shoulder. "Sister?" murmured Hetty breathlessly, feeling quite stunned. "Oh, Miss Gaythorne, what are you saying?" "Do you mean that they have not told you?" cried Reine, covering her face with kisses. "Some kind of a relation," murmured Hetty, "that was what they told me. Oh, Miss Gaythorne, think of what you have said! Do not make fun of me, I cannot bear it." "Fun of you! Why, Hetty, Helen! I tell you, you are my sister. My ownest, dearest, darlingest daughter of my mother--the mother you are so like!" "But how--how can it be?" asked Hetty with a look almost of terror on her face. "You are our baby who was supposed to have been drowned," said Reine. _"That's_ how it comes to be. We were wrecked going to France, and you were washed out of my mother's arms. And we thought you were drowned. But God was keeping you safe for me at Wavertree." "How have you found it all out?" said Hetty, still holding fast by her doubt, which seemed the only plank that could save her from destruction in case this enchanting story should prove to be all a dream. "It is completely proved, you little sceptic!" cried Reine. "Mr. Enderby would not have you told till the lawyers had pronounced you to be Helen Gaythorne. So ask me no more questions at present, but give me back some of my kisses. You and I are never going to part any more; are we?" Hetty gave her a long, strange, troubled look, and then suddenly broke out into wild weeping. "Oh, is it true? Is it really true? Oh, Reine, my sister; if, after this, it comes to be false--I shall die!" "It cannot come to be false, because it is reality," insisted Reine, as she rocked her weeping sister in her arms. "I shall be mother and sister and all to you, Helen--my poor little motherless darling! Cry away, my dearest, for this once, and then you shall have some tea. And after that you are never to cry any more. You and I will have a great deal too much to say and do together to spend our time over crying. But oh, Hetty--Helen--if mother and father were only here this day!" And then Reine cried again herself, and Hetty was the comforter. They sat with their young heads together and their warm cheeks touching, and told as much of their life's stories to each other as they could think of at the moment. To Reine the great discovery had come gradually, and so the present hour was not so strange as it was to Hetty. For Hetty the world seemed to have got suddenly under a spell of enchantment. She could not believe in herself as Helen Gaythorne--could not get accustomed to her new vision of life. "And I shall not need to be a governess. And perhaps I may be an artist if I like." "You will not need to be either. There is enough of wealth for both of us," said Reine. "But you can study art to your heart's content. And we will go to Italy. And you shall be as happy as a queen." * * * * * And here I think we may take leave of Hetty Gray, in the fulness of her happiness, and in Reine's loving arms. When I last heard of the sisters they were leading a busy, active, and joyous life. John Kane having died, Mrs. Kane has found a home with them; and Scamp, who is now quite an old dog, spends his days in tranquil ease at Hetty's feet. 
43287	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the lovely original illustrations. See 43287-h.htm or 43287-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43287/43287-h/43287-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/43287/43287-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/fatherthrift00sind FATHER THRIFT AND HIS ANIMAL FRIENDS by JOSEPH C. SINDELAR Author of The Nixie Bunny Books With Pictures by Helen Geraldine Hodge Beckley-Cardy Company Chicago * * * * * BOOKS BY JOSEPH C. SINDELAR BOW-WOW AND MEW-MEW (Craik-Sindelar). Illustrated in colors. NIXIE BUNNY IN MANNERS-LAND. Illustrated in colors. NIXIE BUNNY IN WORKADAY-LAND. Illustrated in colors. NIXIE BUNNY IN HOLIDAY-LAND. Illustrated in colors. NIXIE BUNNY IN FARAWAY-LANDS. Illustrated in colors. FATHER THRIFT AND HIS ANIMAL FRIENDS. Illustrated in black and color. MORNING EXERCISES FOR ALL THE YEAR. BEST MEMORY GEMS. BRIGHT ENTERTAINMENTS FOR CHRISTMAS. THE BEST THANKSGIVING BOOK. THE BEST CHRISTMAS BOOK. MERRY CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENTS. CLOSING DAY ENTERTAINMENTS. * * * * * Copyright, 1918, by Joseph C. Sindelar All Rights Reserved Printed in the United States of America To Joseph C. Jr. and his friends CONTENTS PAGE The Queer Little Old Man 11 The Little Old Man Decides 17 His First Day in the Forest 23 Great Gray Owl 29 The Animals of the Forest 35 What Made the Bear Sick 41 How the Woodpeckers Helped 47 The Busy Beavers 53 The Gray Foxes and the Red Foxes 59 Red Squirrel and Bunny Cottontail 65 Shaggy Bear's Mistake 71 The Sweetest Thing in the Forest 77 Robins, Crows, and Blackbirds 85 The Little Raindrops 91 Trouble in the Forest 97 Two Bad Boys 103 The Boys and the Birds 109 Insects and Worms 115 After Many Days 123 Introduction As from the days your father's father knew, This little story book now comes to you. So when you turn its pages, heed them well: Though strange the stories, many truths they tell. They tell of animals and birds and trees, Of children, flowers, and honeybees; Of a queer old man, and a quaint old town With crooked streets that ran up and down. They tell of these and many, many more. Still, this I'd add to what has gone before: In the wood there grows a tree--the thrifty tree-- As wonderful as anything can be! Its trunk is copper; silver are its leaves; Its blossoms from bright golden threads it weaves; Its fruit is health and wealth and honest joy-- So seek this goodly tree, wise girl and boy. FATHER THRIFT AND HIS ANIMAL FRIENDS THE QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN Once upon a time, in a quaint old town, there lived a queer little old man. His name was Thrift--Father Thrift people called him, although he really was no father at all. As I said before, he was just a queer little old man. He had no wife, no children, no home of his own. But he had a kind heart within his queer little body. Also, he had willing hands and feet, and these brought him many friends. How old the queer little man was, or how long he had lived in the quaint old town, no one seemed to know. The present grandfathers and grandmothers remembered how the queer little man used to take them, as children, on his lap and tell them stories. He had told the same stories to their children and to their children's children. Yet to none of them did he look any different to-day than he did when they first saw him. You must not think that telling stories was all the queer little old man had to do. He was a sort of all-round village helper. He helped everybody who needed help. But it was for his good advice that the queer little old man was most sought. He always thought well for everybody, and the people profited by following his teaching. In fact, the whole town grew prosperous, _extremely_ prosperous, by heeding Father Thrift's advice. You would suppose that the queer little old man would be well rewarded. Not so! For when these people became very, _very_ prosperous, they felt that the queer little old man was only in their way. What further need had they of his advice? He had taught them to live simply, to spend wisely, and to waste nothing. He had taught them to enjoy simple pleasures and to form simple habits. "Of what good is time or money, body or brain, if we do not know how to use any of them?" he would say. "What will become of good health if we do not take care of it? "Of what good is study-time or play-time unless we get the most we can out of it? "Or of what worth is life itself if we waste it?" But the townspeople would not listen to him now. Young Mr. Spendthrift had come to town and they followed him. They only laughed at Father Thrift. "Poor, queer old man!" they said. "He must be out of his head." And they began to spend money foolishly, and to waste their time and their health as well as their money. _How_ it grieved the queer little old man to see things go so! Day after day he would sit with his head in his hands, thinking, thinking, _thinking_. (He liked to think even better than most people like to eat.) Then one day, after he had sat for a long, long time thinking, he got up and exclaimed: "At last, at last I have it! I'm sure I have it, this time. Yes, I'm sure." And those who heard the queer little old man said: "Just as we told you. Poor fellow, he's out of his head! Some of the wheels up here have gotten badly out of order." And they pointed to their foreheads. But the old man heard them not. Or if he heard he lost no sleep on account of what they said. THE LITTLE OLD MAN DECIDES The next day the whole town was busy--very busy--gossiping. Everybody told everybody else what the queer little old man had been overheard to say. But where was the little old man? Now that they thought of it, who had seen him since the night before? Nobody! Where could he be? Had he dropped through a crack in the floor, his disappearance could not have been more sudden or more complete. Every one was excited. It was not that the town cared particularly about the queer little old man. It was not that, at all. Only the people were curious to learn where he could have gone or what could have happened to him. * * * * * Leading from the town was a crooked road that was traveled but little. At the end of the road was a great forest where there lived many animals and birds. Had any of the townspeople been up very, very early on the morning that the queer little old man disappeared, they need not have been so excited. For on that morning a bent little figure might have been seen trudging along the crooked road leading toward the forest. The man was dressed poorly, almost shabbily. He walked slowly, and seemed to be deep in thought. Over his shoulder he carried a cane. From it hung a bag made of a big red figured handkerchief. Apparently the man was on a journey, and the big red figured handkerchief was his traveling bag. The fat, round-faced Moon Man smiled down from his home in the sky at the little figure in the road. His mouth seemed to move, and I am sure he was saying: "Go, brave little old man. Go where you've decided to go. "If you are going to the forest, you will no doubt find a welcome there. Some animals and birds are better as friends than are some people. "Anyway, the great forest is in need of your lessons. I will light the way for you. May the good spirits attend you!" And in the stillness of the early morning the queer little old man of the quaint old town might have been heard to answer: "So I have decided. Come what may, I shall be satisfied. "Thank you, kind Moon Man, for your good wishes and for your bright light." And on and on he trudged. The orange sun was peeping its head above the horizon when the queer little old man reached the edge of the forest. What warmth the glorious sun gave! His rays gave warmth of heart as well as warmth of body. The old man sat down on a log, to rest his tired legs and to take a bite to eat. Then a voice within the queer little old man began to talk. It said: "Perhaps, after all, you should not have left the quaint old town. You were a coward to run away. "Ever since young Mr. Spendthrift came there to live you have been discontented. And when the people began to take his advice rather than yours, you grew angry and left. "Is that the way for an old man to do who always had plenty to eat and to wear?" But another voice with a fiery little temper was waiting to be heard. "What!" it cried, "have you no principle? Are you a worm, to be stepped upon? "Waste is wrong, no matter what you waste. Thrift is right and forever will be. "Therefore, hie you to the heart of the forest as you have decided. You will at least have peace of mind, and surely that is worth as much as 'plenty to eat and to wear'!" HIS FIRST DAY IN THE FOREST At last Father Thrift was in the heart of the forest. It was very peaceful there. The wind rustled the leaves on the trees. The birds flew among the branches and sang and talked and scolded. Do birds ever scold? Oh, my, yes! You should hear the mother birds, sometimes, when the father birds waste their time about the house and the baby birds are hungry! But this morning nearly everything in the forest seemed happy. The squirrels leaped from tree to tree. Robin sang his merry "Cheer-up! chee, chee! Cheer-up! chee, chee!" And he sang it again and again. I think he tried to say: "Welcome, queer little old man! Welcome to the forest!" (Besides, he _may_ have found some good fat worms to eat.) The dry leaves and small twigs crackled under the little old man's feet as he walked along. He could hear the soft, rippling sound of the water as it ran over the stones in the brook. He knew that in the shade of the bending willow trees little fishes played in the water. Blue sky was above him. Green grass was all around him. Flowers grew at his feet. Was not the forest a glorious place in which to be! The queer little old man drew in a deep, deep breath. The air was filled with the perfume of the pine trees. "Tap, tap, tap!" Who is disturbing the peace of the forest? It sounds like a carpenter with his hammer. "Tap, tap, tap!" There it goes again. The queer little old man looked around. "Oh, there you are, you little redhead!" he said. It was Woodpecker. Funny bird! How swiftly he climbs the trunk of the tree! "Tap, tap, tap!" he knocks with his bill. "Come out from under the bark, you bugs!" he cries. "I want some dinner." But the bugs do not always come. So Woodpecker bores a hole in the decayed part of the tree and with his bill goes after them. Does he get them? Yes, indeed; so quickly does he work that the poor little bugs wouldn't have time to whistle for help even if they knew how. "Curious fellow, that!" said the queer little old man. "He is industrious, too. "He reminds me of the hop-toad that came to one of the gardens last summer. "The toad, too, used to catch and eat the bugs. By doing so he saved many a plant from being destroyed. "But what a homely old fellow he was! And how handsome the woodpecker is! "It is quite true that one does not grow to look like what he eats, but rather like what he thinks. "The hop-toad lives so close to the ground that he sees only the brown earth. And if he thinks at all he thinks of _that_. "But the woodpecker flies in the air and lives in the trees. "He sees the blue sky and the pretty flowers and the silvery brook. There is beauty all around him. And if you wish to know of what _he_ thinks, just see how he _looks_." Thus the queer old man spent his first day in the forest. Every little thing interested him. He watched the busy bees at work. He traced the footprints of bears and rabbits and deer in the soft ground along the brook. But at last night came and spread its cover of darkness over all. In a cave the queer little man made a soft bed of dry leaves. Then he lay down to sleep. "Friends, good-night," he whispered to the forest. And the trees rustled back, "Good-night, good-night." GREAT GRAY OWL Great Gray Owl sat up in the tree, winking and blinking. He would turn his head first in one direction, then in another. Wise old bird! What he could not see with those large glassy eyes of his was hardly worth seeing. Suddenly he flew to the ground. There, like a brave sentinel, he marched back and forth in front of the cave in which Father Thrift was sleeping. Several times in the night the queer little old man heard the hooting of the owl. More than once he thought he heard the wise bird say, "Who-oo, who-oo goes there?" The first time a sharp "Hiss-ss, hiss-ss!" came in reply. Father Thrift shivered to think of a snake crawling so near him. Then he heard the owl's sharp command: "Halt! What is your business here?" "I'm visiting friends that live in a hole in that cave," replied the snake. "I advise you to do your visiting some other time," said the owl. "Father Thrift is sleeping in the cave to-night. He must not be disturbed." With the snake the owl's word was law. He had known of several snakes that had shortened their lives by not taking the wise bird's advice. "Such strong claws, such a hooked bill, such sharp eyes, are not to be trifled with," thought the snake, as he wriggled along toward home. "But what is the forest coming to when one can't visit his friends? Besides, who is Father Thrift, anyway?" Just then Great Gray Owl called to the snake: "Come to the cave, here, at ten o'clock in the morning and don't forget. Tell your friends to come, too. There will be a meeting of all the animals of the forest." As he finished saying this the owl heard a loud crackling of twigs and a rustling of leaves behind him. He turned around just in time to face Shaggy Bear. "What, ho, Friend Owl!" cried the bear. "What are you about this evening? Are you looking for wee mice or for tender little bunnies?" "No," said Great Gray Owl, "not to-night. I am keeping watch so that Father Thrift may not be disturbed in his sleep." "And who, pray, may Father Thrift be?" asked Shaggy Bear. "To-morrow, at ten o'clock in the morning, if you will come back here, you may learn who Father Thrift is. For the present I will say that the cave in which you have been in the habit of sleeping will be Father Thrift's home in the future." "So, so!" growled Shaggy Bear. "So, _so_!" (He spoke this last rather crossly.) "Yes," said Great Gray Owl, "that, at least, has been decided." Then he went on: "Aren't you glad it was _your_ cave that was chosen for Father Thrift? Aren't you _glad_? Think of the honor it will be to you to have him use it! Just _think_ of it!" What a fine fellow the owl was, to be sure, to give other people's things away so generously! As for the bear, whether he thought of the honor or not, I cannot say. He never was known to be much of a thinker. Nevertheless the owl's tactful words soothed him, and he felt quite satisfied to leave things as they were. "I know of other caves and of hollows in trees where I can sleep," said Shaggy Bear. "When I'm full of honey I don't care!" That the bear was full of honey seemed quite clear. Indeed, if you might judge by outside appearances, he was over full. The sticky stuff was running down his chin, and he kept wiping it off with his big paw as he walked away in lazy bear fashion. Before morning all the animals of the wood, and the birds and the bees, knew that at ten o'clock there would be a meeting at the cave. What it was about or who Father Thrift was, not one of them knew. That is, no one knew except the owl; and he wouldn't say. THE ANIMALS OF THE FOREST The next morning the sun was up before Father Thrift. In fact, when he awoke the sun had already taken the sparkling dewdrops away on a journey back to the clouds. The sky was bright. The birds were singing, the insects humming. And the flowers were smiling and thanking the sun for the warmth and the light. Father Thrift rubbed his eyes and looked about him. Something was wrong, very wrong! The rooster wasn't crowing. The dog wasn't barking. The horses weren't neighing. Those were familiar sounds to Father Thrift's ears. And he missed them. He drew a deep breath. The air was sweet with the odor of fir trees and of pine. "Ah," he said, "how could I have forgotten that only yesterday I left the quaint old town! "This, then, is my new home in the forest. It is a glorious home!" Soon the queer little old man had his breakfast. He had freshly picked berries and bread, and clear, cool water from a spring near by. Then he sat down on a log, to think. Suddenly he heard a great rustling of leaves and a flapping and fluttering of wings. Turning around, he found himself face to face with such a gathering of animals and birds as he had never in his life seen. And at his elbow stood--who do you suppose? Great Gray Owl, whom he had heard hoot in the night. Before Father Thrift had time to ask what the gathering was about, Great Gray Owl rolled his big eyes and said: "Father Thrift, permit me to introduce to you the animals of the forest." "I am happy to meet you all," said Father Thrift kindly. Then the animals gave a shout that sounded like three cheers and a hundred tigers. Do you wonder at that? You will not when I tell you all that were present. There were the shaggy bears, the red foxes, the busy beavers, the gray wolves, the cottontail rabbits, the bushytail squirrels, the woodchucks, the chipmunks, and the deer. Then there were the eagles, the owls, the hawks, the crows, the blue jays, and the robins, and many others of the bird family. Even the honeybees and the butterflies, the insects and the snakes were there. Indeed, all the animals of the forest must have been present, there were so many. It was wonderful how quickly they had learned of Father Thrift's coming to their home. Now the Great Gray Owl was waving a stick in the air, motioning for silence. When everything was quiet, he perched himself on a tall stump, where every one could see him, and made a speech. "Father Thrift," he said, "we welcome you to the forest. We are glad that you have come to live with us. "Many years ago we birds and animals had a king. But he died and since then things have not gone well with us. "We have not lived wisely. I fear many of us have wasted when we had plenty, and suffered when what we had was gone. "If you will be our king, we will promise to do exactly as you say." He rolled his big eyes at the animals and asked, "Won't we?" And every one of the animals shouted, "We will!" But Father Thrift declared that he would rather be only one of them, instead of being their ruler. He would advise them, and teach them, and help them. "And we will help you, too," said Shaggy Bear. "I'll give you my cave for keeps, to begin with." "And I'll bring you nuts to eat," said Bushytail Squirrel. "And I'll bring you some of my honey," said Honeybee. "That is, I will if Shaggy Bear doesn't steal it all." "And I'll bring you plenty of mice," said Great Gray Owl. But Father Thrift only smiled at that. For, of course, mice would be of no use to him! WHAT MADE THE BEAR SICK Father Thrift was busy carrying pine needles into his cave. Pine needles make a soft carpet. And the bare floor of the cave was _so_ hard. At last he had enough and he sat down to rest. Just then he looked out of his cave and saw Shaggy Bear, half walking, half crawling toward him. "Why, whatever is the matter?" Father Thrift exclaimed in astonishment. "I am so sick I believe I shall die," groaned the bear. The poor fellow's face was pale and tears were running down his cheeks. "Oh, cheer up, cheer up!" cried Father Thrift briskly. "Why should you _want_ to die?" "That's it--I don't!" returned the bear sorrowfully. "But I believe my time has come." "Where do you feel the worst--in your stomach?" asked Father Thrift. "Yes," replied Shaggy Bear. "That is where the trouble started." "I thought so; I thought so," said Father Thrift. "I wonder that you were not sick before. "Now, first of all, let me tell you that you are not going to die, not yet. But should you keep on eating as you have eaten in the past few weeks, you could never expect to be strong and healthy." "Why?" asked the bear, brightening up suddenly. But Father Thrift did not answer his question. "I am going to suggest something for you to do, Shaggy," he said. The bear looked puzzled but hopeful. "You won't like it," Father Thrift continued. "No one ever did. But it is the only way by which you can become well and strong again. "The very first time I saw you I knew that you were not eating the right kind of meals. "Why, bears are known to have such good appetites that we often hear boys say, 'I'm as hungry as a bear!' "But you don't feel that way. That is because you eat too much honey and not enough solid, nourishing food. "This makes you sick. And while perhaps you wouldn't die from it, you would grow to be cross and disagreeable. Then no one would like you. Would that be any better?" The bear scratched his head. "But what am I to do?" he asked. "Stop eating sweets for three months," advised Father Thrift. "Don't you see that you spoil your appetite for good roots and berries by eating too much honey? "What, do you suppose, would become of boys and girls who ate nothing but cookies and candy, instead of milk and eggs, and meat and bread, and vegetables and fruit? "A little candy, when eaten after meals, seldom hurts anybody. When you are better you may have a little honey again, too. "Another thing. Besides eating and sleeping, what do you do?" "Nothing," replied Shaggy Bear. "Hereafter you must spend some time each day working or walking or playing outdoors," said Father Thrift. "You need exercise. "Don't be afraid to run. That will fill your lungs with pure, fresh air and make your blood circulate more freely. "Eat only three meals a day and be regular. Do not eat between meals. Remember that the stomach works hard and needs rest as much as do your feet. "Eat slowly and chew your food well, and I promise that at the end of three months you will feel better than you have ever felt in your life." The bear made a wry face at all this. For he liked honey about as much as he disliked exercise. "Mayn't I eat _some_ honey?" he asked pleadingly. Father Thrift looked at him a little sternly. "None for three months," he said. Shaggy Bear was in earnest and at once promised to do as he was told. Then, as the bear rose to go, Father Thrift patted him on the back. "You mustn't let this spoil your good times," he said. "Only remember that nobody can be happy without good health." It was a hard trial for the bear. Many, many times he was tempted to stuff himself with honey and then roll up in his cave and go to sleep. But each time he turned sadly away from temptation. And at the end of three months he was as sound and healthy as a bear could be. Then how grateful he was to Father Thrift for his good advice! And the queer little old man was happy to think that he had been able to help Shaggy so much. HOW THE WOODPECKERS HELPED One morning, as Father Thrift was sitting in front of his cave sunning himself, he heard some one crying. It was a squeaky sort of cry. Father Thrift could not imagine who it could be that was in trouble. He looked around, but saw no one. Then he listened. The sound came from behind a large tree near by. He walked over to the spot. And there sat--who do you suppose? Little Gray Squirrel, crying into his maple-leaf handkerchief as though his very heart would break! "What is the matter, Gray Squirrel?" asked Father Thrift. "Oh, Father Thrift," sobbed Little Gray Squirrel, "let me tell you what some bad boys did to me! "I live in the big old oak tree near the edge of the forest. I have a nest in the old tree's trunk. There I live with my baby squirrels. There, too, I have gathered and stored nuts for food. "And now some boys have stolen all my nuts! "Soon the cold days of winter will come. Then what shall I do for food for my babies and myself?" And the poor little squirrel cried until he almost choked, and fresh tears ran down his cheeks. Father Thrift looked angry. He said: "This is very bad. I am sorry to hear all this, good Gray Squirrel. While I cannot give you back the nuts which the boys stole, I think I can send some one to help you gather more. "There are still some nuts on the ground, and we'll help you to find them." Little Gray Squirrel thanked Father Thrift for his kind words. Then he dried his tears and started for home. And the queer little old man sat watching the bushy tail as it whisked down the crooked path and out of sight. Then all of a sudden he heard a sharp "Tap-tap-tap!" Without even looking up Father Thrift knew who it was. "A friend in need," he said to himself. Then he called to the woodpecker that was doing the knocking. "I wish to talk with you," he said. Woodpecker flew down, and Father Thrift told him all about Little Gray Squirrel. "Oh, we will help him gather a fresh store of nuts," said Mr. Woodpecker. "Indeed, we will help!" And he flew away. Within a very short time a whole flock of woodpeckers was flying toward Little Gray Squirrel's home. Soon Little Gray Squirrel's troubles were over, for the woodpeckers filled his winter storeroom full of the choicest nuts. Now he was sure of having plenty to eat all winter for himself and his family. And how thankful he was! But that is not all. When the woodpeckers were through filling the squirrel's storeroom with nuts, did they stop? No, indeed! One woodpecker who was older than the others got up on the topmost branch of the tree and said: "Dear brothers, do you realize now how foolish we have been all our lives? "In the summer we feed on bugs and beetles and ants and seeds. "Then in the winter, because we know no better, some of us go South. Some of us go hungry, and some of us die, because we cannot find enough to eat. "Why cannot we, too, store up nuts and have food for the winter as the squirrels do?" "The very thing!" cried the other woodpeckers. So they all began gathering acorns and beechnuts and storing them in the bark of the trees. Some of the nuts they would drop beneath the bark of the tree. And some they would drive with their strong bills into cracks and holes which they found here and there. The trees which were old and worm-eaten were, of course, the easiest into which to drive the nuts. Knotholes, too, were good places in which to store food. When the woodpeckers had many, many nuts stored away, one of them said: "Isn't it strange that we didn't think of this before! We need not go South to find a new home this winter. We can stay right here and still have plenty to eat." And that is what they did. So, while the woodpeckers helped Little Gray Squirrel out of his trouble, they helped themselves into the good habit of learning to save. And they have not forgotten it to this day. THE BUSY BEAVERS One evening Father Thrift was sitting by the brook, looking into the water. The bright silver moon made the night almost as light as day. Everything was quiet, except for a faint ripple of the water. Suddenly Father Thrift heard something go, "Splash-sh! splash-sh! splash! splash!" almost beside him. Then he heard a voice calling from the water. "Father Thrift," it said, "you have never visited us. Won't you take your canoe and come now?" And Father Thrift, looking into the water, saw that it was Mr. Beaver who was calling. "Thank you, thank you, Mr. Beaver!" replied the queer little old man. "I will accept your invitation with pleasure." And soon the two were making their way through the water to the place where the beavers were building their home. And where do you suppose that was? On a nice sunny hill? Or in the shade of the trees? No, no! Instead, it was in the middle of a pond which the beavers themselves had made by building a dam of mud and sticks. The beavers' house was made of mud and sticks mixed with stones. Or, rather, it was being made. The beavers were still working at it. "My, my," said Father Thrift, "how very, very late you beavers work! Don't you ever rest? "I know you are very industrious. Nearly everybody knows that, as there is a familiar saying among us that an industrious person works like a beaver. But I never supposed that you worked all the time!" "We don't," replied Mr. Beaver. "We work only at night. All of our work is done then. And I am ashamed to tell you that there are some beavers who do not wish to work at all." "_So!_" exclaimed Father Thrift. "I am surprised at that. And do they live here, too?" "Oh, no," said Mr. Beaver. "We have no place for lazy beavers, or 'old bachelors,' as we call them. Usually we cut their tails off and chase them away." "That is punishment enough," said Father Thrift. "Still, lazy folks deserve no better. Wasting time is just as bad as wasting food, or money, or anything else." Then Father Thrift stopped to watch the interesting and wonderful ways of the wise beavers. Some of them dug mud out of the bottom of the creek. Others cut sticks from bushes and trees with their big chisel-edged teeth. By biting out chips, one by one, a beaver can easily cut down a large tree. The mud and sticks for their house and dam they carried against their breasts as they swam, holding them there with their forefeet. Then they would put the sticks in place and press the mud down. Their tails they used only for swimming. But, then, those big, strong tails make fine propellers. "You are building a very large house, it seems to me," remarked Father Thrift. "Yes," replied Mr. Beaver. "But you must remember that several families of beavers live in the different rooms of this house." "Just so, just so," said the queer little old man. "I suppose that you find your house comfortable. But isn't it rather damp?" "In some parts, yes," admitted Mr. Beaver. "But in the center of our house we have rooms above the water. "Of course, as you know, we cannot climb trees like a squirrel. Neither can we burrow like a cottontail rabbit. But in deep water we are safe. "We enter and leave our homes from beneath the water, unseen. And when we are attacked by enemies we take to the water to save ourselves." "I have been told that your food is chiefly the roots of the common yellow water lily," said Father Thrift. "What do you do in the winter when the pond is frozen and there are no lily roots to be had?" "Oh," said Mr. Beaver, "we eat the bark of trees, too--mostly poplar, birch, and willow. But, as the ice prevents us from getting to the land in winter, we should not have even that to eat if we did not cut a supply of sticks in the summer time. "These we throw into the water opposite the doors of our houses and leave them there for the winter, for bark is good beaver food." Father Thrift nodded. But on his way home he could have been heard to say: "Wise little animals! Always working. Always saving. Always having." THE GRAY FOXES AND THE RED FOXES After Father Thrift came to the forest to live, one night each week (except in bad or very cold weather) had been "story night." On "story night" all the animals would meet in front of his cave to hear and tell stories. This night Gray Fox was to tell a story. Gray Fox was a good story-teller, and so he always had a large audience. Most of the animals were present to hear him. And this is the story Gray Fox told: * * * * * There was once a young fox who was very wasteful. He left half his food on his plate. He spent all his pennies for candy. He broke his playthings purposely, and tore his clothes needlessly. There was really no end to his wastefulness. This fox belonged to the family of Gray Foxes. And the Gray Foxes were a prosperous nation. They lived peaceably among themselves and with their neighbors, and every one had plenty to eat, to wear, and to spend. So no one paid much attention to Young Fox's wastefulness. Or if the other foxes did pay attention to him, they rather imitated him, for he _was_ a clever young fox. Soon nearly all the young foxes grew wasteful. They all left half their food on their plates. They all spent their pennies for candy. They all broke their playthings purposely, and tore their clothes needlessly. There was no end to their wastefulness. And so things went from bad to worse. But one day a messenger brought the Gray Foxes some bad news. The Red Foxes were preparing to make war upon the Gray Foxes! "Why make war upon us?" asked the Gray Foxes. "We are a peaceable nation. We harm no one." "True, true!" said Governor Gray Fox. "But remember, also, that we are a prosperous nation. We are _too_ prosperous to please the Red Foxes. We must prepare to defend ourselves." And they did prepare. And then there was a long and bloody war between the Gray Foxes and the Red Foxes. The Gray Fox fathers and brothers, who should have been working in the fields and mills and factories, were out killing the Red Fox fathers and brothers. And the Red Fox fathers and brothers, instead of working in their fields and mills and factories, were out killing the Gray Fox fathers and brothers. But the foxes did not stop eating. And they did not stop wearing clothes. Just as many foxes as ever were eating food and wearing clothes. Yet only about half as many were left at home to make the things to eat and the clothes to wear. The rest of the foxes were away at war. So, of course, there were only half as many things to eat and to wear as there had been before. And because there were only half as many, and every one wanted these, they cost twice as much. Now it seemed as though the poor foxes wouldn't have money enough to buy food and clothes. And they worried as to how they could get along. But the rich foxes, like Young Fox and his friends, could still buy all the things _they_ wanted, because they had plenty of money. They bought more than they needed. "This will never do!" declared Governor Gray Fox. "Everybody must eat, and everybody must wear clothes. "Hereafter every one will get an equal share of the food, and nothing must be wasted. And clothes will cost just so much and no more." The poor foxes said that that was fair enough, for they hadn't anything to waste. But the rich foxes complained bitterly. They said the Governor was trying to starve them. Still, they had to do as the Governor said. And it was good for them to do with less. It is true that the fat foxes lost their big stomachs, but that made them look handsomer. It also made them feel much better. No one ever left anything on his plate now. No one spent his money foolishly. No one broke his things purposely, or tore his clothes needlessly. There was an end to all the wastefulness. And when the war was over the Gray Foxes grew prosperous again. Only this time there were no foxes as poor as there had been before the war. Neither were there any quite so rich. But every one had plenty. And because all shared fairly, they all lived more happily. * * * * * "Which shows," added Father Thrift, "that everything which happens is for the best, and the world is a good place to live in, after all." RED SQUIRREL AND BUNNY COTTONTAIL The ground was covered deep with snow, and it was bitter cold in the forest. But Mr. Red Squirrel and his family were quite comfortable in their cozy home. Mr. Red Squirrel lived with his wife and three children in the hollow of an old oak tree. They were a thrifty and industrious family. They always had plenty to eat, besides something laid away for a rainy day. That is because Mr. Red Squirrel was very careful about little things, and brought up his family to be the same. Before the nuts were fully ripe, the squirrels would climb the trees, gnaw the stems, and drop the nuts to the ground. Then they would scamper down and gather them into neat piles. They would eat some of the new nuts for breakfast, and put the rest away in the granaries. They worked hard all the summer and autumn, getting food for the winter. And never a thing was wasted in Mr. Squirrel's house. On this cold winter's night Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel and the three little squirrels sat warm and snug in their home in the old oak tree. Suddenly there came a tiny tap at the door. It might have been the wind. Mrs. Squirrel was not sure. She listened. The sound came again. Yes, some one certainly was knocking at their door. Who could it be, this bitter cold night? Mr. Squirrel got up and opened the door. At first he saw no one. "Who's there?" he called, in his pleasant, cheery voice. "It is I, neighbor," answered a weak voice, sadly. "Please let me in! I am cold and hungry!" Mr. Squirrel opened the door wide, and said: "Yes, come in, come in. It is a bitter cold night, to be sure. Come in and let me shut the door. My tail is nearly frozen just from standing here." Then there came hopping into the hollow of the tree trunk a rabbit. Poor Bunny Cottontail, how miserable he did look! His coat was all dirty and ragged. And his poor little tail hung down behind instead of standing up straight and stiff, as a rabbit's tail ought to do. His ears drooped, and his whiskers were broken and limp. He had rheumatism in one hind leg, and his eyes, which should have been as bright as Mr. Squirrel's, were dull and dim. Altogether he looked as shabby and sad as a bunny could look--not at all like a respectable, well-brought-up rabbit. Mr. Squirrel hastened to put poor Bunny into the warmest corner of the hollow. And Mrs. Squirrel brought him some food, which he ate eagerly. The little squirrels were so astonished at the rabbit's appearance that they did not know what to make of him. When Bunny was warm and rested, Mrs. Squirrel sent her little ones to bed. Then she and Mr. Squirrel began to try to find out what had happened to make their poor neighbor so forlorn. "How could I help it?" he cried mournfully. "I did not know that it would be so cold, nor that the snow would be so deep that I should not be able to get a bit of winter cabbage to eat. "I am sure I am willing to work. I would take any trouble, but it is not a bit of use. Indeed, Neighbor Squirrel, I do not see how you have managed." And he looked enviously around the neat, warm little nest. "It was very simple," replied Mr. Squirrel, gravely. "We all helped and put away part of everything we found. If we found six nuts, we put away at least three in our storeroom. And nuts and acorns were very plentiful this autumn. "So, though the winter is very hard, we shall have plenty. We have plenty for a friend, too. So eat as much as you will, neighbor, and don't spare the loaf." It was very kind of Mr. Squirrel, but he could not help the poor rabbit much. Bunny had been such an idle, wandering fellow that he could not be content to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel quietly and help to do the work of their little home. So in a few days he wandered away. As he shivered in the cold and tried to find enough to eat, he often wished that he had been as wise and as thrifty as the Squirrel family. And the Squirrel family, being as kind-hearted as they were thrifty, often thought of the poor rabbit with pity. They wondered how he was getting on, but they never heard of him again. SHAGGY BEAR'S MISTAKE Father Thrift was carrying in wood for his fire. It had been a long and hard winter. Suddenly he heard footsteps in the snow behind him. He looked around. And there--would you believe it!--stood his old friend, Shaggy Bear. Shaggy was as thin as a shadow, and his teeth chattered with the cold. "My, my, but you are out early this year!" exclaimed Father Thrift. "Come in and warm yourself by the fire." Shaggy needed no coaxing. He was so cold that even his voice had frozen in his throat! At least he couldn't speak a word until he grew warm. And the way that bear snuggled up to Father Thrift's fire was comical to see! At last he managed to say: "Father Thrift, I shouldn't know this place if I had not lived here so long. You have a door on the cave, and two windows. And you have chairs and a table, and--and two beds. "Why have you two beds, Father Thrift?" "One is for company," answered the queer little old man. "If you had just one more bed, I should say this was the House of the Three Bears." And Shaggy laughed at his little joke. (Or perhaps the good meal which Father Thrift had prepared for him tickled his stomach.) "Where have you been all winter?" asked Father Thrift. "When the cold days came," said the bear, "I crawled into my cave in the rocks and curled myself up into a big ball. There I meant to stay until the warm days of spring. "The snow made a door to my cave, and I intended to sleep all winter long. "Then the wind swept the snow away from my door and I awoke and looked about. I thought that spring had come. "And that is where I made my mistake. I should have gone to sleep again. But I was hungry, having had nothing to eat all winter. So I crawled out. "The roots and the berries are still asleep under the snow. The fish are under the ice. There is nothing for me to do but return to my cave and go back to sleep." "You must not do that," said Father Thrift. "That would be wasting time. And time is the most precious thing we have." "Is it?" the bear asked in surprise. "Indeed it is!" replied Father Thrift. "We may lose wealth, but by hard work and saving we may win it back. "We may lose health, and with care and medicine restore it. But time that is lost is gone forever." The bear listened to Father Thrift's wise talk, but he shivered and said: "Still, I am cold; and I can find no food to eat." "I have a warm fire," said Father Thrift. "And I have food enough for us both, and to spare. I will share with you if you will help me with my work." "That I will, gladly!" cried Shaggy, who was still smacking his lips over the fine dinner he had eaten. "But how does it happen that you have food, when the ground has been frozen so long?" "When you learn to look ahead," replied Father Thrift, "you will find that easy enough. "In the warm days I prepare for the cold days which I know are coming. I raise my crops. I gather berries and plums, and preserve them. The apples and the nuts will keep as they are. "So, you see, instead of letting go to waste what I cannot use when food is plentiful, I save it for the days when food is scarce." "Then do you rest all winter?" asked the bear. "No!" said Father Thrift. "In the winter many things are waiting to be done. Then I make my clothes, shoes, furniture, tools, and other things." "What are you making now?" questioned the bear, as Father Thrift whittled pieces of wood with his knife. "These will be wooden spouts," answered Father Thrift. "You like sweet things--honey, for instance." Father Thrift smiled. Do you know why? "Well, maple sirup and maple sugar are about as sweet as honey. These spouts will help us get all we want of both." "Will they?" cried Shaggy eagerly. "How?" "The maple trees, too," Father Thrift told him, "have been sleeping all winter. Most of the sap has been down in their roots. In the early spring it travels upward into the trunk and branches and the trees awake. "The maple tree does not need all its sap. It is willing to give some of it to us. And when you have maple sirup you won't have to steal honey from the bees." This pleased Shaggy so much that he stood up on his hind legs and danced a bear dance. How Father Thrift laughed! THE SWEETEST THING IN THE FOREST Father Thrift spent the next few days in making wooden pails, in which to gather the maple sap. What a lot of measuring and sawing and fitting and finishing it takes to make a few pails! Shaggy Bear helped as much as he could. But bears are _such_ clumsy things! Finally one day Father Thrift said to Shaggy: "Now everything is ready. We have our spouts with which to draw the sap from the trees. And we have the wooden pails and some earthen crocks I made from clay last summer, in which to gather it. "There is a large iron kettle we will use for boiling the sap down into sirup and sugar. "To-morrow we will tap our trees." "Why to-morrow?" asked the bear. "That seems too long to wait. Why not to-day?" "Because," replied Father Thrift, "everything depends on time. There isn't time enough left to-day. To-morrow we will start work real early. And to get up early to-morrow we must get to bed early to-night." "I don't see how I shall be able to sleep at all," grumbled the bear. But in a few moments he was fast asleep where he sat. He was a funny fellow! Still, Father Thrift did not mind. He liked the quiet. When it was quiet he could think. In that he was quite different from many people, who like only to talk. And he thought to himself: "Suppose that each person wastes one hour a day. A hundred days, a hundred hours. Multiply that by the number of people in the world--" But the figures were too large even for Father Thrift to count up. "If every one would use that hour each day in reading a good book, or in thinking, or in doing something else that is useful, how much better the world would be in another hundred years!" Father Thrift sat and thought for a whole hour. Then he waked the bear and each went to his own bed to rest for the night. What a funny sight it was--a man and a bear sleeping side by side in the same room! Early the next morning Father Thrift and the bear went to the maple grove to tap their trees. Father Thrift bored holes in the tree trunks. Then he pounded a little spout into each hole for the sap to run through. As they had no handles on their pails and crocks, they could not hang them on the spouts. Instead they set them down in the snow under the spouts. The sun was getting warm, and was drawing up the sap from the roots of the tree into its branches. Soon you could hear it drip, drip, dripping into the pails and the crocks. Shaggy Bear was too astonished to talk. He put out his paw, and a great drop of shining yellow maple sap fell on it. Then he licked his paw. Then he grunted, a funny bear grunt of surprise and pleasure. _Mmmmmm!_ It was good! It was sweet, truly. And what a delicious flavor it had! The bear put out his paw again and again. And how he did lick the sap off it! My, oh, _my_! it was sweet! Not even the honey of the bee tasted so good. It was like nothing else in the whole forest. Meanwhile Father Thrift was arranging his kettle and pans and building a fire. "Now let us pour all the sap into one pail," he said, "and perhaps we shall have enough to start boiling." "Oh, but that may spoil it!" cried Shaggy Bear. "The sap is made sweeter by boiling," said Father Thrift. But the bear did not see how that could be. When the sap began to boil, Father Thrift told Shaggy to stir it, so that it would not burn. Suddenly the bear began jumping about and crying: "Father Thrift, come here, come here!" Father Thrift ran over to see what had happened. Shaggy was all excitement. "Look!" he cried. "Look in the kettle! We had much there. Now we have little. I told you the fire would spoil it!" "No," replied Father Thrift, smilingly, "the fire has not spoiled anything. When the sap boils, the water in it goes away in steam. And the longer it boils, the more the water goes away. "This time we will not let it boil so very long, and then we shall have sirup. But the next kettle of sap we will boil longer and then we shall have maple sugar." When the sirup grew thick, Father Thrift said, "Taste!" And the bear tasted. "Oh, Father Thrift," he cried in delight, "it is the best thing I have ever tasted! Truly, the boiling improves it." Then when the maple sugar was done, Father Thrift called Shaggy. "Taste _this_," he said. Ah, how good it was! Nothing like it had ever gone into Shaggy Bear's mouth before. Never had he tasted such sweetness. And, oh, what a wonderful meal they had that night! Father Thrift made golden corn cakes, and he and Shaggy ate the hot cakes with fresh maple sirup poured over them. * * * * * The bear grew thoughtful after supper. "Now I know why I used to get into so much trouble," he said. "I have had too much idle time on my hands. "After this I will work hard and learn. I--I think I could help you a lot, Father Thrift. Will--you--let--me--stay--if--I--do?" "I shall be glad to have you stay, always," said Father Thrift. And the bear was so overjoyed at what Father Thrift said that he cried. ROBINS, CROWS, AND BLACKBIRDS A soft little breeze was blowing. It was warm, and it had in it the smell of green things growing--trees, and buds, and grass, and flowers. Little birds were singing. And they had joy and gladness in their voices. And the colors of the rainbow were in their feathers. Little brooks were flowing--flowing and growing into rivers. They sparkled in the merry sunshine, and their laughter could be heard everywhere they went. The whole forest was glad. Why? Because it was spring, merry spring. And spring is the gladdest, happiest time of all the year. Father Thrift was plowing his garden and Shaggy Bear was helping him. And do you know how they worked together? Father Thrift held the handles of the plow and Shaggy pulled it. He was the horse. A funnier sight you have never seen! The ground was hard, so that no seed could grow in it. Father Thrift turned the earth over with his plow. This loosened the soil and made it soft. The robins followed the plow and found nice large angleworms for their breakfast. Then they sang this song: Cheerily cheer-up! Cheerily cheer-up! Cheerily cheer, we're glad you're here, Little fat worms. Oh, cheerily cheer-up, Cheerily cheer, we're glad you're here! But the little fat worms only turned and squirmed. They sang no song at all. The crows and the blackbirds followed Father Thrift, too. They ate the grub worms and the beetles and other insects which they found. Then, when the ground was ready, Father Thrift and Shaggy Bear planted the seeds. The robins did not follow them now. But the crows and the blackbirds did. And do you know what they were doing? They were eating the seeds almost as fast as Father Thrift and Shaggy dropped them into the ground. Father Thrift stopped in his work. "Crows and blackbirds," he said, "you must not do that." "Why?" asked one old crow. "We always have done it." "Yes, I know you have," replied Father Thrift. "And that is what has given you such a bad name with the farmer. "By eating the seed or pulling up sprouting corn you spoil the crop. And so you have less food for yourselves in the end." "How is that?" asked Cousin Blackbird. "Well," explained Father Thrift, "every grain of corn you eat now would make ears of corn if you let it stay in the ground to grow. "And of every ear of corn grown some kernels are left in the field in the shocking. So that for every kernel not eaten now you would have many kernels in the autumn. "Besides, if you will keep the bad bugs and worms and grasshoppers out of my garden, I promise to give you every tenth ear of all the corn I grow." Then the crows got together. And all you could hear from them was a loud "Caw, caw, caw!" But they must have agreed that Father Thrift's proposal was a fair one. The old crow spoke for all the crows. He said: "We will do as you ask, Father Thrift. We wish all farmers were as reasonable with us. "We help the farmer, but we get no credit for it. We eat many, many grasshoppers and beetles and worms and caterpillars and weevils every year. "These would be at work destroying the farmer's crops if we did not eat them. And, for all that, the farmer is always chasing and killing us." "No," said Father Thrift, "the farmer does not dislike you for the good you do. He dislikes you for the harm you do. Your bad habits make you unpopular. Why don't you give them up?" "Caw, caw, caw!" cried all the crows. I suppose they meant, "Yes, yes, yes." But whether or not they meant what they said I don't know. As for the blackbirds, whatever was agreeable to the crows was satisfactory to them. And they flew away singing, "Conk-err-ee! Conk-err-ee!" And as Father Thrift and Shaggy Bear sat down under a tree to rest, Mr. Robin sang his song from the topmost bough. It was like this: Cheerily cheer-up! Cheerily cheer-up! Cheerily cheer, five of us here; Mother and me, and babies three. Cheer up, Cheerily cheer, we're happy here. You see, Mr. Robin's English was not perfect, but he was too happy to be careful. THE LITTLE RAINDROPS Every seventh day Father Thrift rested. To-day was Sunday, the seventh day. Father Thrift, as usual, arose just as the gray clouds were bidding the earth good-by. How that queer little old man did enjoy those summer mornings! Not many people get up early enough to know what they are like. It is then that the birds sing for Father Sun to awake. And the chorus of thanksgiving which arises from the woods and the fields is enough to gladden any one's heart. Every boy and girl should learn to know these beautiful morning hours. But this morning the dark clouds lingered longer than usual. That was because they had brought the raindrops from their home in the sky to visit the earth below. The flowers lifted their grateful heads to greet the raindrops. The thirsty roots under the ground were made glad by them. And so were the leaves and the buds and all the growing green things above the ground. The frogs jumped about in their glee and croaked joyfully, "Oh, what fun we have!" The brook rushed rejoicing to the river, and the river ran to the sea. And both sang on their way. But the birds and the squirrels were not so happy when the raindrops came tumbling down from the sky. They hid in their nests and under the leaves of the trees and waited for them to go away. Even Shaggy Bear did not like the rain. He hid in the cave, to keep his fur dry. Now the time was drawing near when most people were waking--that is, in the cities. The farmer has learned to know the beautiful early hours of the morning. "Let us play," cried a tiny raindrop to the others. "Let us play and stay here always. For the earth is a beautiful place." But the older and wiser raindrops trickled away and hid almost anywhere they could. Some of them hid in Father Thrift's garden. Some of them jumped into the brook. They knew they were sent down to the earth to do some good, and not to spend their time in playing. They had plenty of time in the sky for play. So if they wished to stay on the earth they must work. The little raindrops that hid in Father Thrift's garden would help to make the plants grow. Those that jumped into the brook would help to give a good cool drink to all who were thirsty. Then Father Sun came out from behind the gray clouds. "Come, little raindrops, down on earth," he said. "Those of you that are not busy, or are not needed there, must come home. You have important work to do elsewhere." And, like the good father that he was, he gathered up all that he could find and put them into pretty white and blue boats. And the wind gently sailed them across the sky. Then the Rain Fairies and the Sun Fairies joined hands until they made a beautiful arch from earth to heaven. We call this arch the rainbow. The gay colors are the pretty dresses of the fairies. Now the birds of the forest came forth from their nests. They fluttered their little wings and sent the raindrops which had rested on them down to the flowers and the grasses. Then they flew into the tree tops, where Father Sun could see them. And, as though to make up for lost time, they sang more sweetly than they did on clear days. How their songs gladdened the forest! Father Thrift sat on a log to listen to that orchestra of a thousand throats trilling from the tree tops. And Shaggy Bear came out from the cave and sat down beside him. "A pretty world it would be without the birds!" said Father Thrift. "How dull it would be without their colors! The rainbow cannot match them. "How cheerless it would be without their song! Man cannot equal it." And you may be sure that Father Thrift and Shaggy Bear did not forget the birds in their prayers that night. TROUBLE IN THE FOREST The next day was Monday, the first of July. Father Thrift turned the leaf of his homemade calendar. Then he and Shaggy Bear went out into the garden to work. All of a sudden they heard such a commotion! They looked up and saw a great flock of birds flying toward them. There were robins and bluebirds and kingbirds and bobolinks and brown thrashers and catbirds and meadow larks and woodpeckers and wrens, and all the other birds of the forest. Did they come to sing for Father Thrift because it was the first of July? No, not one of the birds was singing now. They were chattering and crying, but you could not make out what the fuss was all about. To Father Thrift and Shaggy it sounded something like this: Charr, charr, caw, caw, churr, churr, chee, chee, Peenk, peenk, quit, quit, chuck, chuck, whee, whee, Tzip, tzip, thsee, thsee, conk-err-ee, whack, Jay, jay, mew, mew, whip, chip, crack, tchack, R-r-r-r-r-r-r!! "R-r-r-r-r-r-r" meant, "We're angry. Next time we will fight them." Now the woodpeckers drummed for quiet: "Rrr-runk, tunk, tunk!" Then Mr. Robin walked up to Father Thrift. He said, "Oh, Father Thrift, we have come to tell you that the boys have been very mean to us. Let me tell you what they did to us. "While Mrs. Robin and I were away they climbed up into the tree where we had built our nest and stole our eggs." And there were tears in his bright eyes. Then Mr. Bluebird came. He was a pretty little fellow, and mannerly too. "Oh, Father Thrift," he said, "let me tell you what the boys did to me. "My nest was in a hole in your apple tree. The boys tore the green apples off the tree and threw them all about. They stuffed them into the hole where my nest was and now I have no home. "They are not afraid even of you." Then Mr. Kingbird came up. He said: "What Cousin Bluebird has just told you is true. One of the apples struck my nest and knocked it down. "There were four speckled eggs in it. I have lost not only my home but my pretty eggs with it. Is that right, Father Thrift?" And sadness and sorrow were in his voice. Just then Brown Thrasher came along. He was hopping on one foot. "Oh, Father Thrift," he said, "look what has happened to me! I was harming no one. I was just singing a song, when I was hit in the leg." "And pretty are the songs you can sing," said Father Thrift. "Many, many times have I been made happy by your sweet and cheerful notes. But who was it that hurt you?" "The boys," replied Brown Thrasher. "They hit me with a stone from their sling shot and broke my leg." Now Mrs. Bobolink came up. "Oh, Father Thrift," she said, sobbing, "hear me! "While I put our house in order Mr. Bobolink would stand guard to see that no enemies came near us. "And he would sing to me at the same time. Such sweet songs as he could sing! I think no other bird could equal him. "We, too, had some eggs in our nest. And we were happy. Yesterday Mr. Bobolink was perched on the tip of a bough, singing, when suddenly he fell to the ground. "I flew to see what the trouble was. And do you know what had happened? "He was dead. He had been hit on the head with a stone. Not far away I saw the boys who killed him. "To-day we dug a grave and buried him under his favorite tree." And poor Mrs. Bobolink cried harder than ever. Then Father and Mother Meadow Lark came up. "Oh, Father Thrift," they cried, "listen to what has happened to us! "We had four little children in a nest in the field. The nest was covered over with grasses. We thought it perfectly safe. "But while we were away getting food for our little ones, some one stole them all." And the Meadow Larks wept as though their hearts would break. "It must have been the boys!" chorused all the birds. Father Thrift looked very angry. "All this is very sad," he said. "I am sorry indeed to hear it. But, little friends, go home and make the best of things for the present. "Shaggy Bear and I will find some way to help you." Then the birds flew away. And they made such a noise that the clouds trembled in the sky. TWO BAD BOYS For a while neither Father Thrift nor the bear spoke. Then the queer little old man said: "Those boys must be punished, Shaggy. They must be taught a lesson. Killing birds is no joke. "To-morrow morning take your lunch with you and go to the north edge of the forest. There you will find a crooked road that is little traveled. "I believe that this is the road over which the boys came. They will come again. "Hide yourself behind a tree and watch for them. And when you catch them bring them to me." "Yes, yes," said Shaggy, "I certainly will." So early the next morning Father Thrift packed the bear's lunch and off Shaggy started for the north edge of the forest. But he returned late that night, tired and cross, without the boys. The same thing happened the next day, and the next. Shaggy was so discouraged by this time that he thought it of no use to try again. But Father Thrift said: "Go just this once more. And if you do not have better luck to-day you need not go again." So Shaggy went for the fourth time. And, as it happened, he did have better luck. When he reached the edge of the forest he seated himself beside a large tree near the road, to watch. But the kind breeze was blowing so softly that he soon fell asleep. And as he slept he dreamed a dream--a very strange sort of dream. He dreamed he was the king of Honeybee Land. All of his subjects were honeybees, and there were exactly one million of them. In another month there would be half a million more of them. If he had so much honey now, think how much more he would have when the other half million honeybees started to gather it! Now all that he had to do was to eat the honey as fast as the honeybees made it. That seemed easy enough. _Um-m_, how he loved that honey! But soon he found out that bees are very busy and very thrifty little things. Oh, how very, _very_ busy they kept him trying to eat all the honey they made! Each day his stomach was getting larger and larger. How much farther could it stretch? Then, "Whizz!" he woke up with a start. "I thought so! I thought so!" he said to himself, as he placed his paws on his stomach and rolled up his eyes. But, no, his stomach hadn't exploded at all. He could feel that. Besides, there was an arrow lying right beside him. The arrow must have hit him. Just then he happened to remember where he was. "The boys!" he said to himself. "The boys! In mischief, with a bow and arrows." He looked around. And there they were, sitting under a tree not a hundred feet away from him! He could see a bow and arrows on the ground beside them. But what were they doing? They were holding something in their hands. First they would look at it, then they would blow on it. Then they would look again and blow again. The bear crept closer. Everything was clear to him now! The boys had killed a bird and they were trying to find the spot where the arrow had struck it. So interested were they in this that they did not notice the bear stealing up behind them. When he got right over them he gave a dreadful growl: "Gr-r-r-r!" It was very loud and very fierce. "Why did you kill that bird?" he asked. "I have a good mind to eat you alive." And he gave another fierce growl. The boys acted like frightened rabbits. They were too astonished to speak. The bear picked up the bow and arrows. "One, attention!" he commanded. "Two, get ready! Three, go!" The boys took to the path which led toward their homes. But the bear called them back. "You don't understand," he said. "Now, go the other way. To-night you must report to Father Thrift. Gr-r-r-r! And not another word." This last command must have been a bear joke, for the boys had not uttered a word. Then away they all started--the boys as Shaggy's prisoners--for the cave in the forest. THE BOYS AND THE BIRDS The boys spent an uncomfortable night in Father Thrift's cave. Half the time they could not sleep. And, worse still, the other half they dreamed such dreadful dreams! But the next morning, after they had had breakfast with Father Thrift and Shaggy Bear, the boys felt much better. Still, they had a feeling that something terrible was about to happen to them. How they longed to go home! Then the queer little old man seated himself on a log just outside the door of the cave. "Shaggy Bear," he said, "go, tell Jenny Wren to ask all the birds of the forest to come here." Soon all the birds had come. And, oh! what excitement there was when they saw the boys! "Shoot them with an arrow! Hit them with a stone! Kill them!" the angry little creatures cried. Father Thrift lifted his hand for order. When things were quiet, and the birds had gathered around him, the queer little old man stood up. In a soft and somewhat sad voice he said to the birds: "My friends, let us act calmly and justly. Let us consider well before we decide on the punishment which these boys should receive if they are found guilty." "But," protested Mr. Robin, "they climbed into our tree and stole our eggs." "They ruined my home," cried Cousin Bluebird, "and they wasted your apples in doing it!" "Yes, and they knocked down my nest and broke all the eggs in it," added Mr. Kingbird. "They broke my leg with a stone from a sling shot," piped Brown Thrasher. "And they killed my poor husband," cried Mrs. Bobolink. "They stole our four little children," sobbed the Meadow Larks. "And they shot a bird with an arrow yesterday," added Shaggy Bear. "Here is the bird. Here, too, are the bow and the arrow." And he handed them all to Father Thrift. "Why, they've shot my cousin, Blackbird!" cried the Crow, who had been quiet up to now. "I have a good mind to bite off their noses and scratch out their eyes." "R-r-r-r-r-r! Charr! charr! charr!" All the birds became very much excited. They screamed and fluttered their wings, and their eyes shone with anger. The boys were badly frightened. But Father Thrift quickly restored order. He said: "Let us first hear what the boys have to say. We will ask them a few questions." He faced the boys. "Did you do what the birds say you did?" he asked. The boys hung their heads in shame. Then one of them answered, after a pause, "I guess so." "_Why_ did you do it?" asked Father Thrift. "Well," replied the other boy, "most of the birds are no good, anyway. They just eat everything we plant." "What of yours have they eaten?" asked Father Thrift. "The robins have been stealing our cherries," said the boy, "until we have hardly any left for ourselves. "The bluebirds eat our berries and grapes. "The kingbirds eat not only our fruit, but our honeybees as well. "The brown thrashers eat our raspberries and currants, while whole flocks of bobolinks get their food from our oat fields. "The meadow larks eat our grain. "And as for the blackbirds and crows, they are the worst thieves in the world. They even pull up our sprouting grain. "So why shouldn't we kill the birds? They are our enemies, and they do nothing but harm. "And, besides, we haven't killed more than a dozen of them. Who would miss a dozen in a world so full of birds?" By this time most of the birds were quivering with anger. And they cried again: "Shoot them with an arrow! Hit them with a stone! Kill them! "Who would miss two in a world so full of boys?" "Listen, my friends," said Father Thrift. "I agree with you that the boys deserve to be treated in the same way that they have treated you. They have been cruel. "Still, let us not act in haste or anger. Let us think matters over well. Perhaps we shall find that some wrong has been done on both sides. "Go, now, and return at two o'clock. We will decide then what it is best to do." INSECTS AND WORMS Long before two o'clock that afternoon the birds returned to their place in front of Father Thrift's cave. Some of them sat on the ground, some on the low branches of the trees, and others in the bushes. Now and again Shaggy Bear came out to tell some bird that Father Thrift wished to speak with him. Evidently important things were going on within the cave. But what? Oh, how the time dragged to those waiting birds! Would two o'clock never come? At last the cave door opened again, and Shaggy Bear came out with his prisoners. Shaggy was the sheriff, and his business was to take care that the boys did not run away. Hardly were they seated when Father Thrift came out of the cave. In one hand he carried a roll of paper, and with the other he adjusted the spectacles on his nose. He looked just like the judge he was supposed to be. As in a regular courtroom, every one straightened up and was all attention when the judge came. The queer little old man seated himself on the stump of a tree. Before him stood a high bench or table, made of rough boards. On this he spread out his paper. Then, turning toward Shaggy Bear, he said, "The sheriff and the prisoners will please step forward." And as they stood before him, Father Thrift read to the boys the court's decision. "The one who sins against the birds," the decision ran, "sins against man's best friends. "If we destroyed the birds, we ourselves could not live. Within a few years there would be so many insects and worms that crops could not be raised and plants could not grow. The bugs and the caterpillars would eat all the leaves off the trees, while the worms would destroy the roots. "The flies and other harmful insects would kill the cattle. And then they would carry sickness and disease among us. "Why, the grasshoppers would dance on our very tables, while the crickets sat on the dishes and played tunes! "The ants would use our kitchens for parade grounds, and the worms would crawl under our feet, in our houses. "Yet you said that the birds were your enemies, and that they do only harm. "You complained of the robins and the bluebirds; the kingbirds and the brown thrashers; the bobolinks and the meadow larks; the crows and the blackbirds. "So I have taken pains to look into the habits of each of these. "The robin, I find, works during the whole season to make it possible for the farmer to raise his crops. He is a natural enemy of bugs and worms. "He gets no pay for this work and asks for none. And the only reason he eats your cherries is because you have destroyed the wild fruit trees and berry bushes that used to grow by the roadside. Plant them there again and the robin, and all the other birds too, will spare your fruit. "The bluebird catches the bad bugs and grasshoppers and beetles and spiders and caterpillars in your orchard. And he very rarely takes even a bite of your berries or grapes. "The kingbird is a fine flycatcher and he does much good. Sometimes he does eat a honeybee, it is true, but it must be because he mistakes it for a large fly. "The brown thrasher makes his home in the swamps and groves. He does eat some raspberries and currants, in addition to the harmful insects he devours, but nearly all of these must be wild ones. "The few oats the bobolinks eat you could never miss, because these birds feed mostly on insects and the seeds of useless plants. "The meadow lark saves thousands of dollars every year on the hay crop. He builds his nest on the ground in the meadow and feeds himself and his large family on the crickets and grasshoppers he finds there. "The crow and the blackbird, I know, eat some of your corn. But they will not touch the seed corn if you put coal tar on it. "Both of these birds do a great deal of good, for which they get no credit. In the spring they follow the plow in search of large grub worms, of which they are very fond. They also eat grasshoppers, and weevils, and caterpillars. "All of which goes to prove that the more birds we have, the fewer bugs there are, to bother us. And the fewer bugs there are, the more food we have. "Therefore, I find that you two boys are guilty of a great wrong. Not only have you killed the farmer's most valuable friends, but you have destroyed food as well. "Your punishment will be one year in prison for every bird that you have killed." At this the boys almost dropped to the ground, they were so badly frightened. "Oh, Father Thrift," they cried, "please don't put us in prison! We have learned a lesson, and we promise never to kill another bird if you will only let us go." "My friends, what do _you_ think?" asked Father Thrift, turning to the birds. The hearts of the birds softened at the sight of the boys' distress. And they said, "Give them another chance, Father Thrift." "But theirs is a serious offense," Father Thrift said gravely. Then he turned toward the boys. "I will release you on one condition," he said, "and that is that you will henceforth be kind to all harmless living creatures, and protect them from cruel usage. "Also, that you will ask all the other boys, and their fathers as well, to do the same. "Build bird houses for your feathered friends and encourage them to come to your villages and farms. "In the end you will profit greatly by it." "We promise to do that," the boys agreed eagerly. "Now Shaggy Bear will help you to find your way out of the forest," said Father Thrift. "Your bow and arrows I shall keep, for you will never want them again. "And when you get home, tell your fathers and mothers, your grandfathers and grandmothers, your brothers and sisters, and the rest of my friends in the town, that Father Thrift sends them his best regards." Then the boys said good-by, and they wasted no time in going. AFTER MANY DAYS The whole town was searching for the two missing boys. No one could imagine what had happened to them. "We shall never see them again!" sobbed their mothers. But they did see them. That very day, when the little birds had gone to sleep in their nests, and the crickets chirped by the roadside, while night and the stars looked down upon the earth, the two tired and hungry boys appeared. Their mothers and fathers were overjoyed at their safe return. All the townspeople crowded about them. But the people could hardly believe the strange story they told. "Father Thrift! Father Thrift!" they cried. "Why, it cannot be!" For this was none other than the quaint old town in which the queer little old man had lived for so many years. "Upon our word and honor!" said the boys earnestly. "See, we cross our hearts." And they did. This seemed to satisfy most of the villagers that the boys were telling the truth. "Still, the forest is dense with trees and brush," said one old man, shaking his head doubtfully. "And it is alive with wild and dangerous animals. "Not one of _us_ has ever dared to go beyond the edge of _that_ forest. How could Father Thrift live there?" "Let us not doubt," said another old man. "We had better follow the advice which has been sent us. "Have we not suffered since Father Thrift left us because we would not take his advice? "We did not appreciate him when he was here. We have learned to appreciate him since he went away." So the wonderful story was told and retold for miles and miles around. And Father Thrift's good advice was taken to heart. And the birds came by hundreds to live in the neighborhood. The crops grew better each year. And the people felt happier. Then they pondered the things which Father Thrift had taught them. And they did again as they had done when he was with them. They lived simply, spent wisely, and wasted nothing. And the quaint old town and the country around it grew prosperous, as in the days of old. Then after many days the people said: "We must enter the wood at all costs--even at the risk of our lives. "We must find good Father Thrift and do him honor." So they went down the crooked road that led to the forest and went in. The two boys led the way. They heard the birds singing in the trees. They saw the squirrels leaping and running. They heard the ripple of the silvery brook. They breathed the perfume of the pine trees and the firs. They traced the footprints of bears, and rabbits, and deer. Every little thing interested them now. They gazed at the tender blue sky above. Never before had it looked so beautiful. Never had the grass seemed so fresh and sweet and green. Nor had the flowers ever seemed so richly colored and so sweetly scented. Truly, the forest was a glorious place! And nowhere--nowhere did they find the dreadful animals which they had lived to fear these many years. But they found a cave, a very strange sort of cave. It had two windows and a door. Inside were two beds and two chairs, and a table and a fireplace. On the wall hung a home-made calendar. Just outside the door was a high bench or table, and back of it stood a tree stump. "This is the place where Father Thrift lived," said the boys. "How well we remember it!" But Father Thrift was not there now. The place was vacant. "The queer little old man must have gone to live in the beautiful, happy, sunny land of which he often talked," said one of the men. And the others agreed with him. * * * * * Still stands the cave in the forest. People from miles and miles away visit it. The guide tells them the wonderful story of Father Thrift and his animal friends. And it seems that with each retelling the story grows more and still more wonderful. And there is a bird that lives in the wood which on moonlight nights, whether he sits on a branch, or hops on the ground, or flies about, is always heard whistling, "Fa-ther Thrift! Fa-ther Thrift!" Many people misunderstand and think that he is saying, "Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!" But why any one should wish to whip any one else I do not know. For the world is such a happy place. 
41966	----	[Illustration: THEY REACHED QUITE A HIGH BRANCH IN THE APPLE TREE. _Page 154_] TALES OF A POULTRY FARM by CLARA DILLINGHAM PIERSON Author of "Among the Meadow People," "Dooryard Stories," etc. New York E. P. Dutton and Company 31 West Twenty-Third Street Copyright E. P. Dutton & Co. 1904 Published, September, 1904 The Knickerbocker Press, New York TO MY LITTLE SONS HAROLD AND HOWARD THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED CONTENTS PAGE THE FARM IS SOLD 1 THE NEW OWNER COMES 7 THE FIRST SPRING CHICKENS ARE HATCHED 30 THE MAN BUILDS A POULTRY HOUSE 46 THE PEKIN DUCK STEALS A NEST 60 THE NEW NESTS AND THE NEST-EGGS 77 THE WHITE PLYMOUTH ROCKS COME 86 THE TURKEY CHICKS ARE HATCHED 99 THREE CHICKENS RUN AWAY 114 THE THREE RUNAWAYS BECOME ILL 125 THE YOUNG COCK AND THE EAGLE 134 THE GUINEA-FOWLS COME AND GO 145 THE GEESE AND THE BABY 158 THE FOWLS HAVE A JOKE PLAYED ON THEM 169 THE LITTLE GIRLS GIVE A PARTY 182 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" SAID THE YOUNG COCK 26 RETURNED WITH THE BABY IN HIS ARMS 37 SHE FOLLOWED, QUACKING ANXIOUSLY 72 TOOK THE NEW-COMERS OUT, ONE AT A TIME 88 THE HAPPY TURKEY MOTHER PAUSED ON HER WAY 113 A LARGE DARK BIRD SWOOPING DOWN 142 THEY REACHED QUITE A HIGH BRANCH IN THE APPLE TREE--_Frontispiece_ 154 "S-S-S-S-S!" REPEATED THE GANDER 166 INTRODUCTION My Dear Little Readers:--I have often wondered why there were not more stories written about Chickens and their friends, and now I am glad that there have been so few, for I have greatly enjoyed writing some for you. Did I ever tell you that I cared for my father's Chickens when I was a little girl? That was one of my duties, and the most pleasant of all. It was not until I was older that I became acquainted with Ducks, Geese, and Turkeys, and I always wish that I might have lived on a poultry farm like the one of which I have written, for then I could have learned much more than I did. You must not think that I understand no language but English. I learned Chicken-talk when I was very young; and in the fall, when the Quails wander through the stubble-fields near my home, I have many visits with them, calling back and forth "Bob White! Bob White!" and other agreeable things which they like to hear. My little boys can talk exactly like Chickens, and sometimes they pretend that they are Chickens, while I talk Turkey to them. When you have a chance, you must learn these languages. They are often very useful to one. My friend, who drives in his Hens by imitating the warning cry of a Cock, had been a teacher in a college for several years before he studied poultry-talk, and it helped him greatly. You see, one must learn much outside of school, as well as inside, in order to be truly well educated. You should never look at poultry and say, "Why, they are only Hens!" or "Why, they are only Ducks!" Quite likely when they look at you they may be thinking, "Why, they are only boys!" or "Why, they are only girls!" Yet if you are gentle and care for them, you and they will learn to think a great deal of each other, and you will win new friends among the feathered people. Your friend, CLARA D. PIERSON. STANTON, MICHIGAN, _March 21, 1904._ THE FARM IS SOLD "You stupid creature!" cackled the Brown Hen, as she scrambled out of the driveway. "Don't you know any better than to come blundering along when a body is in the middle of a fine dust bath? How would you like to have me come trotting down the road, just as you were nicely sprawled out in it with your feathers full of dust? I think you would squawk too!" The Brown Hen drew her right foot up under her ruffled plumage and turned her head to one side, looking severely at Bobs and Snip as they backed the lumber wagon up to the side porch. "I say," she repeated, "that you would squawk too!" The Brown Hen's friends had been forced to run away when she did, but they had already found another warm place in the dust and were rolling and fluttering happily there. "Come over here," they called to her. "This is just as good a place as the other. Come over and wallow here." "No!" answered the Brown Hen, putting down her right foot and drawing up her left. "No! My bath is spoiled for to-day. There is no use in trying to take comfort when you are likely to be run over any minute." She turned her head to the other side and looked severely at Bobs and Snip with that eye. The Brown Hen prided herself on her way of looking sternly at people who displeased her. She always wished, however, that she could look at them with both eyes at once. She thought that if this were possible she could stop their nonsense more quickly. Snip could not say anything just then. He was trying to be polite, and it took all his strength. He was young and wanted to have a good Horse laugh. He could not help thinking how a Horse would look covered with feathers and sprawling in the middle of the road. Of course the Brown Hen had not meant it in exactly that way, but was as unlucky as most people are when they lose their tempers, and amused the very people whom she most wanted to scold. Bobs was a steady old gray Horse, and he was used to the Brown Hen. "I am sorry that we had to disturb you," he said pleasantly. "You looked very comfortable and I tried to turn out, but the Farmer held the lines so tightly that I could not. The bit cut into my mouth until I could not stand it. You see he wanted to back the wagon up right here, and so he couldn't let us turn out. We'll do better next time if we can." The Brown Hen let both her feet down and took a few steps forward. "If you couldn't help it, of course I won't say anything more," she remarked, and walked off. "P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p!" said Snip, blowing the air out between his lips. "Why did you bother to tell her that? She is so fussy and cross about everything that I wouldn't tell her I was sorry. Why doesn't she just find another place, as the other Hens do?" "Snip," said Bobs, "I used to talk in that way when I was a Colt, but I find that it makes things a good deal pleasanter around the place if I take a little trouble to say 'I am sorry' when I have to disturb people. You know how the Farmer does at noon? He comes into the stall when I have finished my dinner, and he gives me a pat and says, 'Come along, old fellow. We'd rather be lazy, but we have to work.' Do you think I'd hang back then? I tell you when I want to balk. It is when the Hired Man leads me out with a jerk. That makes me kick." "I wonder if she will take her dust bath now?" said Snip. "Oh no," answered Bobs. "Any other Hen on the farm would, but the Brown Hen will not. She will stalk around all day thinking what a hard time she has and talking about it, but she won't take her dust bath, not although every other fowl on the place should wallow beside her." "Then I don't see what good it did for you to tell her you were sorry," said Snip, who never liked to confess that he was wrong. "It did a lot of good," said Bobs, steadily. "Before that she was fussy and cross. Now she is only fussy. Besides, I really had to say something to her, and if it had not been pleasant it would have had to be unpleasant, and then there would have been two cross people instead of one. Quite likely there would have been even more before the day was over, for if each of us had gone on being cross we would have made more of our friends cross, and there is no telling where it would have ended. I'd feel mean, anyhow, if I lost my temper with a Hen. Imagine a great big fellow like me getting cross with a little creature like her, who has only two legs, and can't get any water into her stomach without tipping her head back for each billful." Snip had wanted to ask many more questions, but so much began to happen that he quite forgot about the Brown Hen. The Farmer and the Hired Man had gone into the house, and now they came out, carrying a cook-stove between them. This they put into the wagon, covering it with rag carpet. The Farmer's Wife came to the door with rolled-up sleeves and a towel tied over her head. She looked tired but happy. In her hands she carried the legs of the stove, which she tucked into the oven. This was a great event to happen on the quiet farm. Brown Bess and her new Calf came close to the fence which separated their pasture from the driveway, and stood looking on. The Pigs and their mother pressed hard against the walls of their pen on the two sides from which anything could be seen. Each of the nine Pigs thought that he had the poorest place for peeping, so he wriggled and pushed and pushed and wriggled to get a better one, and it ended in none of them seeing anything, because they were not still long enough. Their mother, being so much taller than they, had a crack all to herself and could see very well. "I don't understand why they want to do that," she sighed, as she lay down for another nap. "It was after the snow came that they brought the stove out here. But you can never tell what the people who live in houses and wear clothing will do next! They really seem to like to pick things up and carry them around. They are so silly." The Gander came along with his wife and the other Geese. He ate grass while they visited with the Hens in the road. The Hens told him all they knew, even what the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen had seen when she walked along the porch and peeped in at the open kitchen door. Then the Geese waddled back to where the Gander was and told him all the Hens had told them. He listened to it, asking a good many questions, and then said that it was just like Geese to be so interested in other people's business. That made them feel quite ashamed, so they ate a little grass to make themselves feel better, and then stood around to watch the loading of the wagon. Besides the stove, the kitchen and dining-room furniture was put in, with a few of the largest plants from the sitting-room, and when the Farmer drove off he had the clock beside him on the seat, the churn between his knees, and a big bundle of some sort on his lap. It suddenly seemed very dull on the farm. One of the Doves flew along above the team for a while and brought back the news that they had turned toward town. There was nothing now to be done but to wait until they returned and then ask as many questions as possible of the Horses. "I believe that the family is going to move into town," said the White Cock, who always expected sad things to happen. Even when there was not a cloud in the sky, he was sure that it would rain the next day. That was probably because he was careless about what he ate. The Shanghai Cock said that he did not take half gravel enough, and any sensible fowl will tell you that he cannot be truly happy unless he eats enough gravel. "What will ever become of us," asked the Hens, "if the family moves to town? It is their business to stay here and take care of us." "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed the Young Cock. "Let them go. I can have a good enough time in the fields finding my own food." The Pullets looked at him admiringly. "But who will take care of us?" they asked. "I will," said he, holding his head very high. And that was exactly what they wanted him to say, although each of them would rather have had him say it to her alone. "There will be nobody left to set traps for the Rats and the Weasels," said an old Hen, who had seen much of the ways of poultry-yards. "And if our Chickens have the gapes, who will make horse-hair loops and pull the little Worms out of their throats? I have always said that it was well to have people living in the farmhouse." "Well," said the Brown Hen, "I hope that if they go they will take the Horses with them. There is no pleasure in life when one is all the time afraid of being run over. You know what happened this morning, when I had started to take my dust bath. I spoke to the Horses about it afterward, and Bobs was very polite, but that didn't give me the bath which he and that silly young Snip had spoiled. And I do not feel at all like myself without a bath." "Take it now then," said the Shanghai Cock, who never bothered to be polite. "You ought to be able to get it in while the team is going to town and back." "No," said the Brown Hen, firmly, "it is too far past the time when I should have taken it. I was never one of those Hens who can wallow from morning until night. I need my bath and I ought to have it, but when I have been kept from it so long I simply have to go without it." The other Hens said nothing. In nearly every poultry-yard there is one fowl who is so fussy as to make everybody else uncomfortable. The rest become used to it after a while and do not answer back when she talks so. In the house, the Farmer's Wife was hurrying to and fro, showing the Hired Man where to put this or calling him to lift that, and every little while something else would be brought out and placed on the side porch. Once a basket of wax fruit was set on a table there. The glass which usually covered it was put to one side, and the Young Cock who had promised to care for the Pullets flew up to peck at it. He knew it was not right, but he got one hurried billful from the side of the reddest peach just as the Hired Man threw an old shoe at him. "How does it taste?" cried the Geese, who were still hanging around to find out what they could. The Young Cock did not reply, but wiped his bill on the grass for a long time. He feared he would never be able to open it again. The peaches which he had eaten the fall before had not stuck his bill together in this way, and he was now more sure than ever that the people who lived in houses did not know very much. "Such fruit should be thrown away," he said. "It must be eating such peaches as this which keeps the Boy chewing so much of the time. I have watched him, and he carries something in his mouth which he chews and chews and chews, but never swallows. Once his mother made him throw it away, and I should think she would. He waggled his jaws very much like a Cow." Then he strolled off toward the woods to get away from the other fowls. In the middle of the afternoon the team came back drawing the empty wagon. All the poultry came sauntering toward the barn, making excuses as they came. "Too hot out in the sunshine," said the Brown Hen. "I really cannot stand it any longer." "The Geese would come up to the barn," said the Gander, "so I thought I might as well come along." "Shouldn't wonder if they would throw out some corn when they get through unharnessing," said the Gobbler. The Ducks never kept up with the others, and they were close to the house when Bobs and Snip stopped there. "How very lucky!" they quacked, for they were a truthful family and not given to making excuses. "We hope you will tell us what all this means. Are the Farmer's people moving away?" "They are," replied Bobs, who was always good about giving a direct answer to a direct question. "You know the children have been staying in town to go to school ever since last fall, and now their father has sold the farm and is moving into town to be with them." "Will they take us into town?" asked the Drake. "Guess not," said Snip. "They are to live over a store." By this time the disappointed ones who had been waiting in the barn came hurrying along toward the house, where the wagon was being filled once more. It did not take long for the Ducks to tell the news, and then there was great excitement, very great indeed. Brown Bess heard it and licked her Calf more tenderly than ever. She knew that they could not live over a store, and she wondered what would become of them both. In the Pig-pen the little Pigs were teasing their mother to tell who would bring them their food. It was enough to make her lose her patience to have nine children all asking questions at the same time, and each saying "Why?" every time that he was given an answer. So it is not to be wondered at that she finally became cross and lay down in the corner with her back to them, pretending to be asleep. To tell the truth, she herself was somewhat worried. She had often called the Farmer's family silly, but she had not minded their habit of carrying things around, when the things that they carried were pails full of delicious food and they were carrying them to the Pig-pen. It was the poultry who talked the longest about the change, and perhaps this was partly because there were so many of them to talk. Poultry have a very happy time on small farms like this one. It is true that they did not have a good house of their own, and they had but little attention paid to them, yet when the cold winter was once past, there was all the lovely spring, summer, and fall weather in which to be happy. They were not kept in a yard, going wherever they chose, finding plenty to eat, and having no cares, excepting that when a Hen felt like it she laid an egg. She laid it wherever she chose, too, and this was usually somewhere in the barn or woodshed. Sometimes Hens wanted to sit, and then they came off after a while with broods of Chickens. When a Hen had done that, she was usually caught and put under a coop for a few days. She never liked that part of it, and the others always told her that if she would hatch out Chickens she might know what to expect. The winters were bad, but then the poultry spent their whole time in trying to be comfortable and hardly ever bothered to lay eggs, so it was an easy life after all. No wonder that they talked about the change until after they went to roost. Although the Farmer was not a thrifty man, he had been kind enough to the creatures on the farm, and they did not want to go away or belong to any one else. The last word spoken was by a black Hen. She was not Black Spanish or black anything-in-particular. In fact, there was only one of the Hens who knew to what breed she belonged. That was the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, and it made her very proud. The Black Hen had a temper, and had even been known to peck at the Farmer's Wife. "Do you know what I will do if a new Farmer tries to make me lay my eggs where he wishes?" she said. "I may have to lay the eggs there, but I will smash every one of them if I do." THE NEW OWNER COMES On the morning after the family left, a pale and quiet Man, wearing glasses, came out in a platform wagon to look over the farm. He had been there but a short time when two great loads of furniture appeared down the road. Then the Man took off his coat and helped the drivers carry it all into the little farmhouse. The fowls, who happened to be near enough, noticed that the Man never lifted anything which seemed to be heavy. They noticed, too, that his hands were rather small and very white. Still he acted as though he expected to live on the place. With the others helping him, he put down two carpets and set up two stoves. The other Men drove away, leaving the single Horse and the platform wagon. The Man washed his hands, put on his coat, and brought a pasteboard box out onto the side porch. He opened it carefully, took out a glass, and drew up a bucketful of water at the well. He filled his glass and carried it back to the porch. Then he began to eat his dinner. All the farm people had been properly cared for that morning by the Farmer from across the road, and felt sure that he would not see them wanting food, so it was not just a wish for something to eat which made every creature there come quietly to a place near the side porch. They were certain that they belonged to this Man, and they wanted to find out what he was like. "I hope he isn't expecting to milk me," said Brown Bess. "I don't believe he could draw a drop from my udders, and he would probably set the stool down on the wrong side anyhow." Bobs and Snip were no longer on the farm, having gone to town, to work there with their old master, so the Hog was the next to speak. "I hope he won't eat that kind of dinner every day," said she. "It looks to me as though there would be no scraps left to go into my pail." "Ugh! Ugh! Stingy!" grunted the little Pigs. "He wants it all for himself!" They did not stop to think that every time food was emptied into their trough, each of them acted as though he wanted every drop and crumb of it for himself. The Gobbler strutted up and down near the porch, with his feathers on end and his wings dragging. "There is just one thing I like about the Man," said he. "He does _not_ wear a red tie." "I can't tell exactly what is the matter," said the Gander, "but he is certainly very different from any Man I ever saw before. I think he must belong to a different breed. The things he has on his feet are much blacker and shinier than the Men around here wear, and that stiff and shiny white thing around his neck is much higher. I hope he is not stupid. I cannot bear stupid people." "Neither can we," murmured the Geese. "We really cannot bear them." "I fear he does not know very much," said the Drake, sadly, "although I must say that I like his face. He looks good and kind, not at all as though he would ever throw stones at people for the fun of seeing them waddle faster. What I do not like is the way in which he acted about getting his water. Any Duck knows that you can tell most about people by the way they take water. The old gourd which the Farmer and his family used so long, hung right on the chain-pump, and yet this Man got a glass and filled it. He did not even drink from it as soon as it was full, but filled and emptied it three times before drinking. That is not what I call good sense." "Did you notice how he put on his coat before he began to eat?" asked the White Cock. "I never saw our Farmer do that except in very cold weather, and I have been close to the kitchen door a great many times when they sat down to the table." "It must be that he was not very hungry," said one of the Hens, "or he would never have taken so much time to begin eating. Besides, you can see that he was not, by the size of his mouthfuls. He did not take a single bite as big as he could, and you will never make me believe that a person is hungry when he eats in that way." This was the Hen who usually got the largest piece from the food-pan and swallowed it whole to make sure of it, before any of the other fowls could overtake her and get it away. Then the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen spoke. "I like him," she said. "I am sure that he belongs to a different breed, but I think it is a good one. I remember hearing somebody say, when I was a Chicken, that it was well for fowls to have a change of ground once in a while, and that it would make them stronger. I believe that is why he is here. You can tell by watching him work that he is not strong, and he may be here for a change of ground. I shall certainly befriend him, whatever the rest of you do. We people of fine families should stand by each other." Then she strolled over toward the Man, lifting her feet in her most aristocratic way and perking her head prettily. The Man smiled. He broke a piece from the slice of bread which he was eating, and sprinkled it lightly with salt from a tiny bottle. This piece he divided into two portions and held one out at arm's length toward the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. She had never before been invited to eat from anybody's hand, and she was really afraid to do it. Her skin felt creepy, as though her feathers were about to stand on end. Still, she had just said that she meant to befriend the new Man, and that he and she were of finer breeds than most people. Here was her chance to prove her words, and she was not the sort of Hen to show the white feather. She stood erect in all her Plymouth Rock dignity, and ate the bread in five pecks. Then she stooped and wiped her bill daintily on the grass at the Man's feet before strolling away again. You can imagine what excitement this made among the poultry. The Gobbler, the Gander, and the Drake did not wish to appear too much interested, and some of the Cocks acted in the same way, but the mothers and sisters of the families talked of nothing else for a long time. It is true that the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen had not been very popular on the farm, most of the Hens insisting that she put on airs, but now they could not help admiring her courage and grace. Two or three of them even thought she might be right in saying that it was a good thing to come from a fine family. The Cocks had never thought her airy. They always told the other Hens that it was just their notion, and that she was really a very clever and friendly Hen. As for the Man, he seemed much pleased by what had happened. He put his hat on the back of his head and smiled. "That is a good beginning," he said to himself. "To eat bread and salt together means that we will always be friends, and I would rather break bread with respectable poultry than with some Men that I know." Late in the afternoon, the Man harnessed his Horse, whom he called Brownie, to the same platform wagon in which he had come, gave one parting look all around the house and yard, turned the key in the side door, and drove off toward town. "What next?" asked all the poultry. If you had ever been a Hen or a Duck or a Turkey or a Goose (for although you may have acted like a perfect Goose, you probably never have been one), you would know just how worried the poultry on this particular farm were, after the new Man had driven away in the platform wagon. It seemed quite certain that he had gone to town to bring out his family, and it mattered a great deal to them what his family were like. A single Boy of the wrong kind could make all the fowls on the place unhappy, and the others agreed with the Gobbler when he said, "There is one thing worse than a Girl in a red dress, and that is a Boy who throws stones." It was a very sad company which wandered around the farmyard, picking here and there, and really eating but little. The White Cock would keep talking about the dreadful things which might happen, and reminded his friends that there might be two Boys, or three, or four, perhaps even five in the family! The other fowls soon tried to get away from him, and then they were often so unfortunate as to meet the Brown Hen, who was fussing and worrying for fear the Man would shut her up in a small yard. At last the Shanghai Cock lost his temper, as he was very apt to do, and said that there were some fowls he would like to have shut up. This displeased both the White Cock and the Brown Hen, because the Shanghai Cock had looked at both of them when he spoke, using one eye for each, and they did not know what to say. They thought from the mean little cackling laugh which the others gave, that he might have wished them to shut up their bills. Then they did the very best thing that they could have done, going off together to the pasture, where each could talk gloomily to the other without annoying anybody else. When Brownie came jogging back to the farm, the platform wagon looked very gay. On the back seat sat a pleasant looking Woman with a fat Baby on her lap. Beside her sat a Little Girl with brown hair. On the seat beside the Man sat another Little Girl, dressed exactly like the first one and just as large as she, but with golden hair. They were all laughing and talking and pointing at different things as they drove into the yard. "It is not much like our other home," said the Man, as he set the Baby on his feet beside the steps, and turned to help the Woman out. "That does not matter if we can be comfortable and well here," she answered with a smile. "It will be a lovely place for the children, and I believe it will make you strong again." "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young Cock from the top rail of the fence. He did it only to show off, but the children, who had never lived on a farm, and so could not understand poultry-talk very well, felt sure that he said, "How-do-you-all-do?" and thought him exceedingly polite. The Baby started after him at once, and fell flat before he had taken six steps. [Illustration: "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" SAID THE YOUNG COCK. _Page 26_] The Man, the Woman, and the two Little Girls all started to pick up the Baby, who was so wound up in his long cloak that he could not rise. Brownie looked around in a friendly way and stood perfectly still, instead of edging off toward the barn as some Horses would have done, while the Baby just rolled over on his back and laughed. "Gobble-gobble-gobble!" said the Gobbler. "I think this family will suit us very well." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was too polite a fowl ever to say "I told you so," but she stood very straight and chuckled softly to herself, so the rest could know that she was pleased with what she saw, and felt more certain than ever that the Man and his family were no common people. All the family went to the barn with the Man while he unharnessed Brownie and gave him his supper. The children had a happy time on the hay, and, before they went into the house together, the Man put some corn in a pan and let them scatter it by the door for the poultry. "They have been running loose in the fields," he said, "and they may not need it all, but we will give it to them anyway, and to-morrow I will study my book of directions and see how they should be fed at this season." The children scattered the corn, the Woman kneeling down with her arm around the Baby, to keep him from falling over each time that he threw a few kernels. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was the first to come forward to pick it up, and the Man told his wife how he and she had eaten bread and salt at noon. Then the Woman said: "Come, we must go into the house! I should have been there working long ago, but I wanted to see the children make friends with the poultry." As the door of the house closed behind its new inmates, the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen could not help looking at the Shanghai Cock. "Yes," he said, for he knew what she meant, "I like your friends very much. They seem to have some sense." Then the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was satisfied, for she was fond of the Shanghai Cock, and praise from him was praise indeed. THE FIRST SPRING CHICKENS ARE HATCHED It was only a few days after the new family settled in the house that the Man drove out from town with a queer-looking box-like thing in his light wagon. This he took out and left on the ground beside the cellarway. When he had unharnessed Brownie and let him loose in the pasture, he came back and took the crate off from the box. Then the poultry who were standing around saw that it was not at all an ordinary box. Indeed, as soon as the Man had fastened a leg to each corner, they thought it rather more like a fat table than a box. While the Man was examining it, he kept turning over the pages of a small book which he took from some place inside the table. The Geese thought it quite a senseless habit of the Man's, this looking at books when he was at work. They had never seen the Farmer do so, and they did not understand it. When Geese do not understand anything, you know, they always decide that it is very silly and senseless. There are a great many things which they do not understand, so, of course, there are a great many which they think extremely silly. The Little Girls and their mother stood beside the Man as he looked at the book and the fat new table. He said something to one of them and she went into the house. When she came out she had a small basketful of eggs. The Man took some and put them into one part of the table. Then he took them out again and put them into the basket. That disgusted the Brown Hen, who was watching it all. "I am always fair," she said, "and I am willing to say that I have been treated very well by this Man, very well indeed, but it is most distressing and unpleasant to a sensible fowl like myself to have to see so much utter foolishness on a farm where I have spent my life." "Then why don't you shut your eyes?" asked the Shanghai Cock, with his usual rudeness, and after that the Brown Hen could say nothing more. This was a great relief to the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, who did not at all understand what was going on, but would have tried to defend the Man if the Brown Hen had asked her about it. After a while the Woman helped the Man carry the queer-looking object into the cellar, and then the poultry strolled off to talk it all over. They heard nothing more about the fat table until the next morning. Then the Gander, who had been standing for a long time close to the cellarway, waddled off toward the barn with the news. "They use that table to keep eggs in," said he. "Now isn't that just like the Man? I saw him put in a great many eggs, and he took them all out of little cases which he brought from town this morning. I don't see why a Man should bring eggs out from town, when he can get plenty in the barn by hunting for them. Do you?" "He won't find any of mine in the barn," said a Hen Turkey. "I lay one every day, but I never put them there." When she had finished speaking, she looked around to see if the Gobbler had heard her. Luckily he had not. If he had, he would have tried to find and break her eggs. "That was not the only silly thing the Man did," said the Gander, who intended to tell every bit of news he had, in spite of interruptions. "Probably not," said the White Cock, who was feeling badly that morning, and so thought the world was all wrong. "No indeed," said the Gander, raising his voice somewhat, so that the poultry around might know he had news of importance to tell. "No indeed! The Man marked every egg with a sort of stick, which he took from his pocket. It was sharp at both ends, and sometimes he marked with one end and sometimes with the other. He put a black mark on one side of each egg and a red mark on the other." "Red!" exclaimed the Gobbler. "Ugh!" "Yes, red," said the Gander. "But the worst and most stupid part of it all was when he lighted a little fire in something that he had and fastened it onto the table." "What a shame!" cried all the Geese together. "It will burn up those eggs, and every fowl knows that it takes time to get a good lot of them together. He may not have thought of that. He cannot know very much, for he probably never lived on a farm before. He may think that eggs are to be found in barns exactly as stones are found in fields." All this made the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen very sad. She could not help believing what she had heard, and still she hoped they might yet find out that the Man had a good reason for marking and then burning up those eggs. She was glad to think that none of hers were in the lot. She was not saving them for Chickens just then, but she preferred to think of them as being eaten by the Little Girls or the fat Baby who lived in the house. She decided to begin saving for a brood of Chickens at once. She wanted to say something kind about the Man, or explain what he was doing when he lighted that fire. However, she could not, so she just kept her bill tightly shut and said nothing at all. This also showed that she was a fine Hen, for the best people would rather say nothing at all about others than to say unkind things. It was a long time before the friendly Barred Plymouth Rock Hen knew what was going on in the cellar. She was greatly discouraged about the Man. She had tried as hard as she could to make the other poultry believe in him, and had thought she was succeeding, but now this foolishness about the fat table and the eggs seemed likely to spoil it all. She found a good place for laying, in a corner of the carriage house on some old bags, and there she put all her eggs. She had decided to raise a brood of Chickens and take comfort with them, leaving the Man to look out for himself as well as he could. She still believed in him, but she was discouraged. Several of the other Hens also stole nests and began filling them, so on the day when the Man hunted very thoroughly for eggs and found these stolen nests, taking all but one egg from each, there were five exceedingly sad Hens. You would think they might have been discouraged, yet they were not. A Hen may become discouraged about anything else in the world, but if she wants to sit, she sticks to it. That very day was an exciting one in the cellar. When the Man came down after breakfast to look at the eggs in the fat table he found them all as he had left them, with the black-marked side uppermost. He took them out to air for a few minutes, and then began putting them back with the red-marked side uppermost. As he lifted them, he often put one to his ear, or held it up to the light. He had handled the eggs over in this way twice a day for about three weeks. A few of them had small breaks in the shell, and through one of these breaks there stuck out the tiny beak of an unhatched Chicken. When he found an egg that was cracked, or one in which there seemed to be a faint tap-tap-tapping, he put it apart from the others. [Illustration: RETURNED WITH THE BABY IN HIS ARMS. _Page 37_] When this was done, the Man ran up the inside stairs. In a few minutes he returned with the Baby in his arms and the rest of the family following. The Woman had her sleeves rolled up and flour on her apron. The Little Girls were dressed in the plain blue denim frocks which they wore all the time, except when they went to town. Then all five of them watched the cracked eggs, and saw the tiny Chickens who were inside chip away the shell and get ready to come out into the great world. The Woman had to leave first, for there came a hissing, bubbling sound from the kitchen above, which made her turn and run up-stairs as fast as she could. Then what a time the Man had! The Baby in his arms kept jumping and reaching for the struggling Chickens, and the two Little Girls could hardly keep their hands away from them. "Let me help just one get out of his shell," said the brown-haired Little Girl. "It is _so_ hard for such small Chickens." "No," said the Man, and he said it very patiently, although they had already been begging like this for some time. "No, you must not touch one of them. If you were Hens, you would know better than to want to do such a thing. If you should take the shell off for a Chicken, he would either die or be a very weak little fellow. Before long each will have a fine round doorway at the large end of his shell, through which he can slip out easily." Some of the Chickens worked faster than others, and some had thin shells to break, while others had quite thick ones, so when the first Chicken was safely out many had not even poked their bills through. As soon as the first was safely hatched, the Man took away the broken shell and closed the fat table again. Then he waved his hat at the Little Girls and said "Shoo! Shoo!" until they laughed and ran out-of-doors. All that day there were tiny Chickens busy in the incubator (that was what the Man called the fat table), working and working and working to get out of their shells. Each was curled up in a tight bunch inside, and one would almost think that he could not work in such a position. However, each had his head curled around under his left wing, and pecked with it there. Then, too, as he worked, each pushed with his feet against the shell, and so turned very slowly around and around inside it. That gave him a chance, you see, to peck in a circle and so break open a round doorway. As they came out, the Chickens nestled close to each other or ran around a bit and got acquainted, talking in soft little "Cheep-cheep-cheeps." They were very happy Chickens, for they were warm and had just about light enough for eyes that had seen no light at all until that day. It is true that they had no food, but one does not need food when first hatched, so it is not strange that they were happy. It is also true that they had no mother, yet even that did not trouble them, for they knew nothing at all about mothers. Probably they thought that Chickens were always hatched in incubators and kept warm by lamps. The next morning, when the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was sitting on her one egg in the carriage house, thinking sadly of her friend, the Man, that same Man came slowly up to her. The Little Girls were following him, and when they reached the doorway they stood still with their toes on a mark which the Man had made. They wanted very much to see what he was about to do, yet they minded, and stood where they had been told, although they did bend forward as far as they could without tumbling over. The Man knelt in front of the sitting Hen, and gently uncovered the basket he held. The Hen could hardly believe her ears, for she heard the soft "cheep-cheep-cheep" of newly hatched Chickens. She tried to see into the basket. "There! There!" said the Man, "I have brought you some children." Then he lifted one at a time and slipped it into her nest, until she had twelve beautiful downy white Chickens there. "Well! Well! Well!" clucked the Hen. And she could not think of another thing to say until the Man had gone off to the barn. He had taken her egg, but she did not care about that. All she wanted was those beautiful Chickens. She fluffed up her feathers and spread out her wings until she covered the whole twelve, and then she was the happiest fowl on the place. The Man came back to put food and water where she could reach both without leaving her nest, and even then she could think of nothing to say. After he went away, a friend came strolling through the open doorway. This Hen was also sitting, but had come off the nest to stretch her legs and find food. It was a warm April day, and she felt so certain that the eggs would not chill, that she paused to chat. "Such dreadful luck!" she cackled. "You must never try to make me think that this Man is friendly. He has left me only one of the eggs I had laid, and now I have to start all over for a brood of Chickens, or else give up. The worst of it is that I feel as though I could not lay any more for a while." "Don't be discouraged," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "I had only one egg to sit on last night, and this morning I have a whole brood of Chickens." "Where did they come from?" asked the visiting Hen, in great excitement. "That is what I don't know," replied the happy mother. "The Man brought them to me just now, and put food and water beside my nest. I have asked and asked them who their mother was, and they say I am the first Hen they ever saw. Of course that cannot be so, for Chickens are not blind at first, like Kittens, but it is very strange that they cannot remember about the Hen who hatched them. They say that there were many more Chickens where they came from, but no Hen whatever." The White Cock stood in the doorway. "Do you know where my Chickens were hatched?" asked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "Do I know?" said he, pausing to loosen some mud from one of his feet (he did not understand the feelings of a mother, or he would have answered at once). "I saw the Man bring a basketful of Chickens over this way a while ago. He got them from the cellar. The door was open and I stood on it. Of course I was not hanging around to find out what he was doing. I simply happened to be there, you understand." "Yes, we understand all about it," said the Hens, who knew the White Cock as well as anybody. "I happened to be there," he repeated, "and I saw the Man take the Chickens out of the fat table. There was no Hen in sight. It must be a machine for hatching Chickens. I think it is dreadful if the Chickens on this farm have to be hatched in a cellar, without Hens. Everything is going wrong since the Farmer left." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen and her caller looked at each other without speaking. They remembered hearing the White Cock talk in that way before the Farmer left. He was one of those fowls who are always discontented. "I am going back to my nest," said the visiting Hen. "Perhaps the Man will bring me some Chickens too." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen sat on her nest in the carriage house, eating and drinking when she wished, and cuddling her children under her feathers. She was very happy, and thought it a beautiful world. "I would rather have had them gray," she said to herself, "but if they couldn't be gray, I prefer white. They are certainly Plymouth Rock Chickens anyway, and the color does not matter, if they are good." She stood up carefully and took a long look at her family. "I couldn't have hatched out a better brood myself," she said. "It is a queer thing for tables to take to hatching Chickens, but if that is the way it is to be done on this farm, it will save me a great deal of time and be a good thing for my legs. It is lucky that this Man came here. The Farmer who left would never have thought of making a table sit on eggs and hatch them." THE MAN BUILDS A POULTRY-HOUSE It would be wrong to say that all the poultry on the farm really liked the Man. The White Cock and the Brown Hen had never been known really to approve of anybody, and the Shanghai Cock was not given to saying pleasant things of people. However, the Man certainly had more and more friends among the fowls on the place, and when the White Cock and the Brown Hen wanted to say what they thought of his ways, they had to go off together to some far-away corner where they could not be overheard. If they did not do this, they were quite certain to be asked to talk about something else. The five Hens who had had Chickens given to them were his firmest friends. It is true that each of them had really been on the nest long enough to hatch out Chickens of her own, yet they saw that another time they would be saved the long and weary sitting. They remembered, too, the Man's thoughtfulness in putting food and water where they could reach it easily on that first day, when they disliked so much to leave their families. They had spoken of this to the Gander, and had tried to make him change his mind about the fat table in the cellar. They might exactly as well have talked to a feed-cutter. "I hear what you say," he replied politely (Ganders are often the most polite when they are about to do or say mean things). "I hear what you say, but you cannot expect me to change my mind about what I have seen with my own eyes. It was certainly quite wrong for him to get ready to burn those eggs, and the marking of them was almost as bad. As for this nonsense about the table hatching out Chickens, that is quite absurd. You could not expect a Gander to believe that. It is the sort of thing which Hens believe." So the Man's friends had to give up talking to the Gander. Even the Geese were not sure that it was all right. "We would like to think so," they often remarked, "but the Gander says it cannot be." Now the fowls had something new to puzzle them, for the Man spent one sunshiny morning in walking to and fro in the fields which had always been used for a pasture, stopping every now and then to drive a stake. Sometimes he walked with long strides, and then when his Little Girls spoke to him he would shake his head and not answer. Afterward he seemed to be measuring off the ground with a long line of some sort, letting the Little Girls take turns in holding one end of it for him. After all of the stakes had been driven, the Man harnessed Brownie to the old stone-boat and began to draw large stones from different parts of the farmyard and pasture. He even went along the road and pried out some which had always lain there, right in the way of every team that had to turn aside from the narrow track. All these were drawn over to the stakes and tumbled off on the ground there. In the afternoon the Farmer from across the road brought a load of lumber, which he left beside the stone and stakes, and then the work began. The Farmer, who was used to building barns and sheds, began to help the Man lay stone for some sort of long, narrow building. For days after that the work went on. Sometimes the two Men worked together, and sometimes the Farmer drove off to town for more lumber, after showing the Man just what to do while he was gone. The Man seemed to learn very easily, and did not have to take out or do over any of his work. That was probably because he listened so carefully when the Farmer was telling him. People always make mistakes, you know, unless they listen carefully to what they are told. The poultry strolled around and discussed the new building every day. They could not imagine what it was to be. At first, when only the foundation was laid, it looked so long and narrow that the Gander declared it must be for a carriage house. "Don't you see?" he said. "There will be plenty of room for the platform wagon, the light lumber wagon, and the implements. When they are all in, there will be room for the Man to walk along on either side of them and clean them off. It is about the most sensible thing that I have known the Man to do." The Farmer always left his implements out in all kinds of weather, and sometimes one of his wagons stood out in a storm too. Nobody except the Geese agreed with the Gander, and they would have agreed with him just as quickly if he had said that the building was for Barn Swallows. You see the Gander was always ready to tell what he thought, and as the Geese never even thought of thinking for themselves, it was very easy for them simply to agree with him. Brown Bess looked at the long lines of stone all neatly set in cement, and said that she would not mind having one end of the building for herself and the Calf. "It would be much snugger than my place in the barn," said she, "although that is all right in warm weather." Brownie may have known what it was for, because he had a great deal of Horse sense, but if he knew he did not tell. Being the only Horse on the place, and so much larger than any of the other people, he had not made friends very quickly, although everybody liked him as well as they had Bobs. It was not until the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen saw that the long space was to be divided into many small rooms that she guessed it might be for the poultry themselves. Even then she dared not tell anybody what she thought. "In the first place," she said to herself, "they may prefer to run all over the farm, as they always have done, laying their eggs wherever they can. If any of them feel that way, they won't like it. If they really want a good house to live in, I might better not tell them what I think, for if I should be mistaken they would be disappointed." In all of which she was exactly right. It is much better for people not to tell their guesses to others. There is time enough for the telling of news when one is quite sure of it. As the work went on, the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen noticed that at each end of the long space there was a sort of scratching-shed with an open front. The distance between these end sheds was filled by two closed pens, two more scratching-sheds, two more pens, and so on. There were doors from one room to another all the way along, big doors such as Men need, and there were little doors from each pen to its scratching-shed just large enough for fowls. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen grew more and more sure that her guess was right, and still she said nothing, although she was happy to see how warm and snug the Man was making the pens. "Why," she said to herself, "if he will let me live in that sort of house I will lay eggs for him in the winter." She had hardly got the words out of her bill when the other poultry came up. It was growing late, and they came for a last look at the house before going to roost. "I declare," said the Gobbler, "I believe that house is for the Hens!" "Surely not," said the Gander. "You don't mean for the _Hens_, do you?" "That is what I said," replied the Gobbler, standing his feathers on end and dragging his wings on the ground. "Why not? The Man knows that Turkeys do not care much for houses, else we might have a place in it. I really wouldn't mind staying in a quiet home sometimes, but in pleasant weather my wives will go, and of course I cannot let them walk around the country alone, so that is how I have to spend my days." The Turkey Hens looked at each other knowingly. They wished that he would leave them and their children quite alone. He was not fond of children, and the year before the Turkey mothers had had dreadful times in trying to keep theirs out of his sight. "Let us go inside and see what it is like," said the little Speckled Hen, leading the way. Not until they reached the very last pen did they see enough to make them sure that the Gobbler was right. There they found the perches in place, the nest-boxes ready, and a fine feeding-trough just inside the large front window, where they could stand in the sunshine in winter and eat comfortable meals. The Cocks flew up at once to try the perches. "Fine!" said the Shanghai Cock. "Fine! These perches exactly fit my feet. I am glad that he made them large enough. Low, too, so that we cannot hurt ourselves in flying down." "I like this," said the White Cock. "The perches are all the same height from the floor. I like a low perch, but not if other fowls are above me. Now you larger fellows can't roost any higher than I do. Cock-a-doodle-doo!" It is not strange that he crowed over it, because every night the fowls had been fighting for the highest roosting places, and the strongest were sure to win. "Nests!" cackled the Hens. "Nests! How pleasant this will be! They are all in a row, so we can visit with each other while we are laying." "That is a good plan," said the Brown Hen, who really seemed pleased at last. "I am always thinking of things to say when I am laying, and there is hardly ever any other fowl near enough to hear. It has been very annoying." "I don't care so much about that," said a very sensible White Hen. "I can stand it not to talk for a while. What I want is a warm nest where the rain cannot strike me, and where I shall have quite room enough for my tail." "That is what we want, too," said three or four others. "There have always been so many unpleasant things," said the Brown Hen. "I have tried many places. I find a warm one where the wind cannot blow upon me, and usually there is not enough room for my tail. No Hen can lay comfortably in a nest when her tail is pushed to one side. I have tried laying under the currant bushes in warm weather, and there one has all out-of-doors for her tail, but on rainy days one has to change. I do not like changes." "You do not?" asked the Shanghai Cock. "I thought all fowls liked changes. If you live here in winter, you will be walking from the pen to the scratching-shed half of the time." "You know very well what I mean," said the Brown Hen. "I like the changes that I like, of course. Any fowl does. What I do not like is the changes that I don't like." She said this in a dignified and truly Hen-like manner, and then she walked off. "All I hope," said the White Cock, sadly, "is that we shall not be shut up in these places during the summer. One cannot tell what may happen. One must expect the worst. When I see the wire front of the scratching-shed, I fear that we shall be kept in." "Nonsense!" cried the Shanghai Cock. "Don't be a Goose. The Man has begun to put a wire fence around a great yard outside, and there will be plenty of room to run there if we are to live here. I do not believe that we shall be shut in, in pleasant weather." "Come," clucked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen to her brood. "Come with me to the carriage house. It is time all good little Chickens were asleep." She was very happy over the pleasant things which she had heard said about the Man. Only a truly polite Hen could have kept from saying "I told you so," all this time, but she had shut her bill tightly and kept back the words she wanted to say. You remember that the Shanghai Cock had always liked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, and now he thought she should be told how they had come to feel about her friend, the Man. He was not used to saying pleasant things, but having praised the perches made it a little easier for him. You know saying one kind thing always makes it easier to say another. So he ran after her. "Er-er! I don't want the Farmer to come back," he said. Then he thought that did not sound quite right and he tried again. "I'm not sorry he went away. I mean I'm glad that the Man came. All of us are now, except the Gander and the White Cock, and you don't really care for them, do you?" He looked at her lovingly with his round eyes, and the wind waved his drooping tail feathers. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen thought that she had never seen him look so handsome. "I don't care at all about them," she replied quite honestly, "and I am glad that you and the others like the Man." She said "you" much more loudly than she said "the others," and the Shanghai Cock must have known what she meant, for he stretched his neck, opened his bill, and gave such a crow as he was never known, before or since, to give at that hour of the day. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen went happily to her nest, and stayed awake long after her last Chicken was fast asleep. Even if one is grown-up and the mother of a family, even if one comes of a finer breed than one's neighbors, he cannot be truly happy without their hearty liking. This Hen felt that she had it at last, and that just by doing the thing which she thought right, but which the other poultry had not liked at all at first. It is often so. THE PEKIN DUCK STEALS A NEST The Ducks were not much interested in the new poultry-house. To be sure the Hens talked of hardly anything else now, and several had said that they would be glad to lay in the new nest-boxes as soon as they should be lined with hay for them. So the Ducks heard enough about the house, but did not really care for it at all. "It is too far from the river," said they. "We are quite contented with the old Pig-pen. Since the Hog and her children were taken away and the Man has cleaned it out, we find it an excellent place. There is room for all of us in the little shed where the Hog used to live, and the Man has thrown in straw and fixed good places for egg-laying. Besides, there is no door, and we can go in and out as often as we choose." That was exactly like the Ducks. They seemed to think that to go where they wished and when they wished was the best part of life. The best part of sleeping in the old Pigpen, they thought, was being able to leave it whenever they chose. They knew perfectly well, if they stopped to think about it, that a Weasel or Rat could get in quite as easily as they, and it was only their luck which had kept them safe so long. The Ducks were very pleasant people to know. They never worried about anything for more than a few minutes, and had charmingly happy and contented ways. There were only a few of them on the farm, and no two exactly alike in color and size. The Farmer had never paid much attention to them, and the Boy, who bought and kept them for pets, had tired of them so soon that they had been allowed to go wherever they pleased, until they expected always to have their own way. They took their share of the food thrown out for the poultry, and then went off to the river for the day. During the hot weather they stayed there until after all respectable Hens had gone to roost. Even the Geese left the water long before they did. When they went to sleep, they settled down on the floor and dozed off. "It is much easier than flying up to roosts and then down again," they said. "Find a place you like, and then stay there. We see no reason why people should make such a fuss about going to sleep." When the Shanghai Cock heard these things, he shook his head until his wattles swung. "That is all very well for the Ducks," said he, "but from the way this Man acts, I think there may be a change coming for them by and by. I notice that things are more different every day." The Ducks soon began to see that it was different with them. Ducks, you know, are always very careless about where they lay their eggs. Some of these were so old that they seldom laid eggs, only the Pekin Duck and her big friend, the Aylesbury Duck, laid them quite often after the middle of winter. At first the Man looked in the old Pig-pen for them, but after he had looked many days and found only one, he drew a book out of his pocket and read a bit. Then he called the Little Girls to him and talked to them. "I want you to watch each of those white Ducks," said he, "and for every one of their eggs which you find I will give you a penny." Each morning for some days after that, the two Ducks were followed by two hopeful Little Girls. "I don't mind it so much now," the Pekin Duck said to her friends on the third day, "but at first I didn't know what to do. I would no sooner sit down to lay under a bush or in some cosy corner than a Little Girl would sit on the ground in front and watch me. Then I would move to another place, and she would move too. I must say, however, that they are very good children. The Boy who lived here often threw stones at us. These children never do. I sometimes think there may be as much difference in Boys and Girls as there is in Ducklings." When the Little Girls tired of watching for eggs to be laid, the Pekin Duck decided to do something she had never tried before. She was the youngest of the flock, and she wanted Ducklings. The older Ducks tried to discourage her. "Have a good time while you can," said the Aylesbury Duck, who was about her age, and thought Ducklings a bother. "I don't want to be troubled with a lot of children." The old Ducks advised her not to try it. "You think it will be very fine," said they, "but you will find that you cannot go wherever you want to, and do whatever you please with Ducklings tagging along. The sitting alone is enough to tire a Duck out." "Oh, I think I could stand it," remarked the Pekin Duck, quietly. "Didn't some Duck stand it long enough to hatch me?" "Hatch you? No indeed," laughed an old Rouen Duck, who could remember quite distinctly things which had happened three years before on the farm from which they had all come to this. "Hatch you? A Shanghai Hen hatched you and half a dozen other Ducklings in a box with hay in it and slats across the front. I remember quite well how cross she became when she thought it time for her Chickens to chip the shell, and they did not chip. She never dreamed that she was sitting on Ducks' eggs, although every Duck on the place knew it and thought it a good joke. She was a stupid thing, or she would have known without being told. Any bright Hen knows that Ducks' eggs are larger, darker, and greasier looking than her own." The Pekin Duck remembered very little of her life before coming to the farm, so she was glad to hear of it from the old Rouen Duck. "What did my mother do when her eggs didn't hatch?" said she. "Do?" repeated the Rouen Duck. "Do? Why she did the only thing that any sitting fowl can do. She kept on sitting." "How long?" asked the Pekin Duck. "You don't suppose I can remember that, do you?" replied the Rouen Duck, twitching her little pointed tail from side to side. "Besides, I never count things. All I know is that she said one of the Cocks, who was a friend of hers, declared that the moon was quite new when she began sitting, and that she sat there until it was quite new again. He was roosting in a tree just then, and knew more about the moon because he always awakened to crow during the night. She thought it was dreadful to have to sit so long." The Pekin Duck saw that the Rouen Duck was still trying to discourage her. "I suppose it was harder for her because her legs were longer," she said. "If they were longer they would ache more, wouldn't they?" The Rouen Duck smiled all around her bill "Your mother had her worst time later on, though," she said. "When you and your brothers and sisters were hatched, she could not understand why you were so different from all the other children she had ever raised. She said that not one of you looked like her family, and the Shanghai Cock was very disagreeable to her about it. He said she should be more careful whose eggs she hatched. And when you children went into the water, your mother would walk up and down the bank of the pond, clucking as hard as she could, and begging you to come ashore at once. At night, too, there was trouble, for you would never go to bed as early as she thought proper. After a while she learned to march off at a time that suited her, and let you come when you were ready." "Thank you ever so much for telling me," said the Pekin Duck, sweetly. "It must be horrid to have the wrong kind of children. I promise you that I will not sit on Hens' eggs." Then she waddled away. "I want some Ducklings," said she, putting her pretty webbed feet down somewhat harder than usual. "I want Ducklings, and I am going to steal a nest at once." She was a Duck of determination, and made a start by finding a cosy spot under some burdock plants and laying an egg before she went in swimming. She was in such haste to make a beginning that she had actually to come back later to finish her nest, which she did by adding more dried leaves and grass and lining it with down which she plucked from her breast. After that, of course, all her friends knew that it was useless to talk to her about it, for when a Duck goes around at that season of the year with her breast all ragged from her plucking it, people may be very sure that she is planning to hatch a brood. It is not at all becoming, but it is a great help, for when the sitting Duck is tired or hungry, she can pull the down over the eggs and leave her nest, knowing that the down will keep them warm for a long time. Of course the other Ducks talked about her a good deal when she was not around, and said she would be sorry she had undertaken all that work and care, and that it was exactly as well to drop one's eggs anywhere and let the Man pick them up to put under some sitting Hen. "Yes," said the Aylesbury Duck, "or else give them to the fat table for hatching." Then they all laughed. It seemed such a joke to them that a table should take to hatching eggs. Nearly every day the Pekin Duck laid an egg, and she soon had enough to begin sitting. After that, she did not go up to the Pig-pen at night with her friends. It was quite lonely in the clump of burdocks, and if the Pekin Duck had been at all timid she might have had some bad nights, for Weasels, Rats, and Skunks were out after dark, looking for something to eat. Yet they must always have found food before they reached the burdocks, for the Duck was not disturbed. During the day her friends came along for a chat, and often the Drake waddled up for a visit. He seemed to think her a very sensible sort of Duck. He had not the Gobbler's dislike of children, although he never shared the labor of hatching them, like his friend the Gander. He thought one could be a good father without going quite as far as that. The days were long and the nights seemed longer to the tired Pekin Duck, but her courage never failed. When her legs cramped so that she could hardly step off the nest, she smiled and said to herself, "Suppose I were a Thousand-Legged Worm!" She fancied it made her feel better to think of such things, and she never remembered that Thousand-Legged-Worms do not sit on nests and hatch out their children in that way. It is probably better that she did not. If it does one good to think of Thousand-Legged-Worms, it is wise to think about them, even if one does make a slight mistake of this sort. When the rain came, the burdock leaves kept off most of it, and the few drops which fell between the leaves rolled off the Duck's back without wetting her at all. That was because her feathers were so oily that the rain could not stay on them. Ducks, you know, always have on their water-proofs, and can slip in and out of the water at any time without getting really wet. The pleasure which she missed most was seeing the changes which the Man was making in the upper end of the pasture. The Drake told her how great yards had been fenced in with wire netting, and how the fronts of the scratching-shed had been covered with somewhat finer netting of the same kind. "Not even a Weasel could get through it," he said. And then the Pekin Duck wished that the Man would fix a place for her Ducklings where Weasels could not get them. She had never feared such creatures for herself, but when she thought of her children she was afraid. That is always the way, since it is much easier for a mother to be brave for herself than for her children. On a beautiful morning in the last of May, the Pekin Duck was repaid for all her patience and courage by having seven beautiful Ducklings chip the shell. They were even more beautiful than she had thought they would be, and she could not understand why her friends seemed no more impressed. To be sure they said that they were fine Ducklings and that they looked like their mother, and admired their dainty little webbed feet and their bills. They spoke of the beautiful thick down which covered them, and said that they were remarkably bright and strong for their age. And yet the Pekin Duck could see that they had not properly realized what wonderful creatures the Ducklings were. It was when all the Ducks were gathered around to look at the Ducklings that one of the Little Girls came along with her doll. When she also saw the Ducklings, she was so excited that she hugged her doll tightly to her heart and ran off to find her father. A few minutes later the Pekin Duck saw her precious babies lifted into a well-lined basket and carried off toward the house. She followed, quacking anxiously, and keeping as close to the Man as possible. Twice he lowered the basket to let her see that her children were quite safe. The Man carried the basket to a place beside the new poultry-house, now all done, and quickly fixed the old down-lined nest, which the Little Girl had been carrying in another basket, into a fine coop. Next he put the nestlings into it and let the Pekin Duck cover them with her wings. He stretched fine wire netting across the front of the coop, and then the Pekin Duck was perfectly happy. Indeed it was not until the middle of the following night that she remembered she had not looked at the poultry-house at all. [Illustration: SHE FOLLOWED QUACKING ANXIOUSLY. _Page 72_] It was rather disappointing not to be able to take her children in swimming for two days, but when she saw how carefully the Man fed them on bread and milk and other soft food, and how particular he was about having plenty of clean water for them to drink, she quite forgave him for keeping them there. The other Ducks came to tell her how to care for the Ducklings, to shake their sleek heads, and to tell her how unfortunate it was that she could not take the Ducklings in swimming at once. "You will need to know many things," said the old Rouen Duck, "and I will tell you if you will come to me every time that you are perplexed." "Thank you," said the Pekin Duck. But she never went. She thought it just as well that a Duck who had never hatched out children should not be giving advice to people who had. When the Ducklings were three days old, they were let out and started at once for the river. When their mother had to stop to speak to her friends on the way, they did not wait for her, but marched on ahead. All the fowls spoke admiringly of them, and the Pekin Duck was truly happy as she looked at her seven proper little Ducklings. They were such bright children, too, waddling right down to the edge of the brook and slipping in without a single question as to how it should be done. Their mother followed after and showed them how she fed from the bottom, reaching her head far down until she could fill her orange-colored bill with the soft mud from the bottom. There were many tiny creatures in the mud which were good to eat, and these she kept and swallowed, letting the mud pass out between the rough edges of her bill. If the water had been deeper, she could have showed them how she dived, staying long under water and coming up in a most unexpected place. When they came out of the water and stood on the bank, their mother stretched herself up as tall as she could and preened her feathers. The seven little Ducklings stood as tall as they could and squeezed the water out of their down with their tiny bills, which seemed so much longer for them than their mother's did for her. The Pekin Duck was much amused to see how the other Ducks flocked around her children. Indeed, she laughed outright once, when she heard the old Rouen Duck say to the White Cock, "Don't you think that our Ducklings are growing finely?" Of course the Pekin Duck was ashamed of having laughed at any one so much older than she, so she stuck her head under her wing and pretended to be arranging the feathers there. When she drew it out again she was quite sober, but she was thinking "Our Ducklings! Our Ducklings! They may all call them that if it makes them happy to do so, but really they are my Ducklings, for I earned them, and they love me as they love nobody else." THE NEW NESTS AND THE NEST EGGS As might have been expected, the new poultry-house was no sooner finished than the fowls began to discuss who should live in the different parts. They could see no reason why they should not all run together, as they always had done. "Perhaps," the Black Hen had said, "the Man may put us all together and let the table's Chickens have pens to themselves." "What?" said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, "put me in one pen and my Chickens in another? That would never do." "You forget," said the Shanghai Cock very gently, "that by winter-time they will not need your care any more, and you will not wish to be with them so much." And that was true, for no matter how fond a Hen may be of her tiny Chickens, she is certain to care less for them when they are grown. All the fowls were quite sure that they should have the best pen and yard, because they had been the longest on the place. After they had spoken of that, they had a great time in deciding which was the best pen. Part of the fowls wanted to be in the end toward the road, so that they could see all that went on there and look across to the other farm to watch their neighbors. The Cocks all preferred this. They liked excitement. Some of the Hens wished to live in the pen next to the barn. "We are fond of the barn," they said. "We have been there so much, and have laid so many eggs there that it seems like home. We know that it is not so comfortable, but it seems like home." However, the Cocks had their wish, and on the day when it was granted there was such a crowing from fence-tops as greatly puzzled the Man. He could not find anything in his books and papers to explain it, although he looked and looked and looked. At last one of the Little Girls told him what she thought, and she was exactly right. "It sounds to me as though they were just happy," she said. You see the Man had not lived long enough on a farm to understand the language of poultry very well, so he had much to learn. There are many people who think themselves quite wise and yet cannot tell what one of a tiny Chicken's five calls means, and there are some Men, even some fathers (and fathers need to know more than anybody else in the world, except mothers) who do not know that a Cock can say at least nine different things with the same cry, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" This Man was a father and had been a school-teacher, too, so he was not an ignorant Man, and after his Little Girl said that he decided to learn poultry-talk. It took some weeks, but you shall hear by and by how well he succeeded. The Man wanted to teach the Hens to lay in the new nests, so that he would not have to spend much time in egg-hunting, and because he wished to be sure of finding the eggs as soon as they were laid. People should grow good as they grow old, you know, but it is not so with the eggs. The Man did not want to shut the fowls in during the warm weather, for then he would have to feed them more, and that would cost too much money, yet he opened this front pen with its scratching-shed and yard, and fed them there every night. While they were feeding he closed the outer gate, so that they could not go back to roost on the trees or wherever they chose. The perches were comfortable, with room enough for all, and far enough apart so that those in the back rows did not have their bills brushed by the tails of those in front. The Hens who had Chickens were now kept in the second pen from this, and so were quite safe from prowling Weasels and other hunters. In the front pen, you see, there were only full-grown fowls, and morning was a busy time for most of the laying Hens. The gate was not opened until the sun was well up, and by that time many of the Hens had laid in one of the cosy nests under the perches, nests which were so well roofed over that not even a pin-feather could have dropped into them from above. They were so very comfortable that even the Hens who did not lay before leaving the pen were soon glad to come strolling back to it, instead of fluttering and scrambling to some lonely corner of the hayloft in the barn. On the first morning that the fowls were shut in there, a very queer thing happened. The first Hen to go on a nest exclaimed, "Why, who was here ahead of me?" Nobody answered, and the Hen asked again. At last the Speckled Hen said, "I think you are the first one to lay this morning." "The first one!" exclaimed the Black Hen, for it was she, as she backed out onto the floor again. "You must not expect me to believe that I am the first when there is an egg in the nest already." As she spoke she pointed in with her bill, and the others came crowding around. There lay a fine, large, and quite shiny egg. While they were still looking and wondering which Hen had laid it, the Brown Hen discovered that there was an egg in each of the six other nests. She was so excited that for a minute she could hardly cackle. The Black Hen began to look angry, and stood her feathers on end and shook herself in a way that she had when she was much displeased. She was not a good-natured Hen. "You think that you are very smart," she said, "but _I_ think that you are very silly. Every fowl here knows that I always like to be the first on the nest in the morning, and yet seven of you must have laid in the night to get ahead of me. I don't mind having an egg in the nest. Every Hen likes to find at least one there. It is the mean way in which you tried to prevent my getting ahead of the rest of you." The Hens insisted that they never took their feet from the perches all night long, and the Speckled Hen, who was a very kind little person, tried to show the Black Hen that it was all a mistake of some sort. "Perhaps they were laid in there yesterday," said she, "only we did not notice them when we came in." The Cocks kept still, although they looked very knowing. They did not want to offend any of the Hens by taking sides. At last the Brown Hen spoke. It always seemed that she made some trouble every time she opened her bill. "I remember," said she, "that there was not an egg there when I went to roost last night. The last thing I did before flying up onto my perch was to look in all the nests and try to decide which I preferred." Then there was more trouble, and in the midst of it the Speckled Hen hopped into one of the nests. "Sorry to get ahead of you," she said politely to the Black Hen, "but the truth is that I feel like laying." She gave a little squawk as she brushed against the egg there. "It is light!" she cried. "It is light and slippery! None of us ever laid such an egg as that." "Of course not," said one of the Cocks, who now saw his way to stop the trouble. "Of course none of you lay that sort of eggs. I could have told you that long ago, if you had asked me." When the fowls were all looking at each other and wondering what sort of creature it could be who had slipped in and laid the eggs there, a tiny door in the outside wall, just back of one of the nests, was opened, and the Man peeped in. All he saw was a number of fowls standing around and looking as though they had been very much surprised. Half of the Hens stood with one foot in the air. He dropped the door, which was hinged at the top, and then the fowls looked at each other again. It was a great comfort to them at times like these to be able to look both ways at once. "The Man opened those little doors while we were asleep, and put those eggs in," they said. "They are not Hens' eggs at all. Probably they are some that his table laid." It was only a minute before all the nests were in use, and soon the noise of puzzled and even angry clucking was replaced by the joyous cackling of Hens who felt that they had done their work for the day. "Of course," said the Speckled Hen, "those eggs cannot be so good as the ones we lay, but I do not mind the feeling of them at all. And I must say that finding them already in a strange nest makes it seem much more homelike to me. This Man acts as though he really understood Hens and wanted to make them happy." THE WHITE PLYMOUTH ROCKS COME Only a few days after the new poultry-house had been opened to the fowls on the place, the Man came home from town with a crate in his light wagon. In the crate were a Cock and ten Hens. All were very beautiful White Plymouth Rocks, and larger than any of the fowls on the place would have supposed possible. You can imagine what a scurrying to and fro there was among those who had always lived on the place, and how many questions they asked of each other, questions which nobody was able to answer. "Are they to live on this farm?" said one. "It must be so," answered another. "Don't you see that the Man is getting ready to open the crate?" "Where do you suppose they came from?" asked a third. "Why, they are almost as big as Turkeys." "Altogether too large, I think," said a Bantam. "It makes fowls look coarse to be so overgrown." "What is that?" asked the Shanghai Cock, sharply. He had come up from behind without the Bantam's seeing him, and she hardly knew what to answer. She lowered her head and pecked at the ground, because she did not know what to say. She dared not tell the Shanghai Cock, who was very tall, that she thought large fowls looked coarse. So she kept still. It would have been much better if she had held up her head and told the truth, which was that she disliked to have large fowls around, since it made her seem smaller. "I think," said the Shanghai Cock, "that if a fowl is good, the more there is of him the better. If he is not good, the smaller he is the better." He looked over towards the wagon as he spoke, but the Bantam knew that he meant her, and then she was even more uncomfortable. She thought people were all looking at her, and she felt smaller than ever. The Man backed the wagon up to the outer gate of the second poultry-yard, which was just between the one where the Chickens were with their mothers and the one into which the older fowls were allowed to go. Then he loosened the side of the crate very carefully and took the new-comers out, one at a time. He had to hold the side of the crate with his hand, so the only way in which he could lift the fowls out was by taking them by the legs in his other hand and putting them, head downward, into the yard. One would think that it might be quite annoying to a fowl to have to enter his new home in that fashion, with all the others watching, but the White Plymouth Rocks did not seem to mind it in the least. Perhaps that was because they had been carried so before and were used to it. Perhaps, too, it was because they felt sure that the fowls who were standing around had also been carried by the legs. Perhaps it was just because they were exceedingly sensible fowls and knew that such things did not matter in the least. At all events, each Hen gave herself a good shake when allowed to go free, settled her feathers quickly, and began to walk around. The Cock did the same, only he crowed and crowed and crowed, as much as to say, "How fine it is to be able to stretch once more! A fellow could not get room to crow properly in that crate." [Illustration: TOOK THE NEW-COMERS OUT, ONE AT A TIME. _Page 88_] Now everybody knows that the poultry who had been long on the place should have spoken pleasantly to the White Plymouth Rocks at once. It would have made them much happier and would have been the kind thing to do. They did not do it, and there were different reasons for this. The Shanghai Cock was so used to saying disagreeable things every day to the fowls whom he knew, that now, when he really wanted very much to be agreeable, he found he did not know how. There are many people in the world who have that trouble. The Bantam Hen was cross, and walked away, saying to herself, "I guess they are big enough to take care of themselves." And that was a mistake, as you very well know, for nobody in this world is big enough to be perfectly happy without the kindness and friendship of others. As for the rest of the fowls, some of them didn't care about being polite; some of them didn't know what was the best thing to say and so did not say anything; and some thought it would not do to talk to them, because they were not so large and fine-looking as the White Plymouth Rocks. They really wanted to do the kind thing, but were afraid they did not look well enough. As though kindness were not a great deal more important than the sort of feathers one wears! The White Plymouth Rocks did the best that they could about it. They chatted pleasantly among themselves, saying that it was a fine day, and that it seemed good to set foot on grass once more, and that they had sadly missed having a bit of grass to eat with their grain and water while they were in the crate. It was at this time that the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen in the next yard came over to the wire netting which separated the two. She would have come sooner if it had not been for her Chickens. Two of them had been quarrelling over a fat bug which they found, and she stayed to settle the trouble and scold them as they deserved. Now she came stepping forward in her very best manner to greet the strangers. She knew that she was not so large as they, and that her barred gray feathers were not nearly so showy as their gleaming white ones, but she also knew that somebody should welcome them to the farm, and she was ashamed that it had not been done sooner. "Good-morning," said she. "I am very glad that you have come here to live." "Oh, thank you," replied all the White Plymouth Rocks together. "We are very glad to meet you. We hope to be happy here." "Have you come far?" asked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "Very far," said they. "Unless you have taken such a journey you can have no idea how glad we are to be free again." "I have never taken any journey," said she, "except the time I came here to live, and that was when I was only a Chicken. I do not remember much about it. I fluttered out of a crate that was being carried in a wagon, and ran around alone until I happened to find this place." "How sad!" exclaimed the Cock. "I hope you have had no such hard time since. They seem to have a good poultry-house here, although I have not yet been inside." "It is a good one," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, "but I do not sleep in it these warm nights. I stay in a coop in my yard with my children." As she spoke she looked lovingly down at the white flock around her feet. They were growing finely and already showed some small feathers on their wings. "Oh!" exclaimed the Hens in the other yard. "Oh, what beautiful Chickens! So strong! So quick! So well-behaved! How long is it since you hatched them?" "Well," replied their mother, "I suppose I did not hatch them. I sat long enough on the nest and laid enough eggs, but the Man who owns the farm took away my eggs and brought me these Chickens. He has a sort of table down in his cellar which hatches out all the Chickens on the farm. I might just as well have saved myself all those tiresome days and nights of sitting if I had known how it would be." "That is a good thing to know," said one of the new-comers. "On the farm from which we came, all the Chickens are hatched in that way. We never had a mother who was alive." "Not until after you were hatched I suppose," remarked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, who thought the other did not mean exactly what she had said. "We had no real mother then," said the White Plymouth Rock Hen. "There were so many of us that we had to get along without. The Man who owned us had a lot of things to take the place of mothers. They were made of wood and some soft stuff and he used to set them around in the yards on pleasant days. We ate the food and drank the water that were brought to us, and then we played around in the grass near the make-believe mothers. When we were tired or cold we crawled under them and cuddled down, and when we were scared we did the same way. We were very well cared for by the Men, and we all grew to be strong and healthy fowls, but I sometimes wish that we could have had a live mother to snuggle under and to love." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was greatly surprised. "I think it is well to save the Hens having to hatch out the broods," she said, "but they should be willing to care for the Chickens. There is nothing quite so good as a live mother." Another Plymouth Rock Hen strolled up. "I have been in the pen and the scratching-shed," said she, "and I think them delightful." "Are they at all like what you had before coming here?" asked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "Very much the same," was the reply. "Only on the farm from which we came there were a great, great many more pens. It took four Men to care for us all. Most of us were White Plymouth Rocks. What are those fowls outside? We never saw any that looked just like them." "Oh," replied the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen with a little smile, "they don't know exactly what they are. The Shanghai Cock is a Shanghai, as any one can tell by looking at his long and feathery legs, but he and I are the only ones who belong to fine families. He is really an excellent fellow, although, of course, being a Shanghai is not being a Plymouth Rock." "Of course not," agreed all the new fowls, speaking quite together. "We understand perfectly. You mean that he is a very good Shanghai." "Exactly," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "The other fowls think him rather cross, but he never has been cross to me. I think he gets tired of hearing some of them quarrel and fuss, and then he speaks right out." "One has to at times," said the Cock, politely, for he saw that the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen wished him to like her friends. "When you can," he added, "tell him that I would like to meet him. I suppose we shall not be allowed to go out of our own yard, but he can come up to the fence. And send the others also. We would like to meet our new neighbors." "I will," replied the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, as she clucked to her Chickens. "Good-by. I see that we have fresh food coming." While her children were feeding she pretended to eat, pecking every now and then at the food, and chatting softly with them as they ate. There was always much to say about their manners at such times, and she had to use both of her eyes to make sure that they did not trample on the food. She also had to remind them often about wiping their bills on the grass when they had finished. She could not bear to see a Chicken running around with mush on the sides of his bill. When they had eaten all they wished and ran away to play, she ate what was left and sat down to think. "I would like to be white," she said to herself. "I would certainly like to be white, and live in style with those fowls who have just come. It must be lovely to be so important that one is taken riding on the cars and lifted around carefully in crates." Then she remembered how they had spoken of their legs aching, and how glad they were to be free on the grass once more. "I don't know that I would really care about travelling," she added, "but I would like to live in such style with a lot of fowls of my own family." She remembered what the Cock had said about their having to stay in their own yard, and she added, "But I would not want to have to stay always in the same place." She thought a little while longer and laughed aloud. "I believe that I would really rather be just what I happen to be," said she. "I don't know why I never thought of that before." You can see that she was a most sensible Hen. Many fowls never stop to think that if they were to change places with others, they would have to stand the unpleasant as well as the pleasant part of the change. The little white Chickens came crowding up to their gray mother. "Tell us what made you laugh," they said. "Please tell us." Her small round eyes twinkled. "I was laughing," she said, "just because I am myself and not somebody else." "We don't see anything very funny about that," they exclaimed. "Who else could you be?" The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen sent them off to chase a Butterfly, and went to call on her nearest neighbor. "I would like to tell them," she said, "but they are too young to understand it yet." THE TURKEY CHICKS ARE HATCHED Spring was always an anxious time for the Hen Turkeys who wanted to raise broods. Raising children is hard work and brings many anxieties with it. The mother is so much afraid that they will take cold, or eat too much, or not get enough to eat, or take something that is not good for children. There is also the fear that they may be careless and have some dreadful accident. And, worst of all, there is always the fear that they may be naughty and grow up the wrong sort of people. These cares all mothers have, but the Turkey mothers have another care which is really very hard to stand, for the Gobblers do not like their children and will try in every way to prevent the eggs from hatching. If a Gobbler sees one of the Hen Turkeys laying an egg, he will break the egg, and if he meets a flock of tiny Turkey Chicks he will peck and hurt, perhaps even kill, all that he can of them. That is why the Hen Turkeys on the farm had always been in the habit of stealing away to lay their eggs in some secret place. One had even raised a fine brood in the middle of a nettle-patch the year before. She had slipped away from her friends and from the Gobbler day after day until she had laid thirteen eggs, and then had begun sitting. She had to sit as long as the Ducks do, and that is for twenty-eight days. You can imagine how tired she became, and how many times she had kept very still, hardly daring to move a feather, because she heard the Gobbler near and feared he would find and break her precious eggs. Now she began to feel like laying, and walked off to the nettle-patch once more. She thought that having had such good luck there before was a reason for trying it again. She had hardly laid her fine large egg there when the Man came softly along and picked her up by the legs. She flapped her wings and craned her head as far upwards as she could, yet he did not loosen his hold on her. He carried her carefully, but he carried her just the same. When he reached the poultry-house, he put her in a pen by herself. Then he went off to the farmhouse with her newly laid egg in his pocket. You can imagine how sad she felt. If there is one thing that a Hen Turkey likes better than taking long walks, it is raising Turkey Chicks. In spite of the weariness and the anxiety, she is very fond of it. And now this one found herself shut in and without her egg. It is true that, besides the pen, she could go into the scratching-shed and the big yard, yet even then there was the wired netting between her and the great world, and her friends were on the other side of the fence. She was just wondering if she could not fly over the fence and be free, when the Man returned and cut some of the long feathers from her right wing. Then she knew that she could not fly at all. The Man next made a fine nest of hay in a good-sized box, placing it in the shed and putting an egg into it. The Hen Turkey first thought that it was her own egg, but when the Man left and she could come nearer, she found that it was not. Instead, it was different from any she had ever seen. She tried sitting on it. "It feels all right," she said in her gentle and plaintive voice. "If I am still here when I want to lay another, I will use this nest." In spite of her loneliness and sadness, the Hen Turkey managed to keep brave during the days that followed. The Man gave her plenty of good corn and clean water, and she had many visits with the Hens and their Chickens who lived in the pen next to hers and ran about all day in their yard. Of course she did not think them so interesting as Turkey Chicks, yet she liked to watch them and visit with them between the wires. It made her want a brood of her own even more than ever. She still laid eggs right along, and the Man took each away soon after it was laid. She feared that he took them to eat, but the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen said that he might be giving them to the table to hatch, and that she should not worry. "I had just such a time myself," she added, "and it all came out right. You see if he does not bring you some fine Turkey Chicks soon." This always cheered the Hen Turkey for a time, but even if it were to be so, she thought, she would prefer to hatch her own eggs. She did not know that the Man had every one of hers in a basket in a dry, warm place in the house, and was turning each over carefully every day. This he did to keep them in the best possible way until there should be a nestful for her to sit on. Sometimes the Gobbler and the two other Hen Turkeys came up to the fence to visit with her. They never stayed long, because they came of a restless and wandering family, yet it did her good to have chats with them, even if they walked back and forth part of the time as they talked. The Gobbler paid very little attention to her. He told her once that the Hen Turkeys who were foolish enough to try to raise broods deserved to be shut up and have their wings clipped. She had better visits with her sisters when he was not there to listen. One of them told her that she had several eggs hidden under a sumach bush in a fence corner. The other said that she was trying to decide on a nesting-place; she couldn't choose between a corner of the lower meadow and the edge of the woods. Both of them spoke very softly, and frequently looked over toward where the Gobbler was strutting in the sunshine. They were much afraid that he would hear. When her sisters walked away, the Hen Turkey in the yard felt sadder than ever. She strolled back into the shed and tried to think of something pleasant to do. She had not laid an egg for two days, and she was very lonely. You can imagine how pleased and happy she was to see eleven fine Turkey eggs lying in her nest. The queer egg which she had not laid was gone, and she felt certain that those there were all her own. She got on the nest at once, and found that she could exactly cover them. "How lucky!" she thought. "If there were another one it would be too many and I could not keep it warm." She did not know she had laid fifteen eggs, and that the Man had taken the other four down cellar to be hatched by the incubator. She thought it just luck that there were precisely enough. She did not know the Man had read in one of his books that a Hen Turkey can safely cover only eleven eggs. There are several things better than luck, you see. Willingness to study is one and willingness to work is another. This Man had both kinds of willingness, and it was well for his poultry that he had. There is not much to be told about the days that passed before the first Turkey Chick chipped the shell. The sun shone into the open front of the shed for twenty-eight days, and the patient Hen Turkey was there, sitting on her nest. The moon shone into the shed for many nights, and she was still there. The moon could not shine in for twenty-eight nights for two reasons. Sometimes it set too early, and sometimes the nights were cloudy and wet, although none of the days were. When it rained the Turkey was the happiest. She did not like wet weather at all. It was for this reason she was happy. Every shower reminded her how wet it must be out in the nettle-patch, and made her think how cosy and happy she was in the place which the Man had made ready for her. Then came the joyous day on which ten little Turkey Chicks chipped the shell. They were very promising children, quite the finest, their mother thought, that she had ever seen. There was only one sad thing about the day, and that was not having the eleventh egg hatch. The Turkey Hen was too happy with her ten children to spend much time in thinking of the other which she had hoped to have, but she could not help remembering once in a while, and then she became very sad. It was not until the next morning that the ten little ones began to eat and to run around. Young Turkeys do not eat at all the first day, you know, but they always make up for it afterwards. When the Hen Turkey walked out of the shed with her family, the Hens in the next yard crowded to the fence to see them. The little White Plymouth Rocks could not understand for a long time why the Turkey Chicks should be so large. "It isn't fair," they said. "Those Turkey Chicks will be grown up long before we are!" They thought that to be grown up was the finest thing in the world. The Hens were very friendly and chatted long about them, telling the fond mother how very slender their necks were and how neat their little feet looked, with the tiny webs coming half-way to the tips of their toes. "I am very glad for you," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "I was sure that it would all come out right in the end. This Man takes excellent care of his poultry." After a while the Gobbler came strutting past. When he saw his children, he stood his feathers on end and dragged his wings on the ground. He was exceedingly angry, and would have liked it very well if they had been on his side of the fence. "Ugly little things!" he said to their mother. "They will tag around after you all the rest of the summer." "Very well," she replied. "I shall like to have them." "Silly--silly--silly!" said the Gobbler, as he strutted off. The Hen Turkey's sisters came walking slowly toward her. Both of them were sitting on eggs, and had left their nests for a few minutes to find food. Of course they could not make a long call. "I built in the edge of the woods after all," said the one who had been so undecided. "I wanted you to know, but don't tell anybody else, or the Gobbler may hear of it and find the nest." Then she spoke of the ten Turkey Chicks and asked the other sister to notice how much they looked like their mother. After that they had to hurry back to their nests. When the Hen Turkey called her Chicks to cuddle down for the night, she found four already in the shed, eating from the food-dish. "I thought you were all outside with me," she remarked. "Why did you come in here?" "We couldn't help ourselves," said they. "Some very large creature brought us here just now. We came from a darker place than this." The mother was very much puzzled. She knew that she had not hatched them, and that they could not belong to her sisters, who had begun sitting after she did. There was no way of taking them to any other place for the night, so she decided to do the kind thing and care for them herself. She was quite right in this. One is never sorry for having done the kind thing, you know, but one is very often sorry for having done the unkind thing. "Crawl right under my wings," said she, "and cuddle down with these other Turkey Chicks. I will try to cover you all." She managed very well and the night was warm, so that although a few of the Chicks were not wholly covered all the time, they got along very comfortably indeed. By the next morning the mother loved the four as much as she did her own ten. "It really doesn't matter in the least who hatched them," she said, "or even who laid the eggs. They need a mother and I can love them all. It would be a shame if I couldn't stretch my wings a little more for the sake of covering them." She never knew that they had been hatched in the incubator from the four eggs which she had laid, but which the Man had thought she could not cover. You see she was really adopting her own children without knowing it. Turkey mothers are hungry creatures, and do not understand that they should not eat the hard-boiled eggs which are the best food for their Chicks when very small. So the Man had either to shut this mother in the shed and place the food for the Chicks outside, where she could not reach it, or else find some other way of keeping it from her. He thought a Turkey who had sat so closely on her nest for four weeks should be allowed to stretch, so he put the food for the children in a coop and left the mother free. The little ones could run in and out whenever they wanted to eat, and the mother had plenty of corn and water outside, so they were all well cared for and happy. The Gobbler said unkind things to them each time he passed, but they were too happy and sensible to mind that very much, and it did not seem long before the Chicks' tail-and wing-feathers were showing through their down, and they were given porridge and milk instead of hard-boiled egg. This made them feel that they were growing up very fast indeed, and they kept stretching their tiny wings and looking around at their funny little tails to watch their feathers lengthen. On the day when they had their first porridge, their aunts and their newly hatched cousins were brought in to share their yard with them. You can imagine what happy times they all had, playing together and visiting through the wire fence with their next-door neighbors, the White Plymouth Rock Chickens. The Gobbler used to pass by and try to make them and their mothers unhappy by telling them of the pleasure they missed by being shut up. "There is fine food in the lower meadow," he said, "and the upper one is even better. There are delicious Bugs to be found by the side of the road. But these are for me, and not for silly Hen Turkeys and their good-for-nothing Chicks." One day the outer gate of the empty yard next to theirs was left open and some fine corn strewn inside, just as the Gobbler came along. He strutted in to eat the corn, thinking a little of it would taste good before he started for the meadow. He stood with his back to the gate while eating, and quite often he stopped between mouthfuls to tell the Hen Turkeys how fine it was outside. Soon he noticed the Man opening the gate of their yard and letting the oldest flock pass through with their mother. He took one hurried last mouthful and turned to leave. The gate of his yard was shut, and he was too fat and old to fly over the fence. [Illustration: THE HAPPY TURKEY MOTHER PAUSED ON HER WAY. _Page 113_] The happy Turkey mother paused on her way to the meadows with her flock. She was a very patient creature, and would never have dared say anything of the sort to the Gobbler when he was free, but now she decided to say what she wished for once. "Thank you very much for telling us about the fine food outside," said she. "We shall soon be enjoying it. We shall first try the lower meadow and then the upper one. After that we shall hunt for those delicious Bugs which you say may be found by the roadside. Probably we shall find plenty of dandelion, cress, and mustard leaves, with a few Ants or nettles to give flavor. It is really very fine outside." THREE CHICKENS RUN AWAY One would think that with such a good mother as the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, Chickens should have been contented to mind her and follow wherever she went, and usually hers did. One day, however, two of the brothers coaxed their good little sister to go with them to visit the Chickens at the farm across the road. The brothers had teased and teased their mother to let them go there, but she had always refused. "Why?" they said. "Because," answered the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, "you have enough room and enough playmates right here at home, and I know that you are safe and well here. I do not know what might happen to you there." "Oh, _why_ can't we go?" teased the brothers, who had just been given an answer to that same question, and were very rude to keep on asking it. Of course the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen had had too much experience with Chickens to reply again to a question which should not have been asked the second time, and might better not have been asked the first. So she just turned her back and walked off, clucking to her brood as she went. The brothers who had been teasing did not like that at all, and they put their naughty little heads together and decided to run away. "Let's get Little Sister to go along," said Older Brother. "Why?" asked Younger Brother. "She can't run as fast as we can, and she's so good that it wouldn't be much fun anyway. We wouldn't get across the road before she'd want to come back and be afraid our mother would worry about us." "That is just why I want her to go along," said Older Brother. "We'll get her to go, and then our mother will think that we are not any worse than she is, and perhaps she won't peck us so hard when we get back." "All right," said Younger Brother, fluttering his wings with impatience. "Let's get her right now. I know our mother won't scold her." You see both of the brothers forgot that the reason why their mother had never scolded Little Sister was that Little Sister had never done anything wrong. She was really the best Chicken in the brood, and she had such a sweet way of running to the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen during the day and cuddling close to her for a short rest, that it was not strange her mother was especially fond of her. Now the two naughty brothers found Little Sister and began talking to her. "Ever been across the road?" asked Older Brother, carelessly, as he snapped off a blade of grass. "No," said Little Sister. "Mother never goes." "There are some very jolly Chickens on that farm," remarked Younger Brother. "One of them asked us to come over a little while ago." "Wouldn't it be fun!" exclaimed Little Sister. "Let's ask Mother if we can't all go." "Aw, they won't want the whole brood at once," said Older Brother. "Besides, our mother is way over in the edge of the pasture now, and there isn't any use in bothering her. I tell you what let's do. Let's just go down to our side of the road and see if those other Chickens are there now. Then we can ask them if they don't want us to come over some other day." You see the brothers knew that it would never do to ask their sister to run away with them at first, for she would have said "No," and run off to tell the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, and that would have spoiled all their naughty fun. The three little White Plymouth Rocks put down their heads and scurried along as fast as they could toward the road. Older Brother planned it so that the fence should hide them from their mother as they ran, but he said nothing of this to Little Sister, for she was not used to being naughty, and he knew that he would have to go about it very carefully to get her to run away. When they reached the road they saw the Chickens on the other side, but they were well within their own farm-yard. "Oh, isn't that too bad!" exclaimed Little Sister. "Now you can't ask them what you wanted to." "We might run over and speak to them about it now," said Younger Brother. "Mother won't care. After we have come so far to see them, it seems too bad to miss our chance. Come on and we can be across before that team gets here." Both the brothers put down their heads and ran as fast as they could, and Little Sister followed after them. When they were on the other side she began to cry and wanted to go back. "I n-n-never did such a thing in all my l-l-life," she sobbed, "and I know our mother won't like it. Let's go right back." "Oh, don't act like a Gosling," said Older Brother. "You're over here now and you might as well have a good time. What if our mother does scold when we get back? She never wants us to have a bit of fun, and we're just as safe here as we were at home." Little Sister did not feel at all happy, still, you know how hard it is to stop being naughty when you have once begun, and she found it hard. She would gladly have returned at once if her brothers had been willing to go with her, but when she found that they were going to stay, she stayed with them. The Chickens whom they were visiting were very jolly and full of fun, although they were of common families and had not been carefully brought up. They did many things which the little White Plymouth Rocks had never been allowed to do, and in a short time the visitors were doing just the same as they. These Chickens even made fun of each other when they had accidents, and Little Sister heard them laughing at three or four who were acting as though they were sick and opening their bills very wide. "What is the matter with those Chickens?" she asked. "Oh, they have the gapes," answered one of the Chickens who lived there, and then he began speaking of something else. It is very sad to have to tell such a thing, but the truth is that the three White Plymouth Rock Chickens did not return to their home until nearly roosting-time. Even Little Sister pecked and squabbled and acted like the rest. They walked up the tongue of a hay wagon that stood in the yard, and scrambled and fluttered until they were on the edge of the rack. "Dare you to fly down into the old hen-yard," said one of the Chickens who lived on the place. "We used to live in there until a few days ago, and then the Farmer turned us out and shut the gate after us." "Why did he do that?" asked Older Brother. "I don't know," was the answer. "Nobody knows why Farmers do things. I think he did it just to be mean. There were fine Angleworms in there, and now we can't get one of them. Dare you to fly down there! You can get out somehow." Older Brother was not brave enough to refuse, so over he flew, and Younger Brother came after him. The other Chickens fluttered along with them and Younger Brother gave Little Sister a shove that sent her over the fence when he went. They found a great many Angleworms there, and ate and ate and ate, and tried to get the largest ones away from each other; but after a while the Farmer's Wife saw them and came running to shoo them out with her apron. Little Sister was really glad when this happened, for she had found no place where she could crawl through the fence. She would have told her brothers about it if she had not feared that they would laugh at her and call her a coward. She did not know that each of them was thinking the same thing and dared not speak of it for the same reason. Of course the Chickens who lived on that farm all the time did not care so much. Naughty Chickens, like the three little run-aways, are almost sure to think about their mothers when the sun begins to set and the shadows on the grass grow long. Then they begin to think about home, too, and wish that they did not have to be ashamed of themselves. When these brothers and their sister got out of the hen-yard, they started straight for home. At first they ran, and quite fast too, but as they got nearer they began to go more slowly, and once in a while one of them would stop to peck at something or other. You see they were thinking of what the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen would be likely to say to them. They thought that they would find her in the old coop where they had lived when first hatched. They ran the fields now, yet always went back there to spend the nights. They were trying so hard to find excuses for themselves that they did not notice the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen behind the stone-pile in the lane. She had got the rest of her brood settled in the coop for the night and then started out in search of the wanderers. As soon as they passed the stone-pile, she ducked her head and ran after them as fast as she could, dragging the tips of her wings on the ground and pecking at them hard and fast. You should have seen them run. They fluttered their wings wildly and never thought of making excuses. The one thing they remembered was that if they only reached the coop they could crawl in under their good brothers and sisters and be safe from their mother's bill. Little Sister got punished as well as her brothers, and that was perfectly right. For she need not have gone with them, even if they did ask her. It may be that her mother did not peck her quite so hard as she did the others, but it was hard enough to make her glad to reach the coop at last. The good Chickens were almost asleep when these three dived in under them, and it took some time for them all to get settled again. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen sat down beside the pile of her children and looked very hot and severe, yet she did not scold them then. The rest of the brood were sound asleep when Little Sister slipped out from under them to cuddle close to her mother. She could not sleep until she had confessed it all, and that shows that she was a good Chicken at heart. When she told about their getting into the closed hen-yard, and how they had been driven out of it, the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen looked very much startled. "Did any of your playmates over there go around with their mouths open?" said she. "Oh yes," replied Little Sister. "A good many of them did, and the rest of us laughed at them." Then she drooped her head because she felt ashamed of having been so rude. "I am afraid the punishment I gave you will be only a small part of it," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen; "but now you must go to sleep, and we will not talk any more of your naughtiness. You did quite right to tell me all about it." THE THREE RUNAWAYS BECOME ILL Nobody can tell just how long it was after the Chickens ran away, but it was certainly some little time, when Older Brother began to have trouble about breathing. "There seems to be something stuck in my throat," said he to his mother. "I can't breathe without opening my mouth a good deal." "There is something stuck in my throat too," said Younger Brother. "And in mine," added Little Sister. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen looked very sad. "It is just as I expected," said she. At that moment another brother ran up. "What's the matter with these Chickens?" he asked his mother. "They've been running around all morning with their mouths open, and it makes them look too silly for anything. I don't want to play with them if they can't keep their bills shut. I wish you'd tell them to stop." "They can't stop," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, sadly. "They have the gapes." "What is that?" cried all the four Chickens together, while three of them looked badly scared. "That is a kind of illness," answered their mother. "I have been expecting it all along." "What did you let us be sick for then?" asked Older Brother. "Why didn't you tell us to eat more gravel or something? I don't think it is taking very good care of us to let us get sick." "Now," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, and she spoke very firmly, "you are not to speak again until you can speak properly. On the day you ran away you played with Chickens who had the gapes, and you went with them into a closed hen-yard and ate Angleworms. That is what gave you the gapes. There were tiny Gapeworms in the Angleworms, and you swallowed them. Now the Gapeworms are living in your throats and you cannot get them out. The Farmer had shut the poultry out of that yard because he knew that they would become ill if they fed in there. Now you are ill and I can't help you." Older Brother looked scared. "How did she know what we did over there?" he whispered to Younger Brother. "I don't know," answered Younger Brother, while he watched his mother to be sure that she did not overhear. "Mothers always seem to find out what a Chicken is doing, anyhow." Little Sister began to cry. "I'm afraid we are going to die," she sobbed. "I feel so very, very badly." "Shall we die?" asked the sick brothers, and they were so scared that their bills chattered. Their teeth would have chattered, you know, if they had had teeth, but none of their family ever do have them. "Yes," answered their mother, sadly. "You will die unless something is done to get the Gapeworms out of your throat. I cannot help you, for they cannot be taken out by creatures who have only wings and feet. There are times when hands would be handy. The only thing for you to do is to find the Man and keep near him until he sees that you are ill and does something to cure you. I will go with you." You can imagine how sad the whole brood felt when they heard the news. The brother who had not wanted to play with them was much ashamed of himself, and kept scratching up fine Worms for the sick Chickens to eat. He thought that a good way of showing how sorry he felt. "I tell you what," said Older Brother to Younger Brother. "If I ever get well again, I'll mind my mother every time, even if I just hate to!" "So will I," said Younger Brother. "I wish we hadn't coaxed Little Sister to go along." By this time they had reached the place where the Man was working. It seemed a long while before he noticed that three of them were sick. When he did, he put his hat on the back of his head and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. His handkerchief was white. The Farmer had always carried red ones, and the Gobbler was much pleased when he found that the Man did not. "I wonder what is the matter with those Chickens," said the Man. "They must be sick in some way. I will look it up in one of my books." That was why, soon after this, the Man came from the house with a small book and seated himself on the wheel-barrow to read. He would look at the page for a few minutes, then put his finger on a certain part of it and watch the sick Chickens. At last he arose and put the book in his pocket. Then he got a box and a piece of burlap. He also had a pan with some white powder in it. He set these down close together and threw grain to the Chickens. When they came to pick it up he caught the sick ones and put them into the box. "Oh! Oh!" they cried. "Mother! Mother! The Man has caught us! The Man has caught us!" "Keep still! Keep still!" clucked the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen. "The Man has to catch you before he can cure you." She spoke as though she was not in the least frightened, but the truth is that she was very badly scared. She could not stand still, and kept walking to and fro, clucking as fast as she could. She had never seen anybody use a box and powder for Chickens that had the gapes. The Farmer had always made loops of Horse-hair and put them down the Chickens' throats to catch and draw out the tiny Worms. That was bad enough, and always hurt the Chickens, but she had never told them beforehand that it would hurt. You can see that she was a very brave Hen, for she made her children stand the hard times that would make them better, and a Hen needs to be very brave for that. Now the Man covered the open top of the box with burlap and began to sift the white powder through it. "Ow!" said Older Brother, coughing as though he would never stop. "Ow! Ow! I can't breathe! I am stifling!" "Ow!" said Younger Brother. "Ow! Ow! I can't stop coughing!" "Ow!" said Little Sister. "Ow! Ow! Isn't this dreadful!" The three Chicks staggered around in the box, coughing just as hard as they could. The dust which came down through the burlap seemed to bite and sting their throats, and very soon they were coughing so hard that they could not speak at all. The Man was coughing too, but he did not stop for that. The Chickens who were well could not understand what the Man was doing to the sick ones, and it was a very sad time for the whole family. At last the Man uncovered the box and lifted the Chickens out. They could not stop coughing all at once, yet they managed to get over to where their mother was. Then she spread her wings and tried to cover them, as she had done when they were first hatched. She could not do it, because they were so big; still, it comforted them to have her try, and after a while they were able to speak. "Why," said Older Brother. "I must have coughed up some of the Gapeworms! I can breathe with my mouth shut." "So can I," said Younger Brother. "So can I," said Little Sister. "Then come down to the meadow for the rest of the day," said their mother. "We can find good feeding there." "We will come," answered the three, and they were hardly away from their mother's side during the rest of that day. Once they got near the fence that separated the meadow from the road, and a couple of Chickens from the other farm called to them to come across. "Uh-uh!" they answered. "Our mother doesn't want us to." They did not even ask their mother what she thought about their going, and there was no reason why they should, for they knew perfectly well that they ought not to go. When they had walked so far away that they were sure of not being overheard, they looked each other in the eye and said solemnly, "You don't catch us going where our mother thinks we should not!" THE YOUNG COCK AND THE EAGLE This is a sad story. It is not pleasant to tell sad stories, but if they were not told once in a while, people would never know what really happens in the world. And surely you would not wish to miss hearing of what was really the most exciting happening of all, during that first summer after the Man bought the farm. You remember having heard something about the Young Cock. Before the coming of the White Plymouth Rocks, there had been only three Cocks on the farm. The Shanghai Cock was the oldest, and a very grumpy fowl, but quite sensible in spite of that. The White Cock was somewhat younger than the Shanghai, and was not a very strong fellow. He was always unhappy about something, and it was said that he did not eat enough gravel. If that was true, he should not have expected to be well, since his stomach would then have no way of grinding up his food and getting the strength out of it. The Young Cock was a strong and exceedingly conceited fellow. You probably know what conceited people are. They are the people who think themselves very clever, but who are not really so. This last one was always called the Young Cock, because the other two were so much older than he, although by this time he was old enough to be over such foolishness as bragging and picking quarrels with others. He had feathers of many colors in his coat, and thought that one of his great-great-great-grandfathers had been a Game Cock. Game Cocks, you know, are often very beautiful to look at, and are great fighters. He was not really sure about any of his family except his mother, who had died the year before, and was a very common-looking Hen of no particular breed. However, he had thought and talked so much about Game Cocks that he had come really to believe in this great-great-great-grandfather. It is good to have fine grandparents, and it is good to remember them and try to be the right sort of grandchildren for their sakes, but having fine grandparents does not always make people themselves equally fine, and it is not wise to talk too much about what they have been. It is better to pay more attention to being what one should. All summer the Young Cock had been growing more and more annoying in his ways. He made fun of everybody whom he did not like, and sometimes even of those whom he did. He crowed and strutted and strutted and crowed. He called the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen "an old fogy," and the Brown Hen "an old fuss." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was not an old fogy, but a middle-aged and very sensible fowl, and although the Brown Hen was quite fussy, she was older than the Young Cock, and he should not have spoken of her in that way. He did not always go to roost quite as soon as the other fowls and, if he found one of them in the place which he wanted, he often pushed and shoved until he had the place and the other fowl landed on the floor. "Get off of there," the Young Cock would say. "I want that place. Move along or get off!" When he was really very young, the older fowls had hoped that he would outgrow his rude and quarrelsome ways, so they stood it much longer than they should. Now he was older and there was not a single excuse to be found for him. He might better have been punished for it when young, because then he would have been well-behaved when grown up. One morning he fluttered down from his perch in a very bad temper. Some of the Pullets, or young Hens, had been making fun of him the night before and comparing him with the White Plymouth Rock Cock. They meant only to tease him, but it had made him cross, and he awakened even more cross after his night's sleep. He decided to show those Pullets that he was not to be laughed at. He was thinking of this when he stalked out into the yard. Some of the White Plymouth Rock Chickens ran along on the other side of the wire fence, peeping prettily and wanting to talk with him. "Go back to your mother," he said. "What business have you to be tagging me around like this? I don't want to talk to you. Chickens should not speak until they are spoken to. Run!" Of course they ran. You would if you were a Chicken and a Cock should speak to you in that way. They ran to their mother, and it took her a long time to comfort them. Next the Young Cock stepped directly across the path of the Shanghai Cock, stopping him in his morning walk. The Hens who saw it done expected the Shanghai Cock to fight him on the spot, but they saw nothing of the sort. The Shanghai Cock did not think it worth while. The saucy Pullets were eating in a corner of the yard and chattering over their corn. "Wouldn't it be fun to see the Young Cock get punished by the Shanghai?" one of them said. "Why don't you like him?" asked another. "I do like him," answered the first. "I like him very much, but he is conceited and brags so that I wish somebody would teach him a lesson." "Look!" cried another. "He is picking a quarrel with the White Cock." They looked and saw him standing in front of the White Cock with his head lowered, staring steadily at him. The White Cock looked as though he did not care to fight, but being no coward, he would not turn his tail toward the other and run away. He simply stood where he was, and whenever the Young Cock lowered his head the White Cock lowered his. Whenever the Young Cock gave a little upward jerk to his head, the White Cock did the same. At first he was only trying to protect himself and be ready for a blow if the Young Cock should begin to fight in earnest. Pretty soon he began to think that he would beat him if he could. He thought it might be a good time to teach him something. After that both fought as hard as they could, staring, ducking, bobbing, fluttering, pecking, and striking with their bills and the sharp spurs that grew on their legs. It ended by the White Cock staggering and running away from the blows, while the other stood proudly where he was and crowed and crowed and crowed. The Young Cock did not beat because he understood the movements to be made any better than the other. He beat only because he was younger and stronger. He did not look toward the Pullets, feeling quite sure that they were looking toward him and admiring him. He flew onto the top rail of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "I have beaten him! I have beaten him!" The Shanghai Cock looked at him with great displeasure. "Something will happen to that young fellow some day," said he, "and after that he will not crow so much." The Pullets heard him say this and were scared. They did not wish anything dreadful to happen to him. One of them wanted to tell the Young Cock what they had overheard, but the others would not let her. It was not long after this, in fact it was before the Hens had come out of the large open gate of their yard, that the Young Cock picked up and ate a grain of corn which the Shanghai Cock had already bent over to eat. The older Cock did not like this, and he said so very plainly. The Young Cock lowered his head and looked the Shanghai Cock squarely in the eye. "If you don't like my way of eating," he said in his rudest tone, "you can try to punish me." "I will try it with pleasure," replied the Shanghai Cock, and they stared and ducked and hopped and fluttered and jumped and struck at each other with feet and bill, until the Young Cock had really beaten the Shanghai. It should have been the other way, yet it was not, for the Shanghai was growing old and fat, and could not get around so quickly as the Young Cock. Of course the Pullets were glad, but nobody else was. "There will be no getting along with him at all after this," the Hens said. "If he had been well beaten for once, he might have learned manners." They paid no attention to the Cocks who were beaten, for that would not be thought polite among fowls. Instead, they walked about as usual, pretending that they had not noticed what was going on, and twisting their necks, lifting their feet, and dusting themselves in the most matter-of-fact way. The Young Cock flew onto the fence again. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "Cock-a-doodle-doo! I can beat them all! I can beat them all!" He strutted back and forth there for a time, and then flew to the top of the old carriage-house. Here he strutted and crowed and crowed and strutted, while the fowls in the pasture below looked at him and wondered how he dared go so high. Suddenly the Shanghai Cock, who had been quietly trying to arrange his feathers after the fight, saw a large, dark bird swooping down from the sky and gave a queer warning cry. "Er-ru-u-u-u-u!" he said. "Run! Run!" [Illustration: A LARGE DARK BIRD SWOOPING DOWN. _Page 142_] The White Cock spoke at almost the same time. "Er-ru-u-u-u-u! Run! Run!" Then all the Hens and Pullets put down their heads and ran as fast as they could for the poultry-house, which was near. The Shanghai Cock and the White Cock waited to let them pass, and then followed in after them. It is a law among fowls that the Cocks must protect the Hens from all danger. Because these two had to wait so long for the Hens and Pullets to get inside, they were still where they could see quite plainly when the bird, a large Eagle, swooped down to the roof of the carriage-house and caught the Young Cock up in his talons. The Young Cock had not seen him coming until he was almost there. He had been too much interested in watching the fowls on the ground below. When he saw the Eagle it was too late to get away. As the Eagle flew upward once more, all the fowls ran out to watch him. They could see the Young Cock struggling as the sharp talons of the Eagle held him tightly. "Poor fellow!" said the Pullets. The Cocks were wise enough to keep still. The Hens murmured something to themselves which nobody else could understand. Only the Plymouth Rock Hen said very much about it, and that was because she had children to bring up. One of the Young Cock's tail-feathers floated down from the sky and fell into their yard. "Leave it right there," she said. "Leave it there, and every time you look at it, I want you to remember that the Cock to whom it belonged might now be having a pleasant time on this farm, if he had not been quarrelsome and bragged." THE GUINEA-FOWLS COME AND GO It was only a few days after the Young Cock had been carried away by the Eagle, that the Man drove back from town with a very queer look upon his face. A small crate in the back end of the light wagon contained three odd-looking fowls. The Little Girls left their mud pies and ran toward the wagon. When they saw the crate, they ran into the house and called their mother to come out also. "What have you now?" said she, as she stepped onto the side porch. "Guinea-fowls," answered the Man. "Just listen to this letter." He drew it from his pocket and read aloud: "I send you, by express, a Guinea-Cock and two Guinea-Hens. They were given to me, and I have no place for keeping them. I remember hearing that they are excellent for scaring away Crows, so I send them on in the hope that they may be useful to you. If you do not wish to keep them, do what you choose with them." As he read three small and perfectly bald heads were thrust through the openings of the crate and turned and twisted until their owners had seen everything around. "I don't know anything about Guinea-fowls," said the Man, "but I will at least keep these long enough to find out. I have seen the Crows fly down and annoy the Hens several times, and it may be that these are just what we need." He took the crate down and opened it carefully. The three fowls that walked out looked almost exactly alike. All had very smooth and soft coats of black feathers covered with small round white spots. They were shaped quite like Turkeys, but were much smaller, with gray-brown legs, and heads which were not feathered at all. The skin of their faces and necks was red, and they had small wattles at the corners of their mouths. Bristle-like feathers stood out straight around the upper part of their necks, and below these were soft gray feathers which covered the neck and part of the chest. They walked directly toward the barnyard, where some of the farm fowls were picking up an early dinner. "Ca-mac!" said they "Ca-mac! Ca-mac! We want some too." Now the farm fowls were not especially polite, not having come of fine families or been taught good manners when they were Chickens, yet they did not at all like to have newcomers speak to them in this way. They noticed it all the more, because when the White Plymouth Rocks came they had acted so very differently. They stepped a little to one side, giving the Guinea-fowls enough room in which to scratch and pick around as they had been doing, but they did not say much to them. The Gobbler was strutting back and forth among the smaller fowls. He disliked living with them as much as he had to now, but the Hen Turkeys would have nothing to say to him because he annoyed their Chicks. They went off with their children and left him alone, and, as he wanted company of some sort, he took what he could get. He thought it might be a good plan to make friends with the Guinea-fowls. "Good-morning," said he. "Have you come here to stay?" "We shall stay if we like it," answered the Guinea-Cock. "We always do what we like best." "Humph!" said the Shanghai Cock to himself. "Remarkable fowls! Wonder what the Man will think about that." "I hope you will like it," said the Gobbler, who was so lonely that he really tried hard to be agreeable. "I understand quite how you feel about doing as you like. I always prefer to do what I prefer." "We _do_ it," remarked one of the Guinea-Hens, as she chased the Brown Hen away from the spot where she had been feeding, and swallowed a fat Worm which the Brown Hen had just uncovered. "Yes," said the other Guinea-Hen, "I guess we are just as good as anybody else." "Is there plenty to eat here?" asked the Guinea-Cock. "Plenty," answered the Gobbler. "It is much better than it used to be. There is a new Man here, and he takes better care of his fowls than the Farmer did. He doesn't carry red handkerchiefs either." "I don't care what kind of handkerchiefs he carries," said the Guinea-Cock. "What makes you talk about such things?" "You would know what makes me speak of them if you were a Gobbler," was the answer. "I cannot bear red things. I cannot even eat my corn comfortably when anything red is around. You see it is quite important. Anything which spoils a fellow's fun in eating is important." "Nothing would spoil my fun if I had the right sort of food," remarked the Guinea-Cock. Then he turned to the Guinea-Hens. "Come," he said. "We have eaten enough. Let us walk around and see the place." All three started off, walking along where-ever they chose, and stopping to feed or to talk about what they saw. Anybody could tell by looking at them that they were related to the Turkeys, but the Gobbler had not cared to remind them of that. He was looking for more company during the time when his own family left him so much alone. He knew that before very long the Turkey Chicks would be too large to fear him, and that when that time came, their mothers and they would be willing to walk with him. Then he would have less to do with the other poultry, and might not want three bad-mannered Guinea-fowl cousins tagging along after him. Whenever the three met another fowl, they talked about him and said exactly what they thought, and if they passed a Hen who had just found a choice bit of food, they chased her away and ate it themselves. Sometimes they even chased fowls who were not in their way and who were not eating things that they wanted. It seemed as though they had simply made up their minds to do what they wanted to do, whenever and wherever they wished. They did not make much fuss about it, and if you had seen them when they were doing none of these mean things, you would have thought them very genteel. You would never have suspected that they could act as they did. The Gander and the Geese passed near the Guinea-fowls and the Guinea-fowls did not chase them. They were not foolish enough to annoy people so much larger than they. It is true that the Hens were larger than they, yet the Guinea-fowls could make them run every time. If they had troubled the Geese, it might have ended with the Guinea-fowls doing the running. And the Guinea-fowls were cowards. They would never quarrel with people unless they were sure of beating. "S-s-s-s-s-s-s!" said the Gander. "Are we to have that sort of people on this farm? If we are, I would rather live somewhere else. I do not see why there should be any disagreeable people anyway." "There should not be," said the Geese, who always agreed with everything the Gander said, and who really believed as he did about this. "Disagreeable people should be sent away, or eaten up, or something." Both the Gander and the Geese thought themselves exceedingly agreeable, and so they were--when everything suited them. At other times they were often quite cross. Many people act like this, and seem to think it very sweet of them not to be cross all the time. Truly agreeable people, as you very well know, are those who can keep pleasant when things go wrong. "Ca-mac!" said the three Guinea-fowls together. "There are some of those stupid Geese, who are always walking around and eating grass that is too short for anybody else. They eat grass, and grow feathers for Farmers' Wives to pluck off. When we have gone to the trouble of growing a fine coat of feathers, we keep them as long as we wish, and then they drop out, a few at a time. If anybody wants our feathers, he must follow around after us and pick them up." Before night came, the Guinea-fowls had met and annoyed nearly all the poultry on the place. They had even made dashes at the smallest Chickens and frightened them dreadfully. The Man had been too busy to see much of the trouble that they made, but his Little Girls noticed it, for they had been watching the Guinea-fowls and hoping to find some of their beautiful spotted feathers lying around. When the Little Girls were eating their supper of bread and milk, they told their father about it. "They walk around and look too good for anything," said the brown-haired one, "but whenever they get a chance they chase the Hens and the Chickens." "Yes," said the golden-haired Little Girl, "I even saw one of them scare the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, the one who ate bread and salt with you." "That is very bad," said the Man, gravely. "Any fowl that troubles the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen must be punished." "What will you do to them?" asked the golden-haired Little Girl. "I think you will have to shut them up. You couldn't spank them, could you? Not even if you wanted to ever so much." "I shall decide to-night how to punish them," said the Man, "and then in the morning we will see about it." When he spoke he did not know how much time he would spend in thinking about the Guinea-fowls that night. When it was time for them to go to roost, the Guinea-fowls fluttered and hopped upward until they reached quite a high branch in the apple-tree by the Man's chamber window. Then, instead of going to sleep for the night, as one would think they would wish to do, they took short naps and awakened from time to time to visit with each other. It is true that they had seen much that was new during the day, and so had more than usual to talk about, but this was really no excuse, because they had the habit of talking much at night and would have been nearly as noisy if nothing at all had happened. The Man was just going to sleep when they awakened from one of their naps and began to chat. "Ca-mac! Ca-mac!" said one. "I suppose those stupid fowls in the poultry-house are sound asleep, with their heads tucked under their wings. What do you think of the company here?" "Good enough," said another. "I don't like any of them very much, but you can't expect Geese and Ducks to be Guinea-fowls. We don't have to talk to them. The Gobbler is trying to be agreeable, and when the Hen Turkeys can think of any thing besides their children we may find them good company." "It is a good thing that there are so many Hens here," said the third. "The Man throws out their grain and then we can scare them away and eat all we want of it. What fun it is to see Hens run when they are frightened!" After this short visit they went to sleep again, and so did the Man. But they went to sleep much more quickly than he did, and he was very tired and disliked being disturbed in that way. He had just fallen asleep when one of the Guinea-Hens awakened again. "Ca-mac!" said she to the others. "Ca-mac! Ca-mac! I have thought of something to say. How do you like the idea of living on this place?" "We like it," answered the Guinea-Cock and the other Guinea-Hen. Then they went on to tell why they liked it. They said that there were no children of the stone-throwing kind, no Dog, and no Cat. They had plenty of room for the long walks which they liked to take, and there were many chances to get the food which the Man threw out. When they had spoken of all these things the Guinea-Cock said: "It is decided then that we will stay here instead of running away to another farm. This is a good enough place for any fowl. Now let us take another nap." While they were thinking this, the Man was thinking something quite different. In the morning while the Guinea-fowls were eating grain which had been strewn in one of the yards, the Man closed the gate, and, helped by the Little Girls, drove the three Guinea-fowls into a corner and caught them. Then he put them into the crate in which they had come, and took them across the road to the Farmer who lived there. When this was done there were many happy people left behind on the poultry-farm. The Little Girls were happy, because they had found four feathers which the Guinea-fowls lost in trying to get away from the Man. The Hens were happy, because they could now be more sure of eating the food which they found. The other poultry were glad to think that they would not have to listen to new-comers saying such dreadful things about them, and perhaps the Man, when he came back, was the happiest of all. "I gave them to the Farmer over there," he said, "and he will give them to a poor family far away. I have stopped keeping Guinea-fowls to scare away the Crows. I would rather keep Crows to scare away the Guinea-fowls, but I think we can get along very comfortably without either." And the poultry thought so too. THE GEESE AND THE BABY The Little Girls had gone to play with a new friend who lived down the road, and the Man was working in the farthest field of the farm. The Baby had been laid in the crib for his afternoon nap, and his mother went up-stairs to work at her house-cleaning. She thought that she might possibly finish two closets if the baby did not awaken and call her too soon. She felt sure that she would know when he awakened, because she left the staircase door ajar, and he usually cried a little as soon as he got his eyes open. This time, however, the Baby slept only a few minutes and did not cry at all. He had grown a great deal since he came to live on the farm, and was becoming very strong and independent. When he opened his eyes he made no sound, but lay there quietly staring at the ceiling until he heard one of the Cocks crowing outside. He had always wanted to catch that tallest Cock and hug him--he looked so soft and warm--and now was the time to try it. When his mother was around she sometimes held his dress or one of the shoulder-straps of his little overalls and would not let him catch the Cock. He would crawl out of his crib alone and go out very quietly to try it. The Baby pulled himself up by the rounds of his crib, and tumbled over its railing onto his mother's bed, which stood beside it. From that he slid to the floor. It took him only two minutes more to get out of the side door and down the steps. It did not take at all long for the steps, because he fell more than half the distance. If he had not been running away, or if there had been anybody around to pity him, he would have cried, but to cry now might spoil all his fun, so he picked himself up without making a sound and started for the Shanghai Cock. The Shanghai Cock was on the ground when the Baby began toddling toward him. As the Baby came nearer he began to walk off. "I don't want to be caught," said he. "It is bad enough to have grown people catch me, but it would be worse to have a Baby do so, for he might choke me." "Here, pitty Chickie!" said the Baby. "Baby want oo." Then he tried to run, and fell down instead. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen looked at him pityingly. "Just the way my Chickens used to act when trying to catch a Grasshopper," said she. "It is so hard for children to learn that they cannot have everything they want." When the Baby tumbled, the Shanghai Cock stood still, and even picked up a couple of mouthfuls of food. When the Baby got up again, the Shanghai Cock moved on. At last the Cock decided to put a stop to this sort of game, in which the Baby seemed to be having all the fun, so he flew to the top of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could. The Baby's mother heard him as she worked busily upstairs. "How loudly that Cock does crow!" said she. "I am glad that such noises do not wake the Baby. He is having a fine nap to-day." Then she unrolled another bundle of pieces and paid no more attention to the crowing. When the Baby saw that he could not reach the Cock, he thought he would try for some of the other fowls. The Gobbler came in sight just then and he started after him. Luckily he had no red on, or it might have been the Gobbler who did the chasing. "Here, pitty Chickie!" said the Baby. "Tum, pitty Chickie! Tum to Baby." It was the first time the Gobbler had ever been been called a "pitty Chickie," but that made no difference. He did not want to be petted and he did not want to be caught. Baby might open and shut his tiny fat hands as many times as he pleased, beckoning to him. The Gobbler would not come. "Gobble-gobble-gobble!" said he. "Nobody can catch me in daylight, not even with corn; and surely nobody can catch me without it." Then he strutted slowly away. The Baby followed, but when the Gobbler pretended to lose his temper, stood all his feathers on end, spread his fine tail, dragged his wings on the ground, and puffed, the Baby turned and ran away as fast as he could. Brown Bess was no longer in the pasture, and the gate stood open. It was through this gate that the Baby ran, not stopping until he came within sight of the river along the lower edge of the pasture. The water looked so bright and beautiful that he thought he would go farther still. Perhaps he could even catch some of the Ducks and Geese that were swimming there. He had seen his sisters wade in the edge of the river one day, while his father was mending a fence near by. He would wade, too. You see Baby was only two years old, and did not understand that rivers are very dangerous places for children to visit alone, and worst of all for Babies who toddle and tumble along. He did not know that if he should tumble in that beautiful shining water he might never be able to get up again, or that if he should chase one of the Ducks too far out, he could not turn around and come back to the shore. These things he was not old enough to know. He did know that when he came into the pasture with his father or mother and went toward the river's edge, he was always told, "No-no!" This he remembered, but that made it seem all the more fun to go there when there was nobody by to say it. The Baby stood on a little knoll near the water. "Here, pitty Chickie!" he said. "Tum to Baby, pitty Chickie!" The Ducks paid no attention to him, unless it were to swim farther from shore and keep their heads turned slightly toward him, watching to see what he was about. With the Geese, however, it was different. Geese do not like anything strange, and if they cannot understand a thing they think that there is certainly something wrong. As there is much which they do not understand, the Geese are often greatly excited over very simple and harmless things, hissing loudly at those who are strangers to them. Now they could not understand why the Baby should stand on the river-bank and talk to them. "S-s-s-s-s!" said the Gander. "There must be something wrong about this. Let us get out of the water to see." He scrambled up onto the bank, with his wife and the other Geese following closely behind him. He was a very stately fellow, and looked as though he could win in almost any fight. The Geese were stately too, but their legs and neck did not look so strong as his, and they let him go ahead and speak first. The Gander marched toward the Baby and stood between him and the river. "S-s-s-s-s!" said he. "What are you doing here?" "Here, pitty Chickie!" said the Baby. "Tum to Baby." "I cannot understand you," said the Gander, severely. "Children should speak so that they can be understood. I can always understand my own children." He was very proud of the brood of Goslings which he and his wife had hatched. Perhaps he was even more fond of them because he had done almost as much for them as she, sitting on the eggs part of the time and standing beside her while she was sitting on them. Ganders are excellent fathers. "Go way, pitty Chickie!" said the Baby. "Baby goin' in de watty." "S-s-s-s-s!" said the Gander, and this time his wife hissed also. "Go back to the place where you belong. This place is for web-footed people. I have seen your feet uncovered, and you have no webs whatever between your toes. You do not belong here. Go away!" The Baby did not go away, for he was having a lovely time. The Gander did not come any nearer to him or act as though he meant to peck him, so he just laughed and waved his hands. "Why don't you go?" asked the Geese. "The Gander told you to go away, and you should mind the Gander. We always mind him, and so should you." Still the Gander and the Geese did not come nearer to him, and still the Baby was not afraid. "S-s-s-s-s!" repeated the Gander. "We do not want you to swim in our river. Your body is not the right shape for swimming with Geese and Ducks. Your neck is not long enough for feeding in the river. You could never get your mouth down to the river-bottom for food without going way under. Go away! You will get wet if you go into the water. I feel quite sure that you will, for you have not nicely oiled feathers like ours. You will try to catch our children and will make us much trouble. Go away!" Just then the Baby's mother called from the door of the house. She had come downstairs and found the Baby gone. "Baby!" said she. "Baby! Where are you?" Baby did not answer, but he turned to look at her. "S-s-s-s-s!" said the Gander and the Geese together. "S-s-s-s-s! S-s-s-s-s!" Then they walked straight for him, and the Baby started home at last. His mother heard and ran toward him in time to see it all. She understood, too, that if it had not been for the Gander and the Geese, her Baby would have gone into the river. That was why she looked so gratefully at them when she reached him and picked him up in her arms to hug and kiss. [Illustration: "S-S-S-S-S!" REPEATED THE GANDER. _Page 166_] Perhaps it was because she had been so frightened that she had to sit right down on a little hillock and rest. The Gander and the Geese stood around and wondered why she made such a fuss over the Baby. "He is nothing remarkable," they said to each other. "He certainly could not swim if he had a chance, and we saw how often he fell down when he tried to run. Why does she put her mouth up against his in that way? There is simply no understanding the actions of people who live in houses." There was one sort of action which they could understand very well indeed. The Little Girls came home just then and their mother had them bring oats from the barn to scatter on the river. Then the Gander, with his wife and the other Geese, gladly went back to the river to feed, for there is nothing which pleases Geese better than to eat oats that are floating on the water. THE FOWLS HAVE A JOKE PLAYED ON THEM When the Man first bought the farm and came to live there, he could not understand a thing that his poultry said. This made it very hard for him, and was something which he could not learn from his books and papers. You remember how the Little Girls understood, better than he, what the Cocks meant by crowing so joyfully one day. It is often true that children who think much about such things and listen carefully come to know what fowls mean when they talk. The Man was really a very clever one, much more clever than the Farmer who had lived there before him, and he decided that since he was to spend much of his time among poultry, he would learn to understand what they were saying. He began to listen very carefully and to notice what they did when they made certain sounds. It is quite surprising how much people can learn by using their eyes and ears carefully, and without asking questions, too. That was why, before the summer was over, the Man could tell quite correctly, whenever a fowl spoke, whether he was hungry or happy or angry or scared. Not only these, but many other things he could tell by carefully listening. He could not understand a Hen in exactly the way in which her Chickens understand her, but he understood well enough to help him very much in his work. Then he tried talking the poultry language. That was much harder, yet he kept on trying, for he was not the sort of Man to give up just because the task was hard. He had been a teacher for many years, and he knew how much can be done by studying hard and sticking to it. The Man was very full of fun, too, since he had grown so strong and fat on the farm. He dearly loved a joke, and was getting ready to play a very big joke on some of his poultry. Anybody who has ever kept Hens knows how hard it is to drive them into the poultry-house when they do not wish to go. People often run until they are quite out of breath and red in the face, trying to make even one Hen go where she should. Sometimes they throw stones, and this is very bad for the Hens, for even if they are not hit, they are frightened, and then the eggs which they lay are not so good. Sometimes, too, the people who are trying to drive Hens lose their temper, and this is one of the very worst things that could happen. The poultry had not paid much attention to the Man when he was learning their language. They were usually too busy talking to each other to listen to what he was saying. Once the Shanghai Cock said what he thought of it, however: "Just hear him!" he had said. "Hear that Man trying to crow! He does it about as well as a Hen would." You know a Hen tries to crow once in a while, and then the Cocks all poke fun at her, because she never succeeds well. All this happened before the Man had been long on the farm, and before the Shanghai Cock had learned to like him. The Shanghai Cock would have been very much surprised if anybody had then told him that he would ever be unable to tell the Man's voice from that of one of his best friends. Throughout the summer the fowls who had always lived on the farm were allowed to run wherever they wished during the day, and were not driven into the pen at night. There was always some corn scattered in their own yard for them just before roosting-time, and they were glad enough to stroll in and get it. When they finished eating they were sure to find the outer gate closed, and then they went inside the pen to roost. Now, however, the days were growing much shorter and the nights cooler, and a Skunk had begun prowling around after dark. The Man decided that if he wanted to keep his poultry safe, he must have them in the pens quite early and shut all the openings through which a night-hunting animal might enter to catch them. He liked to attend to this before he ate his own supper, and the poultry did not wish to go to roost quite so early. They often talked of it as they ate their supper in the yard. "I think," said the Brown Hen, "that something should be done to stop the Man's driving us into the pen before we are ready to go. It is very annoying." "Annoying?" said the White Cock, who was a great friend of hers. "I should say it is annoying! I hadn't half eaten my supper last night when I heard him saying, 'Shoo! Shoo!' and saw him and the Little Girls getting ready to drive us in." "Well, you might better eat a little faster the next time," said the Black Hen. "I saw you fooling around when you might have been eating, and then you grumbled because you hadn't time to finish your supper." "I would rather fool around a little than to choke on a big mouthful, the way you did," replied the White Cock, who did not often begin a quarrel, but was always ready to keep it up. "I was hungry all night," he added. "It is so senseless," said the Brown Hen. "He might just as well drive us in after we have had time enough for our supper, or even wait until we go in without driving. I have made up my mind not to go to-night until I am ready." "What if they try to drive you?" asked the White Cock. "I will run this way and that, and flutter and squawk as hard as I can," replied the Brown Hen. The Black Hen laughed in her cackling way. "I will do the same," said she. "It will serve the Man right for trying to send us to roost so early. I think he will find it pretty hard work." The White Cock would make no promises. He wanted to see the Hens run away from the Man, but thought he would rather stand quietly in a corner than to flutter around. He was afraid of acting like a Hen if he made too much fuss, and no Cock wishes to act like a Hen. The Shanghai Cock felt in the same way. "I am too big for running to and fro," said he, "but I will keep out of the pen and watch the fun." He had hardly spoken these words when the Man and the Little Girls came into the yard and closed the gate behind them. The poultry kept on eating, but watched them as they ate. Suddenly the Brown Hen picked up a small boiled potato that she had found among the other food, and ran with it in her bill to the farthest corner of the yard. The Black Hen ran after her and the other Hens after them. The Cocks remained behind and watched. The Man and the Little Girls tried to get between the Hens and the farthest side of the fence. The Hens would not let them for a while, but kept running back and forth there, until the potato had fallen to pieces and been trampled on without any one having a taste. When the Man and the Little Girls finally got behind the Hens, the Little Girls spread out their skirts and flapped them and the Man said, "Shoo! Shoo!" Then the Hens acted dreadfully frightened, and the Cocks began to turn their heads quickly from side to side, quite as though they were looking for a chance to get away. They were really having a great deal of fun. Whenever the Man thought that he had them all ready to go into the open door of the pen, one of the Hens would turn with a frightened squawk and flutter wildly past him again to the back end of the yard, and then the Man would have to begin all over. Several of the Hens dropped loose feathers, and it was very exciting. "Well," said the Shanghai Cock, as the Man went back the fifth time for a new start, "I think that Man will leave us alone after to-night." "Yes," said the White Cock, who was standing near him, "I think we are teaching him a lesson." He spoke quite as though he and the other Cock were doing it, instead of just standing by and watching the Hens. But that is often the way with Cocks. After the Man had tried once more and failed, he certainly acted as though he was ready to give up the task. He walked to the back end of the yard, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The Little Girls stood beside him, and he picked up a feather to show them. It was a wing-feather, and he was showing them how the tiny hooks on each soft barb caught into those on the next and held it firmly. The poultry watched him for a while and then began eating once more. They thought him quite discouraged. The Shanghai Cock and the White Cock were standing far apart when somebody called "Er-ru-u-u-u-u!" which is the danger signal. As soon as he heard it, each Cock thought that the other had spoken, and opened his bill and said, "Er-ru-u-u-u-u!" in the same tone, even before he looked around for a Hawk or an Eagle. Every Hen in the yard ducked her head and ran for the door of the pen as fast as her legs would carry her. The Cocks let the Hens go ahead and crowd through the doorway as well as they could, but they followed closely behind. They were hardly inside when the door of the pen was closed after them and they heard the Man fastening it on the outside. "Wasn't that a shame!" said the Brown Hen, who always thought that something was a shame. "We didn't finish our supper after all!" "I know it," said the White Cock. "It happened very badly, and all that running had made me hungry." "What was the danger?" asked the Shanghai Cock. "I had no time to see whether it was an Eagle or a Hawk coming." "What do you mean?" cried the White Cock. "If I had given the alarm which took all my friends from their supper into the pen, I think I would take time to see what the danger was. Can't you tell one kind of bird from another?" "I can if I see them," answered the Shanghai Cock, rather angrily. "I did not see this one. I looked up as soon as you gave the cry, but I saw nothing. I repeated the cry, as Cocks always do, but I saw nothing." "Now see here," said the White Cock, as he lowered his head and looked the Shanghai Cock squarely in the eyes, "you stop talking in this way! You gave the first warning and you know it. I only repeated the call." "I did not," retorted the Shanghai Cock, as he lowered his head and ruffled his feathers. "_You_ gave the warning and _I_ repeated it." "He did not," interrupted the Brown Hen. "I stood right beside him, and I know he did not give the first call." "Well," said the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, "I was standing close to the Shanghai Cock, and _I_ know that _he_ did not give the first call." (Her Chickens were now so large that they did not need her, and she had begun running with her old friends.) Then arose a great chatter and quarrel in the pen. Part of the Hens thought that the White Cock gave the first warning, and part of them thought that the Shanghai Cock did. Everybody was out of patience with somebody else, and all were scolding and finding fault until they really had to stop for breath. It was when they stopped that the Speckled Hen spoke for the first time. She had never been known to quarrel, and she was good-natured now. "I believe it was the White Plymouth Rock Cock in the other yard," said she. "Why didn't we think of that before?" "Of course!" said all the fowls together. "It was certainly the White Plymouth Rock Cock in the other yard." Then they laughed and spoke pleasantly to each other as they began to settle themselves for the night. "We might as well go to roost now," they said, "even if it is a bit early. All that running and talking was very tiring." But it was not the White Plymouth Rock Cock who had said "Er-ru-u-u-u-u!" He and his Hens had run into their pen at the same time, and had been shut in. Only the Man and the Little Girls knew who it really was, and they never told the poultry. THE LITTLE GIRLS GIVE A PARTY Late in the fall, when the Man began to talk of shutting the poultry into their own yards for the winter, there came a few mild and lovely days. The Little Girls had been playing out-of-doors in their jackets, but now they left them in the house and ran around bare-headed, as they had done during the summer. All the poultry were happy over the weather, and several said that, if they thought it would last long enough, they would like to raise late broods of Chickens. The fowls had finished moulting, and had fine coats of new feathers to keep them warm through the winter. The young Turkeys looked more and more like their mothers, for they were already nearly as large as they ever would be. The Goslings and the Ducklings had grown finely, and boasted that their legs and feet began to look rougher and more like those of the old Geese and Ducks. The Chickens were all White Plymouth Rocks this year, and the tiny red combs which showed against the snowy feathers of their heads made them very pretty. Even the Hens who had cared for them since they were hatched would not have had them any other color, although at first they had wished that their Chickens could look more like them. In the barn all was neat and well cared for. The Man had made Brownie a warm box-stall, so that he need not be tied in a cool and narrow place whenever he stood in the barn, but might turn around and take a few steps in any direction he chose. There was plenty of fine hay in the loft for him, and the place where Brown Bess and her Calf were to stand had also been made more comfortable. There were great bins filled with grain for the poultry, and another full of fine gravel for them to eat with their meals. They had no teeth and could not chew their food, you know, so they had to swallow enough gravel, or grit, for their stomachs to use in grinding it and getting the strength out. In another place was a great pile of dust for winter dust-baths. Everything was so well prepared for cold weather that it seemed almost funny to have warm days again. And just at this time the Little Girls had a birthday. Not two birthdays, you understand, but one, for they were twins and were now exactly six years old. They were plump and rosy Little Girls, and very strong from living so much out-of-doors. Each had a new doll for a birthday gift, and the funniest part of it was that the brown-haired Little Girl had a brown-haired doll and the golden-haired Little Girl had a golden-haired doll. That made it easy to tell which doll was which, just as the difference in hair made it easy for their parents to tell one twin from the other. When they first awakened they were given birthday kisses instead of birthday spanks, six apiece for the years they had lived, a big one on which to grow, and another big one on which to be good. After the breakfast dishes were washed and put away, their mother made two birthday cakes for the Little Girls and put six candles on each. With all this done for them, one would certainly expect the Little Girls to be perfectly happy. But, what do you think? They could not be perfectly, blissfully happy, because they were not to have a party. Every year before this, as far back as they could remember, they had been allowed to have a party, and this year they could not have it, because they were living on a farm and there were no other children who could come. It is true that there were two others living quite near, but these two had the measles and could not go to parties. By the time they were over the measles, the birthday would be long past, and so the Little Girls were disappointed. It was when the brown-haired Little Girl was telling her doll about the last year's party, and the golden-haired Little Girl's eyes were filling with tears, that their mother had a bright idea. She would not tell them what it was, but asked them to care for the Baby while she went out to talk with the Man in the barn. When she came back she told them that they might have a party after all and invite the poultry to come. "I think it will be great fun," said she, "and I am sure they have never been to a birthday party in their lives." How happy the Little Girls were then! The Man had put a very large box just in front of the poultry-yards where the White Plymouth Rocks were kept, so that, by crowding into the corners, the Chickens on one side of the separating fence and the Cock and Hens on the other could come quite near to the box. Inside the big box was another which was to be their table, and a couple of milking stools on which they were to sit. The Baby's chair was to be brought when he came. Of course it seemed a long time to wait until afternoon, when the party was to come off. If there had not been so much to do, the Little Girls certainly could not have been patient. It was wonderful how many things their mother could suggest. In the first place, they had to write a few invitations to pin up where the fowls could see them. Then they had to go over to the edge of the woods and hunt all along the roadside to find late flowers, bits of brake, and autumn leaves, with which to trim their box and the table. After that they took pans and got grain for their guests from the bins in the barn. These they carried to the big box and placed on the table inside. It was not long afterward that the brown-haired Little Girl found the Black Hen and the White Cock eating from these pans. "Oh, shoo!" she cried, running as fast as she could toward them and flapping her skirts. "Shoo! Shoo! It isn't time for you to come, and you mustn't eat up the party yet." The other twin feared that, after being frightened away in this fashion, these two fowls would not want to come at the proper time, but she need not have worried. Fowls are always glad to come to a good supper, and there is much more danger of their coming too early and staying too late than there is of their not coming at all. After that the pans of grain were carried into the house to wait until the right time. In the afternoon the twins and their dolls came out to the big box which they pretended was their house. The open side of it was toward the poultry-yards, and there was plenty of room between for the fowls who were running free to come in and get their food. The Little Girls had wanted to put on their Sunday dresses, but their mother told them that she did not think it would be really polite to the poultry, who had to wear the very same feathers that they had on every day. So the Little Girls contented themselves with having their hair done up on top of their heads and bows of yellow tissue paper pinned on the knots. This made them feel very fine indeed, and as though being six years old were almost the same as being grown up. They had some beautiful red tissue paper which they wanted to use, but when they remembered how the Gobbler felt about red, they decided to use the yellow instead. And that was both wise and kind. One should always try to make guests happy. The Baby was not to come out until supper-time, so the Little Girls and their dolls played quite alone for a while. There was much to tell and to show the dolls, for it was the first time they had ever been on a farm, and everything must have seemed strange to them. "Do you see that tall White Plymouth Rock Cock over there?" said the brown-haired twin to hers. "My Father says he is the most vallyoobol fowl on the farm. He cost a lot of money. I asked Father if he paid as much as ten cents for him, and he said he paid a great deal more. Just think of that! More than ten cents! You must be very polite to him." "I will show you our kindest Hen," said the golden-haired twin to her doll. "She is coming this way now. She is the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen, and she is a peticullar friend of my Father's. She didn't cost so much as some of the others, but she is very good." "And there comes the Speckled Hen," said the brown-haired twin. "She doesn't lay many eggs, but my Father says that she is the best Hen on the farm about taking care of lonely or sick Chickens. She is very small, but she spreads herself out so she can cover a lot, and then she cuddles them until they are happy again, and can run around with her and eat the Worms she scratches up for them." There is no telling how much more the dolls might have learned about their new neighbors, if the Baby and the mother of the Little Girls had not come out just then. The Baby was put in his chair in the big box and given a cracker to eat, while the Little Girls stood outside and called to their company. "Come, Chick, Chick, Chick!" they called. "Come, Chick, Chick, Chick!" From far and near the Hens came running, with lowered heads and hurrying feet, to seize the food which they knew would be given them after that call. The Shanghai Cock and the White Cock followed more slowly, as was their habit. The Gander waddled gravely along from the farthest corner of the pasture in which the poultry-house stood, with his wife and the other Geese following solemnly behind him. The Turkeys, all together once more since the children were so large, came with rather more haste from the roadside, where they had been hunting acorns. And down by the river the Ducks and their children could be seen scrambling up onto the bank and shaking themselves. All were glad enough to come to the party as soon as they were sure it was time, but whether they had understood the invitations which had been pinned around for them to read--well, who can tell about that? The Man came from the barn to see the fun, and he and the Woman set the two birthday cakes from her basket onto the table. After she had done that, she had to pay more attention to the Baby, who kept trying to reach them with his fat little hands. The Man handed a pan of corn to each of the Little Girls. "Wait until the Ducks get here," he said. "They must have their share and there is plenty of time." The brown-haired Little Girl felt that those who were waiting should be amused in some way, so she began to talk to them. "This is our birthday party," she said, "and we are very glad you didn't have the measles, so you could come. A party is something to eat when you are dressed up and have company. We have some corn for you because you like that best, but if you are good and polite you may have some of our cake, too." By this time the Ducks were there, and each Little Girl began flinging handfuls of corn out to the poultry. Some of it was thrown into the yards where the White Plymouth Rocks were kept, and the rest fell between the yards and the big box. One cannot say very much for the manners of the company, yet it is quite certain that they had a good time. When they had settled down to eating quietly, the Man lighted the candles on the birthday cakes and the Woman passed a plate of bread and butter sandwiches to the three happy children around the table. The dolls did not seem to be hungry, but they must have enjoyed it very much, for they smiled all the time, even when nobody was speaking to them. The Man and the Woman sat on a couple of old Chicken-coops by the open side of the big box, and said what a fine day it was, and how good everything tasted, and what a very large party it was. The Baby laughed a great deal and said "Pitty! Pitty!" every time a soft breeze made the candle-flames dip and waver. The most exciting time came when the candles burned low and had to be blown out by the Little Girls, with the Baby helping. Then the cakes were cut, and the Man and the Woman and the three children in the box all had a share. The dolls were not forgotten, but even after they had been fed there was much remaining. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen stepped daintily up to the box and stood with her left foot lifted. "My friend, the Hen, is hinting that we should pass the cake to the other guests," said the Man, "and I think we should." The Little Girls helped to cut it into small pieces, and then the whole family, Baby, and all, stood in the sunshine and threw the fragments to the eager poultry, while the dolls looked on. The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen walked inside the box and picked up the many crumbs around the table, while the other fowls fluttered and ran for the pieces outside. The Black Hen always picked for the largest, and the rest chased her. Their manners were certainly bad, but it was the first birthday party they had ever attended, and perhaps it is not strange that they were excited and greedy. When the last crumb had been thrown out and not even the Black Hen could find another scrap, the Man and his family turned toward the house. The sun was already low in the sky, and the air grew cooler as night drew near. It reminded the Man that winter was coming. "It has been a happy summer," he said, "a busy and happy summer. I am strong again, and the work has gone well. I have a fine lot of fowls, and I am fond and proud of them. I think they deserve a party once in a while." "It was the very nicest party we ever had," said the Little Girls. "We ought to invite the poultry every time." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen murmured softly as she walked along behind them. "She thinks so too," said the Man. 
42946	----	[Illustration: BLUEBEARD, THE SHETLAND PONY. _Page 85._] LIVE TOYS; Or Anecdotes of Our Four-Legged and Other Pets. by EMMA DAVENPORT, Authoress Of "Jamie's Questions," "Weak And Wilful," etc. With Illustrations by Harrison Weir. London: Griffith and Farran, (Successors to Newbery and Harris,) Corner of St. Paul's Churchyard. M DCCC LXII. London: Printed by Wertheimer and Co., Circus Place, Finsbury. TO LADY NEPEAN, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED, AS CONTAINING TRUE ANECDOTES OF THE VARIOUS ANIMALS THAT WERE IN THE POSSESSION OF A LITTLE BOY AND GIRL, IN WHOM SHE HAS ALWAYS SHEWN A KIND INTEREST. Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. CONTENTS. PAGE MOPPY, THE WHITE RABBIT 1 THE TWO BIRDS, GOLDIE AND BROWNIE 4 POLL PARROT 10 NEDDY AND THE RIFLE DONKEY 19 BUNNY, THE WILD RABBIT 31 THE JACKDAW 38 PRICKER, THE HEDGEHOG 50 DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER 55 TAWNEY, THE TERRIER 60 PUFFER, THE PIGEON 70 DR. BATTIUS, THE BAT 75 THE CHOUGH 80 THE KITTENS, BLACKY AND SNOWDROP 83 BLUEBEARD, THE SHETLAND PONY 85 JOE, THE GERMAN DOG 96 LIVE TOYS; OR ANECDOTES OF OUR FOUR-LEGGED AND OTHER PETS. MOPPY, THE WHITE RABBIT. The first Pet that we ever remember possessing was a large white rabbit. We were then very little children; and, being at the sea-side, we spent the greater part of the day on the shore, or rather on the broad esplanade, that stretched for full half-a-mile round the pretty bay. When we were quite tired of running there, or of picking up stones and weeds on the shingle below the esplanade wall, we were enabled to prolong our stay out of doors by means of the pretty little goat-carriages that were kept in readiness on the esplanade. Some of them were made with two seats; some were drawn by one goat, and some with two. There were reins and regular harness to these little goats, and we were indeed pleased, when our nurse allowed us to drive in one of the double-seated carriages. We took turns to sit in front and drive, and we tried hard to persuade our Mamma to let us have a goat, and a goat-carriage for ourselves. What a nice Pet that would have been! But Mamma said she could not take it about, as we travelled much, and also that a goat would butt at us and knock us down. Therefore we were obliged to be content with patting and coaxing the goats on the walk. During one of our drives in the goat-carriage, we met with a boy carrying a beautiful white creature with pink eyes; "Look! look! nurse," we cried, "what is that?" "It is a rabbit," she said, "would you like to stroke it?" and she took it out of the boy's hands, and held it close to us; we kissed it and stroked it, and buried our faces in its long white hair, felt its curious long ears, and wondered at the strange colour of its eyes. The boy said that a sailor gave it to him; but that his mother wished him to sell it, as it was troublesome in her small cottage, and they had no yard to keep it in, and he asked nurse if she would buy it from him. We earnestly begged that we might have it; "Do buy it, Mary," we cried; "please buy it." And, after some talking, Mary gave sixpence to the boy for the rabbit, and, my sister giving up her front seat and her reins to me, went home with the pretty creature in her lap. We called the rabbit Moppy; it was a source of great amusement to us. Mary contrived a bed for it in a large packing-box in an empty garret at the top of the house, and when we wished to play with it, it was brought down to the nursery. We always fed it from our hands. It became extremely tame, and would follow us about the room, and allow us to lift it and carry it in all sorts of strange ways; for we could not manage lifting it by the ears in the proper way. When it began to be tired of us, it used to get under the sofa, and when we dragged it out again it appeared angry and would kick with its hind legs, and make quite a loud knocking on the floor, with what we called its hind elbows. When this commenced, nurse usually carried it off to its box, fearing that it might bite, or else she covered it up in her lap, when it would remain asleep for some time. Now and then we took it with us when we drove in the little carriage, and it lay so snugly on our knees and kept us so warm. Before we had become at all weary of our plaything, or indifferent to its welfare, we removed to Ireland; and going first to visit grand-mamma, it was thought impossible to take Moppy, so after much consultation, nurse spoke to one of the little boys who kept the goats, and seemed to be a gentle good-natured lad, and with many instructions and requests that he would be most kind and careful to the poor little animal, we kissed and stroked our pet, and, burying our faces in its long white hair for the last time, we made him a present of beautiful soft Moppy. THE TWO BIRDS, GOLDIE AND BROWNIE. "Would you like to buy a bird, Sir?" said a poor woman to me one day when we were just setting out for our walk. She held in her hand a small cage with a beautiful goldfinch. "I have one shilling and sixpence," I said, "will you give it to me for that?" "I hoped to be able to sell it for half-a-crown," the woman said, "for I am very poor; I am leaving this place and want money for my journey, or I should not part with my bird." "But I have a shilling," said my sister, "and that added to your money will make half-a-crown, and so we can buy it between us and it will belong to us both." We gave our money to the poor woman, and she put the cage into my hand. The little bird was quite a beauty, his colours so bright, his plumage so glossy and thick, and his chirp so merry. After displaying him to Mamma, and to every body we met, we carried him to the nursery, and placed him on the broad window-seat; Mamma said she was afraid we should soon get tired of him, and neglect to feed him and to clean his cage. This, we thought, was quite unlikely. However, we promised very faithfully; and we commenced with feeding and petting him so much that he soon became extremely tame, would take seeds and crumbs from our fingers, chirp to us when we came near his cage, and sing without the least sign of fear. One day we had carried him into the drawing-room; and, on opening the door of the cage to put in some sugar, he darted out. "Oh dear! oh dear! Goldie is out," we exclaimed; "what shall we do? We shall lose him." But Mamma quickly got up, and shut both the windows and begged us to be quiet, and not to frighten him by rushing after him and attempting to seize him. "If you leave him alone," said Mamma, "he will perhaps allow you quietly to take him in your hand when he has flown about as much as he wishes; but he will lose all his tameness if you terrify him." So we sat down to watch the little fellow, he darted about the room for some time, and presently alighted on the table, where the breakfast things remained. First he pecked at the bread, then tried the sugar, peeped into the cups, and seemed highly amused at the different articles which he was now examining for the first time. Then he flew on the top of the picture frames that hung on the wall, then on the curtain rods, and at last perched on Mamma's head, peeped at her hair, and looked as proud and happy as possible. And after he had looked at every thing in the room and well stretched his wings, he quietly returned to his cage, chirping at us, as if to say, "I have seen enough for one day, I'll come out again to-morrow." So afterwards we used to give him a fly every morning, taking care to shut all the windows before his door was opened. We paid so much attention to our bird; that he did not seem to find his life at all dull, but he obtained a companion in an unexpected manner. Our nursery window was standing open, Goldie was in his cage on the table, and we were playing on the floor; suddenly my sister exclaimed, pointing to the window, "Goldie is out! Goldie is out!" and there indeed, perched on the window-sill, was a little bird, which for a moment we believed to be our own little pet. We gently approached the window. "Oh that is a brown bird," said I, "and look! Goldie is safe in his cage." Nurse now advised us to draw back from the window, for that if not frightened, the little stranger might possibly be attracted by the bird in the cage, and might come inside the window; so we retreated to the opposite side of the room, and watched the little fellow. In he hopped very cautiously, now and then making a little chirrup, and twisting his head in all directions, as if to discover with his sharp black eyes, whether there was anything or anybody likely to hurt him; now he came on a chair-back, and then becoming bolder, ventured on the table. When Goldie saw him, he left his seed box at which he had been very busy, and hopping about his cage in a most excited mannere began to chirrup as loudly as he could, and shaking his tails up and down, he seemed to express his great joy at the sight of the little brown visitor. Nurse quietly passed round the room and shut the window, "Now we have him safe," we cried, dancing about. "Pray be still, my dears," said nurse, "until we get him into the cage." So we again became immoveable, and there was the brown stranger peeping at Goldie through the bars, perhaps wishing to partake of the seed and sugar, and fresh groundsel that Goldie had been enjoying. He was a delicately shaped thin little bird, all his feathers of a pretty dark brown, he did not appear to be much frightened when nurse approached, nor did he leave the table when she opened the door of the cage; but on the contrary, he peeped in, and receiving a very civil chirp of invitation from Goldie, he actually hopped in to our extreme delight. We ran to display our treasure to Mamma. She was quite amused at our having caught him in so strange a manner, and said that she thought he was a linnet, or some such kind of bird. He was evidently a tame bird that had been much petted. He soon accommodated himself to all Goldie's habits, came regularly to breakfast, and took his fly afterwards, all about the room, resting occasionally on our heads or shoulders. Brownie would now hop on our fingers, when we wished to take him up from the floor; and this we had never been able to teach to Goldie. The two birds were very good friends, excepting when an unusually nice bit of groundsel or plantain excited a quarrel between them; then they scolded, fluttered, and pecked at each other in a very savage manner. We had a sliding partition made to the cage, and when they began to dispute, we punished them by sliding in this partition and separating them for a short time. They used to look quite unhappy, moping in their solitude, until we made them happy again, by withdrawing the partition. These little birds went many journeys with us, even crossed to England, and back again to Ireland, and lived with us for a long time; and I suppose we became rather careless about open windows and doors, knowing that the birds were so very tame, and had no wish to fly away. We were the following summer in another place. There our rooms were confined and small; so we used to allow the birds to fly about on the staircase every morning, in order to give them a larger range for using their wings. One bright summer morning, Goldie flew out on the landing; and as he had invariably come back again to his cage, we were not noticing him much, and never perceived that the servant had gone down stairs, leaving open the door at the bottom of the flight, just outside of which door, was an open window. Presently we went to see for him, and it was some moments before we spied him sitting on the ledge of this open window. If we had made no exclamation, and placed the cage on the stairs, most probably he would have returned; but perhaps we startled him by running down the stairs towards him. Out he went so rapidly and yet so gently, in the bright fresh air, as if he would say, "Liberty and sunshine, and freedom of flight in the summer sky, is too delightful to refuse, even for you, my dear little master and mistress." He perched on a high tree and looked at us for a while. In vain we strewed crumbs about the window, and called and whistled. In vain we set his cage on the ledge with his deserted companion in it, hoping that hearing Brownie's chirp would entice him to return. He never came back again, and Brownie occupied the cage for many months; our care of him being greater than ever, since we lost our other favourite. But Brownie's end was much more tragic. We were going away on a visit for some weeks; and it was decided that Brownie was not to go, but that he should live in the kitchen until we returned. There was a huge cat living in the barracks. We always had been in dread of her, and had tried to make her afraid of entering our door; but whilst we were away, she one day found all the doors open, and peeping into the kitchen, and seeing no protecting servant there, she seized our dear little pet, and soon destroyed him. When we returned home, there was nothing but the empty cage. POLL PARROT. We were staying for some months at a seaport town in France, many vessels used to come in from different parts of the world; and I suppose the sailors brought with them all sorts of animals and birds, for the houses looking on the quay where the vessels were moored were almost entirely shops of birds, monkeys, etc., etc. It was most amusing to walk along the quay, and look at all the live creatures that were there exposed for sale. Such a chattering of monkeys of all shapes and sizes, such a twittering and singing from every imaginable species of small birds, such a screaming and chattering from the parrots and macaws, and such fun in peeping into the cages of white mice and ferrets. We often wished very much to buy a monkey; but Mamma did not fancy it, and said they were uncertain ill-tempered beasts, and that we should be constantly bitten if we had one. First, we longed for this bird, then for that squirrel, then for a cage of white mice, and so on; indeed I believe we quite tormented Mamma with requests to walk along the quay of animals, as we called it. At last we set our affections upon a grey parrot, the smoothest and handsomest among the large number exposed for sale. We never heard her say anything, it is true; but we thought that an advantage, as she would not have learnt to swear and talk like the sailors, and we should teach her to say just what we pleased. The price of the parrot was rather high, because of her size and beauty, and we longed for her many weeks before we were her masters; but at last she was placed in our possession as a new year's gift, and, in addition, a nice cage with a swing, and tin dishes for her food, all the wood work being carefully bound with tin, to secure it from her formidable beak. Cage and parrot were carried with us on our return to England, and she soon became a great pet. She was not at first very tame; but by much petting, and by leaving the door of her cage constantly open, so that she did not feel herself a prisoner, she gradually became more friendly. The first sign of love to any of us was after my sister's short absence of a few days at a friend's house. When she returned, we were talking together in the hall, and Poll's cage being in an adjoining room, she heard her voice, and recognising it, she came down from her cage, and gave notice of her arrival at my sister's feet by her usual croak; she flapped her wings, and gave every sign of pleasure at seeing her again. She did not, however, extend her amiability to any one but myself, sister, and Mamma; she was still savage to strangers, and would bite fiercely if touched, but if we offered our wrists, she would step soberly on, allow us to scratch her head, stroke her back, push back her feathers to look at her curious little ears, and in return she would lay her beak against our cheeks, and make a clucking noise as if she meant to kiss us. She used to waddle all about the room with her turned-in toes, and climbed up tables and chairs just as she pleased. She would get upon Mamma's knee by scrambling up her dress, holding it tight in her beak. When we were writing or drawing, she enjoyed sitting on the table, though she meddled sadly with our things, biting our pencils in pieces, tearing paper, and so on, and once in particular, she terrified us for her own safety by opening every blade of a sharp penknife, and flourishing it about in her claws as if in triumph. We had some difficulty in getting it from her grasp without cutting ourselves or hurting her. She was a famous talker, called us all by name, whistled and barked when the dog came into the room; called "Puss, puss!" and mewed when the cat showed itself, sang several bits of songs, and asked for fruit and food of different sorts. We never could teach her to sing through a whole tune. I never heard a parrot get beyond a few bars; and I wonder what is the reason that they will learn the commencement of half-a-dozen different songs, but still cannot remember any whole. I do think a parrot's voice and utterance is one of the most extraordinary of things, for it always repeats a word in the peculiar voice of the person who taught it; and, instead of closing its beak or touching the roof of its mouth with its tongue, in order to articulate, it invariably opens its mouth wide when it speaks, and its tongue is never used at all; yet it will pronounce m's, b's, p's, and t's as plainly as any human being. We could always tell who had taught our Poll any word or song, from the similarity of voice that she adopted. Her sleeping-place was for some time on the top of a chair-back in my sister's bedroom. When we were leaving the sitting-room to go upstairs at night, Poll used to waddle down from the cage and come to my sister, who held her wrist down for her to mount, and having been conveyed upstairs and placed on the floor, she mounted of her own accord to her sleeping perch, gave all her feathers a good shake, and settled her head for the night. Very early in the morning, she used to commence her toilet. Such scratchings and smoothings of her feathers, such picking and cleaning of her feet and legs; and having arranged her dress for the day, she would come down, take a turn or two about the room, and then look at my sister to see if she were awake. If not stirring, Poll used to clamber up on the bed by means of the curtain or counterpane, get quietly on the pillow, and examine her eyes closely. If no wink was perceptible, Poll would gently and cautiously lift up an eyelid, pinching it softly in her beak, then go to the other eye and do the same; then she would wait a little bit, saying, "Hey? hey?" as if to ask whether her mistress was not yet properly roused. Then she would again work away at the eyelids, till my sister could no longer refrain from laughing. She used to feign being asleep every morning, in order to amuse herself with Poll's proceedings. I wished to try having my eyelids opened by Poll in the same manner, and one night took the bird into my own room; but she did not approve of this change of quarters, and instead of going quietly to sleep, made such a croaking and grinding of teeth on her chair-back, that I was glad to carry her back to my sister's room. Indeed, although she was very friendly with me, she did not manifest the same attachment as towards my sister and mother, apparently preferring ladies' society. While Poll was with us, we went another journey into France, and took the parrot with us in a basket. It was a stormy night when we crossed from Southampton, and Poll in her basket was placed at the foot of my sister's berth, and no further attention was paid her. The cabin was very full of people, and numbers had to lie on the floor, there not being sufficient berths or sofas. In the middle of the night, the inmates of the ladies' cabin were all startled by a scream from an old lady who was stretched on the floor. "Stewardess! Here! Here! Some dreadful thing is biting me. I have received a shocking bite on the leg. Do search for the creature, whatever it is." So the stewardess came and looked, and could find nothing. My sister, who had looked out of her shelf at the old lady's cry, immediately divined what it was, seeing that Poll's basket had rolled off the berth to the floor, and she having gnawed a hole in the basket, had put out her beak and bitten the first thing with which it came in contact. When the stewardess came to look for the monster, the basket had rolled, with the motion of the ship, to the other side of the cabin, and not finding a sea voyage pleasant, she put forth her beak again. "Oh! bless me! What can that be?" cried another passenger. "Something bit me. Do find it, stewardess." Then came another lurch, and away rolled Poll in her basket; and no one suspected a rather shabby old basket of containing anything but perhaps a pair of slippers, or a brush and comb, or some such articles. So poor Poll rolled about in her prison, inflicting bites on several legs and arms, my sister meanwhile in agonies of laughter on her shelf, and not daring to say who was the real offender, lest Poll should be turned out of the cabin. At last the stewardess said that she supposed it must be rats, and she ran away at the entreaties of the poor victims on the floor to fetch the steward to search for the rats. Whilst she was gone, my sister slipped down from her berth, and took possession of Poll's basket. She had scarcely retreated with it in safety, when the stewardess returned with the steward; and rather an angry altercation ensued, the man insisting that there was not a rat in the ship, and the injured passengers insisting that sharp bites could not be made by nothing at all. However, after a long dispute, he begged them all to move from the floor, and made a regular search. My sister was all the time in the greatest alarm, lest Poll should think proper to croak or sing "Nix my dolly," or otherwise to make known her presence. As luck would have it, however, Poll was either too sea-sick or too angry to say anything, and the steward announced that no live thing was in the cabin, and that the ladies had been dreaming. "But bites in a dream, don't bleed," retorted an angry old lady, holding up to view a pocket handkerchief which indeed wore a murderous appearance. This being unanswerable, the steward could only shrug his shoulders and retreat from the Babel of voices in the ladies' cabin; and soon after, my sister had the pleasure of landing, with Poll undiscovered and safe in her old basket, and we are ignorant whether the old lady ever found out what it was that had bitten her. During our journey, Poll often caused great amusement, by suddenly shouting or singing as we were jogging along in a diligence or slowly steaming on a river, thereby astonishing and alarming our fellow passengers; nor did she forget, when occasion offered, to make good use of her strong beak. At one place we were entering a town late at night, and the place being a frontier town, our luggage was all strictly examined by the custom-house officers before we were permitted to enter the gates. All having been passed and paid for, we remounted the diligence; my sister was the last. She had her foot on the step, when one of the men rudely pulled her back, asking why she had not shown her basket. She said there was nothing in it but a bird, but the man declared he must look; and seeing that my sister was unwilling to open it, he imagined there was something valuable and contraband in it, so roughly dragging it out of her hands, he tore open the lid, and thrust in his hand. Poll gave a loud croak, and the man rather quickly withdrew his hand, with a thousand vociferations at the bird and the basket and my sister. I must confess I was delighted to see that Poll had made her beak nearly meet in the surly fellow's finger. When my sister had regained her basket, and we had left the gate, we lavished much praise on Poll for her discriminating conduct on this occasion. She would not have bitten my hand had I put it into the basket; how did she know that the hand was a stranger's? When we arrived at our destination in the south of France, Poll enjoyed the novelty as much as any one. Now she revelled in the abundance of oranges and other fruits, eating just the best part, and flinging away the rest with lavish epicurism. And how she basked in the hot sun, and climbed about the cypress and olive trees in the garden, biting the bark and leaves, and almost I think believing that she was again in her wild birth-place, wherever that may have been! She accompanied us in safety on our homeward journey, went to Ireland with us; and whenever we travelled, Poll went too. At one time she took an erroneous notion into her head, that she could fly; now this was an impossibility, for her wings were very short and small, and her body very large and heavy. Whether this had chanced from her unnatural life in a house, or from early cutting of her wings, I do not know, but she could not support herself in the air, even from the table to the ground. However, she thought she could, and on one occasion she tried to fly, when perched on the top bannister of a large well staircase of four flights. Down she came like a lump of lead on the floor below, and when we ran to pick her up, poor Poll was gasping, lying on her back, with her eyes rolling about in a fearful manner. We thought she would die, but we put some water in her mouth, blew in her face and did what we could to revive her, and gradually she recovered. But this lesson was lost upon her. A few days after, she tried to fly out of a window on the first floor, and came down in the same heavy way, on the flagged pavement before the door. This time her head was wounded, and bled, and she seemed stupid for some days after; but she recovered and lived long after that. Probably these falls had injured her brain, for at last she began to tumble off her perch, as if giddy, and then her head swelled very much, and she died in a sort of fit. I have seen other parrots who were better talkers than ours; but I never saw one so tame, and so fond of her own master and mistress, she used to come to meet us like a dog, when we came into the house, after being absent for walks or rides, knew our times for rising and going to bed, called us separately by our names, and really showed much intelligence. Birds, in general, are, I think rather stupid, and do not understand anything, but what their own instinct tells them; but parrots seem to know the meaning of the words they learn: and if others do not, I am sure that our Poll did. NEDDY, AND THE RIFLE DONKEY. Our next pet was a very different creature. One of our aunts had sent us some money as a present; and I and my sister had many consultations as to what we should do with it. At last we hit upon an idea that charmed us both, and we ran to our Mamma. "Oh Mamma, we cried, do you think our money will buy a donkey? We saw the other day, a little boy and girl both riding upon a donkey, it trotted along so nicely with them, and the little boy at the other side of the square has a donkey, and we should like it so very much." Then Mamma said that a donkey would be of no use unless we could also buy a saddle and bridle; and besides that, she must enquire where he could graze, or whether there was any spare stall in which he could live. These things had not occurred to us; but we went to Papa, and begged him to find out where our donkey could live in case we had one. Now there was a large sort of waste field adjoining the Barrack Square; a few sheep and some old worn-out horses were kept in it, but I believe it was not used for anything else. We sometimes ran and played there, and there was a pond in it, into which we were very fond of flinging large cobble stones. Papa found that he could easily obtain leave for our donkey to graze there, and it was of such extent, that it could find there quite sufficient food; so that difficulty was done away with. Then we made enquiry about the price of donkeys. We talked one day to the nurse of the little boy and girl who rode together. She did not know what their donkey cost, but told us that she knew a little boy who bought a young donkey, when it was scarcely able to stand, and so small, that he had it in his nursery, where it lay on the rug before the fire, and was quite a playfellow to him. We thought we should like a tiny donkey to play with in the house; but Mamma persuaded us that it would be much pleasanter to have one that we could ride. Papa heard of a donkey we could buy for one pound, it came to be looked at, and we liked its appearance much; it was in very good condition, its coat thick and smooth, and not rubbed in any place. Our other pound supplied us with a sort of soft padded saddle and bridle; the pommels took off, so that either of us could use the saddle, and happy indeed was the morning, when Neddy was brought to the door for us. I had the first ride, and, owing to a peculiarity in Neddy's manners, I soon had my first tumble. We proceeded across the square very nicely, and were about to cross a large gutter, along which a good deal of water was rushing. I had no idea that Neddy would not quietly step over it; but he had an aversion to water, and coming close to the gutter, he made a great spring and leapt over it; the sudden jerk tossed me off his back, and Papa catching me by the collar of my dress, just prevented me from going headlong into the water. And we found that Neddy always jumped over a puddle, or any appearance of water; sometimes a damp swampy place in the road, was enough to set him springing. But when we knew that this was his custom, we were prepared for it, and had no more falls; we rode in turns, and sometimes I got on behind my sister, and many nice long rides we had all about the fields and lanes. When we returned home, we took off the saddle and bridle at the door, and gave Neddy a pat; away he scampered through the open gateway into the field, flinging up his heels with pleasure. We could see all over the field and the square from our windows, and soon found it extremely amusing to watch the proceedings of our Neddy and another donkey. This donkey belonged to a little boy, who also lived in the square; he did not often ride upon it, but it followed him about more in the manner of a large dog. It had learned how to open the latches of the doors, and could go up and down stairs quite well. Our Mamma went one day to see the little boy's Mamma, and when she opened the door of their house she was much surprised to find the donkey's face close to her's, and she was obliged to give him a good push to get past him. When we heard this, we used to watch for the donkey going in and out, and soon we saw him go into the field and make friends with Neddy. They held their heads near together and seemed to be whispering; then they would trot about a little while, then whisper again. We supposed that the strange donkey was telling Neddy what fun he had in going into the different houses and getting bits to eat from the inhabitants, and instructing him how to bray under such and such windows when cooking was going on. For Neddy soon began to follow his friend about, and to imitate everything that he did. We did not know the name of the other donkey, so we called him the Rifle donkey, because his little master's Papa belonged to a rifle regiment. Neddy was an apt pupil, for soon after the conversations between the two donkeys had begun, we were seated one evening at tea, when we heard an extraordinary clattering upon the staircase, we listened and wondered, as it became louder. The staircase came up to the end of a long passage, which led to our doors, and when the clattering reached the passage I exclaimed, "I do believe it is the donkey coming up stairs." We rushed to the door, and looked out. Yes, indeed, the Rifle donkey and Neddy were quietly pacing along the passage. We were thoroughly charmed at Neddy's cleverness in mounting two long flights of stairs, and when we had given them each a piece of bread, and patted and coaxed them, they turned away to go down again, the Rifle donkey leading the way. He managed very well indeed, but Neddy made rather awkward work with his hind legs; however, he managed to reach the bottom without throwing himself down. Next they went under the windows of the adjoining house, and the Rifle donkey began to bray loudly, Neddy copied him in his most sonorous tones, and presently a window was opened and a variety of little bits of food were thrown out, which they ran to pick up. They came every morning to this window, and the officer who lived there always answered their call, by throwing something out to them. When he shut his window, they quietly went away, and about the middle of the day, when luncheons and dinners were going on, they would go to other windows about the square, and bray for food. Neddy always walked behind the other, and did not bray till he began. Sometimes there were clothes laid out to dry by the washer-women on a piece of grass, behind the houses. This supplied great amusement to the donkeys, for as soon as the women went away they would run to the grass, take up the clothes in their mouths, fling them up in the air, tread upon them, tear them, and even used to eat some of the smallest things, such as frills and pocket-handkerchiefs. But this was really too mischievous, as the poor women suffered for their fun. No one would believe them, when they said that such a missing handkerchief had been eaten by donkeys, or that such a piece of lace or a collar had been bitten and torn by the same tiresome creatures. I well remember some of our shirts coming home half eaten, and our Mamma then advised the washer-women to have a boy, with a good thick stick, to watch the drying ground, and to desire him to belabour them well if they attempted to touch any of the clothes. This advice was followed, so that piece of fun was in future denied to the donkeys. But, I and my sister highly disapproved of this system; we thought that we would much rather have our shirts eaten, or indeed all our clothes torn than allow Neddy to be beaten with a stick, to say nothing of the great amusement it gave us, to see the two queer animals rushing about among the wet things, entangling their feet in them, and sometimes trotting off into the square with a night-cap or a stocking sticking on their noses. However, we still took great interest in their proceedings even without the poor washerwomen's clothes; for being deprived of that game, they began to plague the soldiers at the guard room. It had a sort of colonnade in front, supported by pillars, and the Rifle donkey found that it was very diverting to rush head first at the men who were standing under the colonnade. If they tried to strike him, he used to dodge round a pillar, and then rush at them again from the other side. Often he singled out one man for his attacks, and then Neddy assisted his friend, by biting at the same man from behind, but he was not nearly so active in evading punishment as the Rifle donkey, and received many a buffet and kick during these encounters. Sometimes the soldiers punished them by getting on their backs. This, however, was not to be borne, and cling as tightly as they could, the donkeys never failed to fling them off, when they would return to the charge with renewed vigour. These games of bo-peep, and so forth, apparently amused the men quite as much as ourselves, and many a half-hour have we sat in our stair-case window-seat, watching the antics of the donkeys and the soldiers. Their play usually ended by the Rifle donkey receiving a harder rap on the nose than he deemed pleasant, then he would fling up his heels, and with a most unearthly yell, gallop off to the field, closely followed by the sympathising Neddy, who imitated in his best fashion both the yell and the fling of his heels. [Illustration: NEDDY, AND THE RIFLE DONKEY. _Page 25._] We were going to leave the barracks, and move to another part of Ireland; and just before we went, the two donkeys got into a terrible scrape. Indeed, it was very well that we did go away; for they were becoming so extremely mischievous and so cunning, that they would soon have become too tiresome; and although we were charmed with every trick they played, almost all the grown-up people thought them a great torment; and the Rifle-donkey had become a great deal more active and monkey-like, since Neddy had followed and copied him. I suppose he felt proud of being able to lead the other wherever he chose. It was extremely hot weather, and all doors and windows were generally left standing open. Not that it would have made much difference to the Rifle-donkey had they been shut; for there was not a door in the place that he could not open. But very likely they were tempted to this work of destruction by the sight of the open door. Whilst the officers were dining, the two donkeys walked into the ante-room. The table there was covered with newspapers, magazines, and books; and perhaps the donkeys thought that these papers were some of their old friends the clothes, from the drying-green; so they pulled them off the table; tore the newspapers into little bits; munched the backs of some bound books; scattered the magazines about the room; upset an ink-bottle that stood on the table; dabbled their noses in the pond of ink, and having done their best to destroy and spoil everything there, our Neddy, I suppose, was so delighted at the mischief they had done, that he could not refrain from setting up a loud and prolonged bray of pleasure and exultation. This brought in some of the officers, and there they found the Rifle-donkey trampling a heap of torn papers and books, with the remains of a blotted "Punch" in his mouth, and Neddy was looking on and expressing his admiration. So they were ignominiously turned out with kicks and blows; and some of the officers were very angry, and said that both of the donkeys ought to be shot immediately; and the others said that, at any rate, they should be shut up, and not allowed to run at large about the barracks. But, luckily for Neddy, we went away in a day or two, and we never heard how they managed to keep the Rifle-donkey in order. Perhaps he was not so mischievous when he had lost his companion, having then no one to admire his proceedings. We only heard that when his regiment left, some months later, the donkey marched out with them just in front of the band. As soon as we arrived at our new abode, our first thought was to find a field for Neddy. The fort in which we were to live was quite small; there was a street on one side, and the river close up to the wall on the other; the square, or rather the small space within the wall, was gravelled: no where could we see a blade of grass for our poor donkey, and there appeared to be nothing but brown bog anywhere round. Poor Neddy was put in a stall at the inn for the night; he must have been much surprised at the hay, and the luxurious bed of straw; for a bare field had hitherto been his only resting-place, and green grass the very best thing he had had to eat. But the stall could not be continued; and as soon as our Papa had leisure, he looked about for a suitable place for Neddy. There was another small fort about half-a-mile down the river: it consisted of a moat, and a low wall with a few guns. There was one little cottage inside for the gunner in charge; and the whole space inside the wall, consisting of a flat terrace, with sloping banks, and a good space in the middle, was covered with beautiful thick green grass. This was just the place for Neddy; he would not be able to get out, and there was nothing inside that he could hurt; for, of course, the gunner would soon teach him that he was not to poke his nose inside his neat little cottage; and there was plenty of space for him to run about, and fresh moist grass to eat, which I should think he would like better than dry hay in a hot stall. So Papa asked, and obtained leave, to keep our donkey there; and we rode upon him from the inn, and put him in possession of the little fort. He pricked up his ears, and seemed not quite to like the clatter of his hoofs, as he crossed the planks which formed a rude bridge over the moat. We thought nothing of this at the time, but we had to think a great deal of it the next day, when we came to take our ride--in happy ignorance that this would be the very last ride we should ever take on Neddy's back. We kept our saddle and bridle in our kitchen, and had to carry it with us to the fort; so I put it on my head and the bridle round my waist, and my sister drove me, and pretended I was a donkey. So we came very merrily to the fort, and having saddled and bridled Master Neddy, I was mounted, and we proceeded towards the plank bridge. But just at the edge, Neddy stopped short, laid back his ears, tried to turn round, and, in fact, refused to cross. In vain we patted and coaxed, tried to tempt him across with a biscuit, then tied a pocket handkerchief over his eyes, and attempted to cheat him into crossing without his seeing where he stepped. In no way could we induce him to put his foot upon the plank. The gunner came to our aid; and we all worried ourselves to no purpose. There was no other way out of the fort, and we were ready to cry with vexation. At last, Nurse suggested that it would be best to return home, and ask Papa what we could do; and being at our wit's end, we took her advice and scampered back to the other fort. Papa, having heard our story, sent four of the men with us, telling them they were to bring Neddy out in the best way they could; but, that, come out, he _must_. When we returned, there stood Neddy, just where we had left him, staring stupidly at the bridge. At first, they wanted to whip him, only leaving open to him the way to the bridge; but we declared he should not be beaten; and the gunner agreed with us, that blows would only make him still more obstinate. "Well, then," they said, "as he is to come out at all hazards, the only thing we can do is to carry him, one to each leg." So they began to hoist up poor Neddy, who did not in the least approve of this mode of conveyance. He tried to bite and kick, and twisted himself about in all directions. How we did laugh to be sure! For when two of them had got his fore legs over their shoulders, he made darts at their hair and their faces with his mouth, so that they had to hold his nose with one hand and his leg with the other. Then getting up his hind-legs was worse still; for he jerked and kicked so, as almost to throw down the men; and we quite expected to see the whole four and the donkey roll into the moat together. At last, he was raised entirely on their shoulders, and they ran across the bridge and set him down on the other side. "Are we to have this piece of fun every morning, Sir?" asked one of the soldiers, as they stood panting and laughing. "I hope not," I said, "I dare say he will be glad to go in to the grass when we come back from our ride; and if he once crosses it, perhaps he will not be afraid tomorrow." So we took our ride; Neddy behaved quite as well as usual; his fright did not appear at all to have disturbed his placidity; and in about two hours we again stood before the terrible bridge. The gunner came out to see how we should manage. We took off the saddle and bridle, and invited Neddy to enter. There was the nice fresh grass, and banks to roll upon, and to run up and down, looking very tempting through the gate; and on the other side of the road, there was nothing but heaps of stones and a great brown bog, stretching away as far as we could see, with nothing at all to eat upon it. But for all that, Neddy looked at the bridge; smelt it; and, resolutely turning his back to it, stared dismally at the bog, as if he were thinking, "I don't see anything that I can eat there." However, it was evident that although the fear of starvation was before him, he could not make up his mind to cross the ditch; and, in fact, had absolutely determined not to do so. We were in despair; but feeling sure that it would not do to have him carried in and out every day; we disconsolately led him back to our home, and told our troubles to Papa, who ordered him back to the stall at the inn for the night. Next day, we tried in all directions to find a field where Neddy could graze; but no such place could be found. So we had a grand consultation as to what must be done for him; and Papa said that he could not keep him in a stall, feeding with hay, for, perhaps, half-a-year or more, as he expected to remain where we were for a long time. So we made up our minds to part with our donkey; and we did not regret it quite so much at this time of year, as winter would soon come on, when, probably, we should not be able to ride much. We sent Neddy to the nearest town, about ten miles off; and a little boy there became his master. And we kept his saddle and bridle, in hopes of supplying his place some day. BUNNY, THE WILD RABBIT. We were now living in England, in a country place--fields and woods and lanes all around. We took great pleasure in all the amusements of country life. Our Papa had some ferrets, which he used to take out for rat-hunting in the corn stacks with a terrier we had, named Tawney, and other dogs; and now and then he went to a rabbit warren at some little distance. A boy one day brought from this warren a hat full of young rabbits for the ferrets to eat. They were all supposed to be dead; but when Papa was looking at them, he saw that one of the poor little things was alive, so he brought it into the house and gave it to me and my sister, saying that if we thought we could feed it we might keep it. The poor little thing was so young, that it was a great chance whether we could bring it up; but we had a cook who was very fond of all animals, and she helped us to nurse it. She fed it with milk for a few days, and then it soon began to nibble at bran and vegetables, and in a week or two could eat quite as well as a full-grown rabbit. The gardener made us a nice little house for it, by nailing some bars across the open side of an old box, and it slept in this by the side of the kitchen fire; but we never fastened it up so that it could not get out, and in the day-time it was seldom in its box, but running about the kitchen, and it soon found its way along the passage into the sitting-room, and then upstairs to the nursery, and into all the bed-rooms. It went up and down stairs quite easily, and seemed perfectly happy running about the house. It was a very strange thing that our terrier Tawney, of whom I have much to tell afterwards, never thought of touching Bunny, for when out of doors he was most eager after any sort of animal, would run for miles after a rabbit or a hare, went perfectly crazy at the sight of a cat, and was famous for rat-hunting and all such things; but as soon as he entered the house, even if the saucy little Bunny bounded about just before his nose, he would quietly pass by, apparently without an idea that it was a thing to be hunted. In the evenings, when Tawney would lie asleep on the rug, Bunny used to run over him, sometimes nestling itself against his back or legs; then would pat his face with its fore paws, and take all manner of liberties with him, he never so much as growled or snapped at it, and seemed really to like the companionship of the poor little creature. One very favourite hiding-place of Bunny's was behind the books on the dining-room shelves. These were quite low down to the floor, and if he could find a gap where a book was taken out, he squeezed himself in, and as the shelves were very wide, there was plenty of room for him to run about behind the books. I suppose he liked the darkness, and thought it was something like one of his native burrows, and if he could not remember them, it was his natural propensity to live in narrow dark passages, and therefore he preferred such places to the open daylight. It was very funny to see his little brown face peeping out between the books. Sometimes it happened that a book was replaced whilst Bunny was snugly hidden behind, and then we missed him when we went to put him to bed in his box for the night. First we went to look for him in all the rooms, and about the passages, and if he was not in the bookcase he would always come when we called, so when we saw nothing of the little animal, we went and took a book out of each shelf, and we were sure to see his bright eyes glistening in the dark, and then out came little Bunny with a bound. He did not seem to care for running into the garden or yard, which was odd; but as he grew older his taste for burrowing showed itself strongly. As he used to follow the cook about everywhere, he had of course been often down to the cellar and larder. These were paved with small round stones, and there was an inner cellar, or rather a sort of receptacle for lumber of all sorts, which was not paved at all; it had a floor of earth. Old hampers and boxes were put away there, sometimes potatoes and carrots, etc., were spread on the floor there, and altogether the place had a very damp, earthy sort of smell, perhaps very like the inside of a rabbit burrow, and one day the cook came to ask Mamma to come and look at the litter Bunny had made in the cellar. We all ran down, and saw that Bunny had scratched up a quantity of earth from between the little stones with which the cellar was paved; in fact the cellar floor looked almost like a flower-bed, all earth. The door into the inner cellar happened to be shut, or most probably he would have commenced his operations where there were no stones to hinder him. Mamma said that the gardener should press down the earth again between the stones, and tighten any that were loose, and that Bunny must not be allowed at any time to go down into the cellar. But it was very difficult to prevent his doing so. In summer, the meat and the milk were kept down there, as being the coolest place, and the beer barrels were there, and the coals, in different compartments; and to fetch all these different things somebody or other was perpetually opening the door at the top of the stairs. So Bunny frequently found opportunities for slipping in at the open door, and he came every day less and less into the sitting-rooms. One evening he had the cunning to hide himself behind some of the empty hampers in the inner cellar, and when we called him, and looked about for him in the evening, no Bunny appeared. In vain we took books out of all the shelves, hunted behind the curtains, under the sofas, and in all his usual hiding-places, we were obliged to give it up, and go to bed without finding him. The next morning, we renewed our search, and seeing no sign of his work in the outer cellar, we determined to have a regular rummage in the inner one. After moving a great many bottles, baskets, boxes, and barrels, we found a great hole. The earth had evidently been just scratched out; for it was quite moist and fresh. The busy little fellow had made a long burrow during the night in the floor of the cellar. When he heard our voices, he came out of his newly-made retreat, and we took him up stairs and gave him some food; for he was quite ravenous after his hard work. Then we consulted with his friend the cook, how to manage about him in future. It would certainly never do to let him go on burrowing under the house; in time we should have all the walls undermined, and the house would come tumbling down upon us, burying us in the ruins. Terrible, indeed, was the catastrophe that we created in our imagination from the small foundation of Bunny's having scratched a hole in the cellar! And now that he had once tried and enjoyed the pleasures of burrowing, we could scarcely expect that he would relinquish it again. We went to talk about it to Mamma; and we proposed that Bunny should live in the garden. "But," said Mamma, "I shall have all my nice borders scratched into holes; and the roots of my beautiful rose-trees laid bare; and, in short, the whole flower-garden destroyed, to say nothing of the kitchen-garden, which would, of course, become a mere burrow." "Well, then, Mamma," we said; "we must make him a much larger house, and keep him in it altogether. We will not let him have his liberty at all; and then it will be impossible for him to do any mischief." But Mamma said, that although that plan would certainly prevent Bunny from burrowing; she thought that it would not be a very happy life for the poor little animal, who had been accustomed all his life to perfect liberty, and had never been confined to one place. We could think of no other plan; so begged Mamma to tell us what she thought we had better do. "Do you remember," said Mamma, "seeing a number of little brown rabbits, running about and darting in and out of their holes, in the wild part of the fir-woods, where we sometimes drive. There is a great deal of fern and grass about there, and nothing at all to prevent the rabbits from burrowing and enjoying their lives without any one to molest them. I advise you to take Bunny there, and to turn him loose in the fir-wood; he will very soon find some companion and make himself a home; and do you not think he will be far happier when leading that life of freedom, than if kept in a wooden house, or even if allowed to burrow in a cellar?" After some deliberation, we agreed to follow Mamma's advice; and the next day we drove to the fir-wood, taking Bunny with us in a basket. We drove slowly along the skirts of the wood, looking for a nice place to turn him out. At last, we came to an open space among the fir-trees; the ground was there thickly covered with long grass, ferns, and wild-flowers, and the banks beneath the firs were full of rabbit-holes; we saw many little heads popping in and out. "This is just the place," we cried. "What a beautiful sweet fresh place to live in; and we got down and went a little way into the grass; then we placed the basket on the ground and opened it. Bunny soon put up his head, snuffed the sunny sweet air, and glanced about him in all directions. No doubt he was filled with wonder at the change from our kitchen or dark cellars, to this lovely wood; with a bright blue sky, instead of a ceiling; waving green trees, instead of white walls; and on the ground, in place of a bare stone floor; inexhaustible delights in the way of food; and soft earth for burrowing. Having admired all this, he jumped out of the basket; first he nibbled a little bit of grass, then ran a little way among the ferns. "Do let us watch him till he runs into a rabbit hole," we said to Mamma. And Mamma said she would drive up and down the road that skirted the firs, for about half-an-hour, and we might watch Bunny. He wandered about for a long time among the grass and plants; and at last we lost sight of him in a thick mass of broom and ferns. Mamma thought it was useless to search for him; there was no doubt that he would thoroughly appreciate the advantages of the fir-wood. So we gathered a large bunch of wild flowers, jumped into the carriage, and left Bunny in his beautiful new home. THE JACKDAW. One morning, my sister was sitting with Mamma at the dining-room window, when they saw me coming down the garden walk, with my head bent down, and something perched on my back. "Look!" said Mamma, "What has your brother got on his back?" Up started my sister. "Oh!" cried she, "It is something alive; it is black: what can it be?" And she darted out to look at my prize. It was a fine glossy fully-fledged Jackdaw. The gardener, knowing my love for pets of all kinds, had rescued it from the hands of some boys, who had found a nest of jackdaws, and had presented it to me. Although it was quite young, it looked like a solemn old man; the crown of its head was becoming very grey; and it put its head on one side, and examined us in such a funny manner, listening with a wise look when we spoke, as if considering what we were saying. The gardener had cut one of his wings pretty close, and the remaining wing was not very large. We set him down in the garden, and watched him for some time, in order to be certain that he could not fly over the low wall that separated our garden from the road. And we soon saw that he could only flutter a few inches from the ground, and hop in a very awkward sidelong manner; there was no fear of his escaping. Luckily, there was a large wicker cage, that had once been used for a thrush, in the coach-house. We fetched this out, cleaned it, and placed Jacky in it on the ground near some shady bushes. We left the door open, that he might hop in and out, and always kept a saucer of food for him in the cage. He soon became very tame; would hop on our wrists and let us carry him about, and liked sitting on our shoulders, as we went about the garden. Near his cage was a large lilac-bush, and he found that he could hop nearly to the top by means of its branches; and he picked out for himself a nice perch there, in a sort of bower of lilac-leaves and flowers. Finding this much pleasanter than the cage, he soon deserted that entirely; and at night, and whenever he was not hopping about the garden, or playing with us, he was to be found always on the same twig in the lilac bush. We used to place his saucer of sopped bread, and his saucer of water at the foot of the bush. When we passed, he used to shout "Jacky!" and soon began to try other words; and tried to imitate all sorts of sounds and noises. In the heat of summer, when the bed-room windows were all opened at daylight, we used to hear him practising talking in his bush. He barked like the dogs; utterly failed in his attempt to sing like the canaries; mewed like pussy very well, indeed; and then kept up an indescribable kind of chattering, which we called saying his lessons; for we supposed that he intended it to imitate our repeating of lessons, which he heard every morning through the dining-room window. Sometimes we heard more noise than he could possibly make alone; and we softly got out of our beds, and peeped through the window to discover what it was about. There must have been six or seven other jackdaws, running round and about his bush, hopping up and down into it; apparently trying how they liked his house, and having all sorts of fun and conversation with our Jacky. Within a few fields of our garden walls, stood the old ruin of a hall or manor-house; it had once, doubtless, been large and handsome; nothing now remained of it but the outer wall, a few mullioned windows, and some remnants of stone-staircases. The walls being very thick and much broken, afforded excellent holes and corners for jackdaws'-nests; for owls and such things. Indeed, it was from one of these holes in the ruined hall, that Jacky had been taken. And the numerous feathered inhabitants of the "Old Hall," as it was called, having spied our pet, sitting in lonely state in his bower among the lilac leaves, doubtless thought he would be grateful for a little company, and the society of his equals; so kindly used to pay him a visit in the early morning, before children or gardener were likely to interfere. We were rather afraid that the wild jackdaws might entice away our Jacky, by describing to him their own free life, and the mode of existence in the crumbling walls of their home. But when Mamma made us observe how very awkwardly he hopped about with his cropped wing, and how utterly impossible it was for him to fly across two or three fields, and to the top of the ruin, we were satisfied that his stay in our garden was compulsory; and we agreed that the "Old Hall" jackdaws might visit him as much as they pleased. But they never once came at any other time than very early in the morning. I suppose Jacky thought that he had kept these visits a profound secret from us. As he grew older, he became extremely mischievous. When Mamma was busy in the garden, he used to come down from his tree and follow her about from one border to another, watching earnestly whatever she was doing; and whilst she tied up the plants, or gathered away the dead leaves and flowers, he used to put his head on one side, and seemed to be considering for what purpose this or that was done. Mamma was planting a quantity of sweet peas, in order to have a second and late crop, after the first had begun to fade. She planted them in circles, twelve peas in each, and a white marker was stuck in the centre of each patch. As it was fine warm weather, Mamma expected that these peas would very soon appear; but in a few days, when she went to look at them, she saw that all the white markers had been pulled up and thrown on one side. So she called to us, "Children! I am afraid you have meddled with my seed markers; for they have all been taken out, and I stuck them firmly in the ground; some one must have touched them." We assured Mamma that we were not the delinquents; indeed, we were too fond of all the beautiful flowers to injure them in any way. When we looked closer, we saw that there was an empty hole in each place where Mamma had planted a pea. They had every one been picked out. Whilst we were wondering who could have done this, the gardener passed, and Mamma showed him the empty holes, and the markers pulled up; and asked him who he thought likely to have done such a piece of mischief. "I shouldn't wonder if it war he," said the gardener, pointing to Jacky, who, as usual, was close to Mamma, listening attentively to all we said. "Jacky, Jacky!" shouted he, making some of his awkward jumps at the same time, and going close to the ring of little holes, he peeped down them, with his head on one side, as if to make sure that he had left nothing at the bottom. We could not help laughing at the queer old-fashioned manner of the creature; but, at the same time, it was very annoying for Mamma to lose all the pretty and sweet flowers through Jacky's greediness. She said she would plant some more immediately; and she sent my sister, with Jacky on her wrist, to the front of the house, with orders to stay there till the planting was finished, so that the mischievous bird might not watch the whole process, and would not know where the seeds were planted. I staid to help Mamma; we planted rings of sweet peas in different places from the old ones; and instead of white markers, which might attract Jacky's notice, we stuck in a great many bramble-sticks, all round every patch, so closely that a much smaller bird than Jacky would have found it difficult to squeeze himself in between the rough prickly twigs. Then we thought that all was safe, and we let Jacky come back to his perch. The next day he had not touched the brambles; but I suppose he had thought it necessary to do something in the way of gardening; so he had fetched up, from the farthest end of the kitchen garden, a roll of bass, or strips of old matting, that was used for tying plants and flowers to sticks. This he had pulled into little shreds, all about the lawn and the flower-beds, and a great deal of time and trouble he must have spent upon his work. How the gardener did scold! saying, that it would take the whole afternoon to clear away the litter, and that Jacky did more mischief than he was worth; and so on. But Jacky was a privileged person, and did pretty much as he liked; so it was of no use to complain about him. It was most amusing to see how he teased the gardener when mowing was going on; he would watch his opportunity, and when no one chanced to be looking, he would run away with a bit of carpet or piece of old flannel, that the gardener used to wipe his scythe; or else he would drag away the hone, or sharpening-stone, and hide it under his lilac-bush. So gardener, finding him a great nuisance on mowing days, told us that he should certainly mow off Jacky's head or legs some day; for he would come hopping about among the cut grass; and if taken up and landed in his tree, he would immediately come down again, and thrust himself just in the way. So for the future, we took care on mowing days to shut up Jacky in the nursery, or in the dining-room, where he used with a rueful countenance to watch all proceedings through the window, pecking now and then in a spiteful way at the glass. [Illustration: THE SPARROW-HAWK AND CAT. _Page 45._] Whilst Jacky was in our possession, we had a sparrow-hawk for a short time. Papa brought him home one evening in a paper bag; he was a very handsome fellow, with such brilliant eyes, and such a beak! He was perfectly wild, and bit furiously at any hand that approached him; so we covered up his head in a pocket-handkerchief, whilst gardener fastened a small chain round his leg. Then we fixed a short stump in the grass, not far from Jacky's lilac, and fastened the end of the chain to the stump. So he could run and hop about for a yard or two round the stump; we intended to keep him there until he became a little tamer, and hoped that the example of his neighbour would teach him good manners. But instead of taking Jacky as a pattern, the new comer bullied him in a most dreadful way. We might have saved ourselves the trouble of chaining him, for he snapped the chain in two with his strong beak, and came down from his stump quite at liberty to roam about. Strange to say, he did not go away altogether, but walked in at the dining-room window. We were seated at tea, and not knowing that the hawk had liberated himself, we were quite startled at hearing a curious flapping in the corner of the room, but we soon saw the two brilliant eyes, and there sat Mr. Sparrow-hawk, on the top of the book-case. We took him out and confined him to his stump again. There he staid quietly all night; but next day we heard Jacky pitying himself in his bush, and we found him fidgetting about in the top of the lilac, and fearing to come down, because Mr. Sparrow-hawk was walking about at the bottom, and whenever poor Jacky ventured down, he was darted at by the new comer, and hastily scrambled up the bush again. This was done out of pure love of teasing, for the hawk would not condescend to touch Jacky's food, consisting of sopped bread; but yet he would not let the poor old grey-head come down to eat his own breakfast. Jacky was quite crest-fallen, and we procured a stronger chain which held Mr. Sparrow-hawk fast on his stump for several days, during which time Jacky regained his equanimity. But then the chain was burst again, and this time the hawk took to chasing the cats as well as tormenting Jacky. We had two cats, they were very good friends with Jacky, and used wander about the garden a good deal; quite unconscious of what was in store for them; they commenced playing about Mr. Sparrow-hawk's stump, when down stepped the gentleman and nipped the tail of the nearest cat quite tightly in his sharp beak, poor pussy shrieked and mewed, and we had to go to her rescue. At last we left off chaining the hawk, as we found that he did not try to escape, but sat on his stump or else came into the house; and we often were startled by finding him perched on a table, or on the bannisters, but at the same time he would not become tame, and he so terrified and annoyed poor Jacky, that we soon sent him away; and certainly the cats and Jacky must have rejoiced, when they found the savage owner of the stump had disappeared. The only sign of civilization which Mr. Sparrow-hawk had shown, was one evening, when a gentleman who visited us, happened to be playing the flute in the drawing-room. The hawk never came into the room when any one was there, and had very often heard the piano and singing; but probably the peculiar sound of the flute had something very pleasing to the bird's ear, for although this room was full of people, he came to the open window, hopped in, and gradually approached the flute-player, till he perched himself on the end of the flute. When the music ceased, the hawk, quietly took himself out of the window again, and next day was as wild as ever. One of Jacky's great pleasures during the summer, was bathing or washing at the sink in the back kitchen. We always took care that he was provided with a large saucer of water, which stood beneath his lilac bush, but this did not appear to be sufficient. One day when the cook was pumping water out of the sink-pump, Jacky jumped up, and put his head under the stream, shouting and fluttering, with expressions of the greatest delight; and after this he generally came every day into the back kitchen, and called and hopped about until cook came and pumped over him. Such a miserable half drowned creature as he looked, with all his feathers sticking close to his body; then he used to repair to the kitchen and sit before the fire, till he became dry. Sometimes he got upon the fender, and when the fire was large, it made his feathers appear quite to smoke, by so rapidly drawing out the water. Once he was actually singeing, when the cook snatched him up and put him out of the window, and it was strange that he seemed to like the roasting at the fire, quite as well as the cold water. He soon discovered the time that tea was prepared in the kitchen, and regularly came to the window to ask for tea and bread and butter; so a saucer of tea and a piece of bread and butter were placed on the window-sill for him, as punctually as the cook's own tea was prepared; and Jacky sipped his tea, and ate his bread and butter like any old washerwoman. But whilst sitting at the kitchen window he spied all sorts of things on cook's little work-table that strongly tempted his thieving propensities, and coming cautiously one morning, when the cook was absent, he pretty well cleared the table; very many journeys in and out must it have cost him, for when the poor cook returned to her kitchen, she began exclaiming. "Who has been meddling with my work and all my things?" and she called to me and my sister, and asked if we had hidden her work materials to plague her. "No indeed," we said, "we have not been here this morning at all." "Well then," said she, "what has become of my thimble, my scissors, and reels of cotton, my work, that I laid upon the table, and there was also an account-book of your Mamma's, and a pen; I don't see one of them!" We hunted about for the missing articles. The kitchen window looked out on a plantation, not far from Jacky's bush. My sister looked out. "Oh!" cried she, "there is one leaf of your account-book on the border." "And I declare," exclaimed cook, who had run to the window, "there is one of my new reels twisted round and round yon rose tree; I do believe it's that mischeevous bird." We were delighted. We both sprang out of the window--"There's your thimble," I shouted, "full of wet mould!" "And here are your scissors," cried my sister, "in Jacky's drinking saucer! And there is your half-made shirt, hanging on the rose bush beneath the window!" Poor cook could not forbear laughing. "Well," said she, "he must have been right-down busy to take off all these things in about five minutes. Gather up my things for me, like good bairns." So we ran about picking up the things; the cotton reels were restored with about half their supply of cotton, as he had twisted them all round about the stems of different plants; the pen was stuck into the earth, and as for the account-book, the leaves were all about the garden, some he had even carried down to the cucumber frame, quite at the other end. But he was such a favourite, that even this sort of trick was allowed to pass unpunished. He furnished us with much amusement; and I am now coming to his sad end. The wall which separated our garden from the road, was very rough and old, full of holes and crumbling mortar. Once or twice, when sitting at the windows, we had seen a small animal run across the gravel walk; we could not discern whether it was most like a rat or a weasel, and probably it came in through one of the holes in the wall. We did think of Jacky; but knowing that he always roosted at the top of the lilac bush, we supposed that he was quite out of the reach of rat or weasel. One morning quite early, our Papa whose window was open, heard a very strange sort of chattering from poor Jacky, so unlike his usual language, that he got up and looked out of his window. Seeing nothing, and hearing no more, he went to bed again; but when Mamma went as usual to give Jacky his breakfast, no call of pleasure came from the bush, no Jacky was there, and he was no where to be seen. "Then a weasel has taken him," said Papa, when we told him; "the singular cry he made this morning, was doubtless when the weasel seized him." And when we searched about the garden, there we found on a grass bank, at some distance, the remains of our poor pet. The weasel had bitten him behind the ear, and sucked the blood; his feathers were a good deal ruffled, but no other bite had been made. We blamed ourselves much, for not having safely fastened him in a cage every night in the house. But now we could do nothing but bury the body of poor Jacky. PRICKER, THE HEDGEHOG. Shortly after poor Jacky's death, Papa called us into the garden. "Children!" he said, "Here is something for you in my handkerchief. Guess what it is; but don't touch." The handkerchief looked as if something very heavy was in it; and we guessed all sorts of things, but in vain. At last Papa let us feel, and my sister grasped it rather roughly; but withdrew her hand quickly, with five or six sharp pricks. "Oh! it is a nasty hedgehog," cried she; "look how my fingers are bleeding!" "Not a _nasty_ hedgehog," I said, "but a curious nice creature; where did you get it, Papa?" "It was given to me this morning for you," he replied; "It will live in the garden; and you must sometimes give it a little milk, and it will do very well; and perhaps become quite tame." The little creature, when placed on the grass, did not curl itself up and appear affrighted, but looked about him, and ran quickly to and fro. We brought some milk out in a saucer, but he could not manage to get his nose over the side; so we made a little pond of the milk on the grass, and he dipped his black snout into it, and then sucked it up greedily. This hedgehog soon became very tame; when we took him up in our hands, he did not curl up in afright, but let us look at his feet, and touch and pat his curious little pig's face. He helped himself to what he liked best in the garden; and we never found that he rooted up anything, or did the slightest damage; he liked the milk which we gave him daily; and when we were playing on the grass, he used to run about us, as if he liked our company. We had been told that we should never be able to keep a hedgehog; that they always climbed over the walls, and escaped to the fields and hedges. But although we did not in any way confine Pricker, he never attempted to leave us, being apparently quite content with his run of the kitchen garden, flower garden and house; for we sometimes carried him into the kitchen, and up stairs into the nursery, where he would roll himself up into some snug corner, and remain apparently asleep for an hour or more. When we had had Pricker for some weeks, we received a present of a second hedgehog. He was larger, but never became so tame as our first friend; he did not like to be taken up in our hands, and we never could obtain a good look at his black face and legs, as he rolled up on the slightest touch; and when Pricker was running about on the grass, his shy companion used to remain hidden beneath the leaves and plants. We had, at this time, a very favourite dog; and at the first coming of the hedgehogs, we were in some fear that Tawney would kill them, for he was a most eager hunter of rats, weasels, rabbits, cats; in short, of anything that would run from him. But every one assured us that a dog would not kill a hedgehog, on account of his sharp prickles; and the first time that we showed Pricker to Tawney, he made a sort of dart at him, and received, of course, a violent prick on the nose; at this he retreated, barking and licking his lips, and dancing round poor Pricker, with every desire to attack again; but hoping to find a spot unprotected by the formidable spikes. Pricker, however, having tightly rolled himself up, such a spot was not to be found; and, after a great deal of noise and excitement, Tawney retired, and we never observed him to venture again. When Pricker was running on the grass, or when we were feeding him with milk, Tawney used to play about without condescending to take the slightest notice of the little animal; in short, he pretended not to see him. So that we felt quite easy about the safety of Pricker and his comrade. What it was that induced Tawney not only to _see_ Pricker, but to attack him again, we do not know, as nobody was witness of the catastrophe. On going into the garden one brilliant morning, Tawney made his appearance in a very excited state, bounding about our feet with a short delighted bark, that was not usually his morning salutation; and on looking more closely at him, we saw that his nose was bleeding; indeed, his whole head and ears were much ruffled and marked. We did not at first think of Pricker; but on wiping Tawney's face with a wet towel, we found that he was bleeding from many wounds. "The hedgehog!" we exclaimed, "He must have killed poor Pricker." So we commenced a grand hunt through the garden, looking under all the cabbage-plants, and in all the usual haunts. Behind the cucumber frame we found our hedgehog; but as he curled up the moment we looked at him, we knew that it was not Pricker; and on further search we discovered the mangled remains of the poor animal, whose natural armour had not been sufficient to protect him from so brave and plucky a little dog as our Tawney, who must really have suffered greatly from the deep thrusts into his face and head before he could have inflicted a mortal bite. Now, we thought, what shall we do with the other; as, doubtless, Tawney, would not allow him to live, having found himself the conqueror in the present instance. Papa said that a gentlemen, one of our neighbours, had been telling him that his kitchen was infested with black beetles; and that he had tried beetle-traps, and all sorts of methods of getting rid of them in vain. Papa had told him that the surest way was to keep a hedgehog in the kitchen, as they devour black-beetles greedily. "Now," said Papa, "as you cannot keep the little creature in safety here, you had better make a present of it to Mr. D----; and I advise you to carry it to him at once." Accordingly, we took the hedgehog to our neighbour, and it was duly installed in the kitchen. In a day or two, we went to enquire whether the beetles were decreasing. Alas! the poor hedgehog had fallen a victim to his own greediness; for, having eaten too many beetles, he was found dead amidst a heap of the slain. DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER. It happened at this time that we passed another winter in Ireland; and missing our garden, and other occupations, my father made us a present of a dog. Drake was a large handsome retriever of a dark brown colour, with very short curly hair. I believe that sort of dog is called the "Irish Retriever;" they are certainly very common in that country. I remember to have seen many of them; but our Drake, we thought, was handsomer than the generality; his coat was more curly and of a better colour, and he was taller--for they often have rather short legs in proportion to their body. He was a very rough bouncing creature, full of life and activity; many a tumble, and many a hard knock we received in our games with him; he used to bound at us, and putting both paws on our shoulders, roll us over like ninepins. It was winter when he came to us--a very hard winter, almost constant frost, and now and then heavy falls of snow--we were at that time in a small fort on the bank of the Shannon; and although that is a very broad, deep, and rapid river, it was once, during the winter, quite frozen over for more than a week; and, after that, when the strongest current remained unfrozen, there was still a great deal of ice on the sides, and all among the sedges and rushes that grew among the flat banks. Drake liked the cold very much, and liked rolling in the snow, and being pelted with snow-balls, which was our chief amusement out of doors during the winter. In the house we had fine games of hide and seek; we hid a glove or pocket-handkerchief under the sofa-cushion, or in the curtain, or in Mamma's pocket, and telling Drake to find it; he would rush frantically about the room, snuffing in every hole and corner, until he brought to light the hidden article. Then we had races, in and out the bed-rooms and sitting-rooms, up and down the stairs, and round the tables; but these races generally ended by something being thrown down, or, at least, by our clothes being torn in Drake's exultation at catching us. Whilst the hard frosts lasted, Papa had Drake out with him a great deal. Wild geese and wild ducks abounded on the river; but they were extremely difficult to shoot; they generally flew in great numbers, and seemed to keep a sentinel, or one to look out; for it was almost impossible to approach them near enough to have them within the reach of a shot. It was now that Drake's fetching and carrying propensities became most valuable. Papa had a flat punt constructed; it was a most curious-looking boat, so flat that it scarcely stood out of the water at all; inside was fixed a large duck-gun on a swivel, and then there was just room for Papa, and one man, to lie down at the bottom, with Drake; it was rowed by one paddle at the stern. [Illustration: DRAKE, THE RETRIEVER. _Page 57._] The geese and ducks used to come to feed on the river's banks very early indeed in the morning; and so watchful and shy were they, that even in the flat punt, Papa found that he could not come at all near them unperceived. Off they would all go again, making such a flapping with their great wings, and quacking as they went. So Papa, having noticed a flat swampy sort of place, some way down the river, set out late at night in the punt; and, reaching this feeding-ground, waited there till the flock came flying over them. They made themselves heard sometime before they arrived; and then Papa, the man, and Drake, all crouched down and remained immoveable until the birds were right overhead; and then, bang went the great duck-gun, and down tumbled, at least, half-a-dozen great fat geese. Now was Drake's time; and but for him no geese would have been brought home, although many might have been shot. Out of the punt sprang Drake, and soon carried back one or two that had fallen into the open water; then he would carefully get upon the thin ice, between the rushes and the coarse grass, and bring to light any wounded bird that had sought to find a shelter there. Then again into the water where great thick reeds prevented the boat from going; if the birds dived, he dived after them; and, in short, none escaped him; he swam after them, scrambled along the ice after them, rummaged in the weeds all stiff with frozen snow, and having seized one and hurried back to the boat with it, off he would start for another. But when the flock had once received a shot, they came no more to the same place that night; so no more was to be done, unless a chance bird or two on the way home. Sometimes they flew one or two together; we have seen them from the windows of the fort, fly quite close to the bridge in the daytime; but only great hunger could have driven them to this. When the party reached home, and the birds were spread out on the floor to be looked at, how pleased Drake was, and how proudly he snuffed from one to the other. The wild geese were very handsome birds, not so large as common geese, but very plump, and with a beautiful dark brown plumage. They were very good to eat, for they do not live on fish, as some suppose, but eat only the weeds and grass that they find in certain spots along the river's bank. But the ducks were handsomer still, very nearly as large as the geese; less tough when cooked, and having brilliant blue feathers in each wing. Then there was a smaller kind of duck, with green feathers instead of blue, in the wings; this green was like the humming bird's green, as bright as emerald. Besides these, there were teals, very pretty-looking things with silvery looking feathers on the breast, and a variety of small ducks, and curlews. All pretty, and all good to eat; we had to thank Drake for every one of them, as without his help very few would have been picked up; there was so much thin ice along the river, that would not have borne a greater weight than Drake, so when they fell upon this, they were quite out of man's reach, to say nothing of the difficulty of groping out a wounded bird from a wilderness of long grass and rushes, growing in pretty deep water. Drake highly enjoyed the night expeditions, and when the punt was getting ready, or the gun cleaning, he would jump about and bark, as if to say "I know what is in contemplation." When the winter was nearly passed, we went back to England, leaving Drake in the fort; being much played with and sometimes teazed by the soldiers, he became very rough, and rather inclined to snap and bite. Shortly afterwards he was sent to us in England, and on his arrival we brought him in, to have a game with us in the house. We had a large ball, and were making Drake fetch it, when we rolled it to the end of the room. This went on very well for some time, excepting that Drake did not give the ball up without a growl, which he had never done formerly; and at last, he laid down with it between his fore feet, and I desired him to bring it in vain, so I went to him and took it in my hand, when he flew at me with a growl, and bit my cheek. It was not a very severe bite, but Mamma said she would not keep the best dog in the world after he had bitten one of us, and that Drake must immediately be sent away. Then Papa wrote to a gentleman who knew what a clever dog at finding game Drake was, and he agreed to buy him. So he was sent off without our seeing him again. TAWNEY, THE TERRIER. We now come to the very chief of our favourites, our dear dog Tawney. Before he arrived, we only had a setter who lived in his kennel in the yard, and we never petted him much; and once when Papa went away for several months, he took the dog with him, so we were without any guard. At this time a great many robberies had taken place, and houses had been broken into in the neighbouring town. There appeared to be a gang of house-breakers going about. And when Mamma was writing to our Grandmamma, she said that she quite expected a visit from this gang, some night, as Papa was away, and no man in the house. Grandmamma replied that the best safeguard was a little terrier, sleeping inside the house, and that she would send her one; and in a few days we received a beautiful terrier, close haired and compact, with such brilliant dark eyes and of a yellowish colour, more the colour of a lion than anything else, so we named him "Tawney." A bed was arranged for him in a flat basket, which was placed every evening near the back door, and we soon found what sharp ears he had, and what a good watch-dog he would prove. If Mamma got up after every one had gone to bed, and opened her own door as softly as possible, Tawney heard the lock turn, and barked instantly. He always gave notice when anybody entered the front gate, or came into the yard, and we felt sure that no housebreaker could approach the house _unheard_ at least. Tawney became our constant companion. He took his meals with us, sat under the table during our lessons, walked out with us, joined in all our romps and games; and was really almost as companionable as another child could have been. At hide and seek, running races, leaping over a pole, and blind man's buff, he played as well as any boy, and when we drove in the pony carriage, he amused us excessively. He darted into every door or gate he found open, and in passing through the town he behaved so badly with respect to the cats, that we were obliged to take him into the carriage, until we had quite left the streets. If he saw a poor quiet cat sitting at a door he flew at her; and if the cat took refuge in the house, Tawney followed, barking and yelping, and doing all he could to worry poor puss. Of course this was not at all pleasing to the inmates, and generally Tawney emerged, as quickly as he entered, followed by a flying broom-stick, sometimes by the contents of a pail of dirty water; and often by an angry scolding woman, whom we had to appease as we best could. Then if he saw a little child with a piece of bread, or a mug of milk, he would seize upon the food, knocking down the child by the roughness of his spring; and then we had again to apologise and explain, and regret, and so on; and although all these pranks were done in the joy and delight of his heart, at starting for a good run in the country, that was no comfort to the aggrieved cats and children; and he became so unbearable when in the town, that we used to make a circuit to avoid the streets, or else as I said before, take him inside the carriage. Then when we reached the lanes and roads, we gave him his liberty, which he thoroughly enjoyed. How he raced before us, how he sprang over the hedges and walls, sometimes disappearing entirely for a field or two, and then suddenly darting out from some wood or garden! Once or twice he returned to the carriage with his nose bloody; we could not discover what he had been worrying. But it must be confessed that he was a fierce little animal, and had no idea of fearing anything. Sometimes he disappeared altogether when running after the carriage, and more than once staid out all night and even two nights; but always returned safely and in good plight, as if he had not been starved. We used to wish that he had the power of telling us his adventures on these occasions: where he had slept; what pranks he had played; and in how many scrapes and difficulties he had found himself. His greatest delight was when Papa took him with us to hunt a stack for rats. Oh! what a wonderful state of excitement was Tawney in; he used to sit staring at a hole in the stack as if his eyes would spring from his head, and shaking in every limb with delightful expectation. Then, when the rat bolted from his concealment, what a sharp spring did the little fellow make; and having dispatched his victim, would peer up to the top of the stack and seem to examine so carefully all up the side, to discover another hole that looked promising. If none offered, he would run off to another stack, and snuffing all round it, search most carefully for signs of rat holes. One of Tawney's most annoying tricks, was his love of fighting; he scarcely ever met with another dog, without flying at him and provoking him to a severe contest, in which torn ears were his usual reward; but this sort of hurt was perfectly disregarded by him. On one occasion, we went a journey to the sea-shore, and Tawney was put into a dog-box, with several other dogs. While the train was in motion the rattle and noise prevented us from hearing them; but at the first station a most tremendous yelping, snarling, and shrieking arose from the dog-box; and, on opening the door, the whole number of dogs were tearing and biting each other; no doubt, having been invited to the contest by our naughty Tawney. The combatants having been separated by dint of dragging at their tails, legs, and bodies, Tawney, with damaged mouth and ears, though wagging his tail and wriggling about with pleasure, was consigned to a solitary prison for the rest of the journey; and the remaining dogs were left to lick their wounds in peace. We were anxious to see what Tawney would think of the sea; we had neither river, pond, or lake, near our home in the country, so had never had an opportunity of trying his powers of swimming. The first day that we went down to the shingle, the sea was very rough; great tops of white foam rolling over on the beach; and we had no idea that the little fellow would venture into the midst of such a very novel-looking element. However, we flung a stick in. "Fetch it, Tawney! Fetch it!" And in plunged the bold little animal; the first wave threw him up on the beach again, looking rather astonished; but he did not hesitate to try again. The water being so rough, we did not urge his going in any further, fearing that he might be washed away; but on smooth days, he would swim out a long way, and bring back any floating thing that was thrown in; and he enjoyed his swims as much as any regular water-dog could do. He had a habit of paying visits by himself, when we were at home; he used regularly to go down the road to a farmer, at some little distance, every morning about eight o'clock, and quietly return, trotting along the footpath at nine, which, doubtless, he knew to be the breakfast hour. Whilst we were at the sea-side, he used to visit a family with whom we were intimate. Running to their gate, he waited till some one rang, and entered with them; if their business was not in the drawing-room, he again waited till some other person opened the door, and then he settled himself on the hearth-rug for about half an hour; after which, he took leave by wagging his tail, and came home again. The lodging in which we were, was one on a long terrace, the front looking on the sea, and the back having a long strip of yard opening into a lane. The kitchen being in front, Tawney found that he was not heard when he barked to be let in at the back of the house. But the servant did not approve of coming up the steep kitchen stairs to let in Mr. Tawney, when the back door was level with the kitchen, and only a step for her; and, in some way, Tawney comprehended this; for he used to come to the front of the house; and the area of the kitchen-window being close to the front door, he was sure that his bark was heard. Then he raced round the end of the terrace, and through the lane, to the back door; and by the time cook had gone to open it, there was Mr. Tawney ready to enter. There being no fear of housebreakers or thieves here, the dog was allowed to sleep in Mamma's bed-room; we provided him with a box and some folds of carpeting at the bottom, and made him, we thought, a soft comfortable bed. But Tawney much preferred sheets and blankets, and, my sister sleeping in a little bed in the corner of Mamma's room, he used to wait till she was fast asleep, and then slip himself on to the bed so quietly as not to wake her; and, getting down to the foot of the bed, would remain there till morning. But Mamma said he must stay in his box; and forbad my sister to allow him to get on the bed. As, however, he never tried to do so until she was asleep, she could not prevent it. So Mamma listened, and when she heard Tawney very softly leave his box and go to the bed, she got up and whipped him, and put him back in his box, ordering him to stay there. Several nights this took place; till Tawney had the cunning to wait till Mamma also was asleep, when he crept into the warm resting-place, and staid there in peace till the morning. When daylight appeared, he returned to his own bed, in order to avoid the morning whipping, which he knew would come, were he discovered in the forbidden place. When we were returning home, we were to make some visits in London; so, thinking it best not to take Tawney, we entrusted him to a man who was going to our own town, with many charges as to feeding and watching him. And when we had left London and arrived at home, there was poor Tawney safe and well, and extravagantly delighted to see us. When we enquired about his behaviour on the road, of the man who had brought him, he told us that he had been in a terrible fright at the London station, thinking that he had lost Tawney entirely. He had to cross London from one station to another; and there was an hour or two to spare before the starting of the train from the second station; so, wishing to leave the station for that time, and fearing to risk Tawney in the street, he tied him up, as he thought, safely in a shed belonging to the station. He was also taking with him some luggage belonging to us, among which was a large round packing-case, that usually stood in Mamma's room; these were shut up in a store-house at the other end of the station. At the appointed hour our friend returned to the station, and went to claim the dog; but no Tawney was in the shed, only the end of the broken rope which had fastened him. In great anxiety he ran about enquiring of all he met. No one knew anything of the dog, no one had seen him pass out of the station; and after fruitless search in all the waiting and refreshment rooms, and in short through the whole station; he was reluctantly obliged to go for the luggage in order to pursue his journey, when, on opening the door of the store-house, what was his joy on beholding the missing Tawney, seated on the top of the round packing case, that he well knew to belong to his mistress. How he found out that the luggage was in the store-house, and how he got in, we could not of course discover; and it only confirmed us in our opinion of Tawney's intense wisdom. We and Tawney enjoyed ourselves much for some weeks, taking long walks, long drives, and hunting rats in all the neighbours' stacks. We had some fine games in our own field, and a great deal of basking in the sun, as it was a beautiful summer, with constant sunshine. I mentioned, that Tawney used to enrage the people in the cottages by trying to worry their cats. On one of these occasions, when he had made a dreadful confusion at the door of a cottage containing children, upsetting a tub of soap-suds, dirtying the clean sanded floor, and frightening an old woman nearly out of her wits, by his reckless endeavour to seize on the cat; a man had come angrily out of the cottage, and coming close up to the carriage, declared with a clenched fist, and a furious countenance, that if Tawney ever approached his door again, he would kill him. Papa, who happened to be with us, said that if he would give Tawney a good beating, it would punish the dog without punishing us; and as he was a great favourite, he begged that he would not think of killing him. Then we drove on, leaving the man standing sulkily in the road. Whether Tawney had gone alone to this cottage for the purpose of worrying the cat, or whether the man had taken his revenge for the first offence, or whether he had done any thing in the matter, we shall never know; but we could not help suspecting him when the following sad affair happened. It was a very sultry day, too much so to run or to do anything but lie on the grass, which we did during the whole morning. Papa sat reading on a bench placed in the shady side of the house, and we were on the grass beside him; Tawney lay roasting in the sun, and, now and then, panting with heat, came to us in the shade, or even went into the dining-room window and flung himself down under the table; some steps led into the garden from the window, and as the window-sill was not level with the dining-room floor, but raised about two feet above it, we had a stool or sort of step inside the window, as well as outside; Tawney generally sprang through, without troubling himself about the steps. Soon after Tawney had entered the house, apparently for the purpose of cooling himself, we heard a tumble, then another, and I got up to see what he was doing. "Why Papa," I cried, "what can be the matter with Tawney, he is trying to jump out of the window and cannot reach the sill, and falls back again." Papa came to see, and again the dog made an ineffectual spring at the low window-sill. Papa lifted him out into the garden, saying he supposed he had half blinded himself with lying so long in the hot sunshine. But we continued to watch him, and presently we saw his limbs twitching in a sort of fit, and he ran wildly about us. Papa called to the gardener, and they took him into the stable, forbidding us to approach him, as they feared he was going mad; they dashed water over him as he lay exhausted on the straw in the stable; but soon the fits became more and more violent, and our poor dog in a few hours was dead. A man that examined him by Papa's desire, said there was no doubt that he had been poisoned by strychnine. He might have picked up something so poisoned while running in the roads, or it might have been purposely done by the angry man to whom I alluded. We never found out the manner in which it had been administered, and could only regret most heartily the loss of our dear playfellow. We had not another dog for a very long time, and never shall love one so well as Tawney. PUFFER, THE PIGEON. What pretty things are pigeons, how happy and nice they look sitting on the house-top, and walking up and down the sloping roof with their pretty pink feet and slender legs; and then how they flutter up into the air, making circles round the house, and now and then darting off on a straight flight across the fields. Soon after we came to live at our country house, my sister had a present of a pair of fantail pigeons, quite white. They were beauties, not the slightest speck of any colour was on their feathers; and when they walked about with their tails spread out in a fan, and their necks pulled up so proudly, we thought them the prettiest creatures we had ever seen. Our Papa allowed us to have a nice place made for them in the roof of the stables, with some holes for them to go in at, and a board before the holes for them to alight on; inside there were some niches for nests, and as the fantails were quite young, we soon ventured to put them in there. At first we spread a net over their holes, so that they could only walk about on the board outside; and when we thought they knew the look of the place well, we let them have their entire liberty, and they never left us. Next we obtained a pair of tumblers, these were small dumpy little birds, of a burnished sort of copper colour, and such queer short little bills; when they were flying, they turned head over heels in the air, without in the least interrupting their flight. Then we had some capuchins, they were very curious-looking creatures, white and pale reddish brown, with a sort of a frill sticking up round their necks, and the back of their heads. We called them our Queen Elizabeths, for their ruffs were much more like her's than like a monk's hood, from which resemblance they are named. Besides these, we had several common pigeons, some pretty bluish and white. We fed them regularly in the yard, and when they saw us run out of the house, with our wooden bowl full of grain, they came fluttering down and took it out of our hands, and strutted about close to us so tamely and nicely; and then they would whirl up again in the air. We lived quite close to a railway station, and at one time of the autumn, a great number of sacks of grain were brought there for carriage to distant parts of the country; for the corn fields were very numerous about us. In the process of unloading these sacks from the carts, and again packing them on the railway trucks, a quantity of corn was spilt about, and our pigeons were not slow to find this out; we noticed they were constantly flying over into the station-yards; and sometimes when we went to feed them in the morning, they did not come for our breakfast at all, having already made a great meal at the station. There was an old pigeon-house in the roof of the luggage store, which formed part of the station buildings; and our ungrateful pigeons actually went and built some of their nests in this pigeon house in preference to our own. At least, they laid their eggs there; as for building a nest they never did, they trod an untidy sort of hollow in the straw and wool we placed for them, and there laid their eggs. We often wondered why it was they did not build beautiful compact and smooth nests like the little hedge birds. That was the only thing about the pigeons that we did not like--their dirty untidy nests, and the frightful ugliness of the newly-hatched pigeons. The first nest they had, was made by the white fantails, and we had anxiously watched for the hatching, expecting that we should have two beautiful little soft white downy pigeons, something like young chickens, or, still better, young goslings. And how disappointed we were when we saw the little frights, with their bare great heads and lumps of eyes, and their ugly red-skinned bodies, stuck full of bluish quills. After that we did not much trouble ourselves about the young pigeons, until they came out with some feathers, and tried to fly; but for all that, it was very provoking to see them go off to another house. Our favourite of all, was a large handsome pouter or cropper. He was of a kind of dove colour, mixed with green and bluish feathers, and when he stood upright, and swelled out his breast, he was quite beautiful. He became tamer than any one of the pigeons; he would come to the window when we were breakfasting, and take crumbs of bread from our fingers, he would perch on our shoulders when we called to him in the yard, and liked to strut about at the back door, and to come into the kitchen and to peck about beneath the table; we called him Puffer. But he too was very fond of going to the station, and sitting on the store-house roof; and at last, really half our pigeons had their nests in the station house instead of in ours. We went and fetched them out, nests and eggs altogether, several times; and then we persuaded the station men to block up the door of the old pigeon-house, which prevented them from laying their eggs there, but they still greedily preferred that yard to our own. Then came the harvest time. There were many fields of corn within sight of our house, and we perceived that our naughty pigeons took to flying out to these fields, instead of going so much to the station. How beautiful they looked with Puffer at their head, darting along in the sunshine, till they were almost out of sight; and in about an hour they would come back again, spreading themselves all over the house-top, and lying down to bask in the sun, and to rest after their long flight, and the good meal they had made in the corn-fields. Puffer would always come down to us, however tired, and let us stroke him and kiss his glossy head and neck. One day after they had all flown far out all over the fields, we heard a shot at a distance; we were not noticing it much, beyond saying to each other, "There is some one shooting;" but the gardener who was with us observed, "I wish it may not be some one firing at your pigeons. The farmers can't bear their coming after the grain; I am sorry they have taken to flying away to them corn-fields." This alarmed us, and we watched eagerly for the return of the pigeons. "Here they come," I exclaimed, and presently they were all settling as usual about the house top, Puffer in the midst quite safe. "Count them, Sir," said the gardener. So we set to work to number the fantails, tumblers, Queen Elizabeths, and dear old Puffer; all right, but surely there were not so many of the common pigeons; no, two were missing! "They've been shot then, sure as fate," said the gardener, "we shall lose them all I fear." Next morning we gave them a double breakfast, hoping that not feeling hungry, they would not again go to the fields; but off they went as usual about mid-day, and very anxiously we watched for their returning flight; we could always see Puffer a long way off, he was so much larger than the others, and we longed for the time when all the corn would be reaped and carried away, out of the reach of our favourites. One by one our pigeons diminished; we begged the gardener to speak to the farmers about, and ask them not to shoot our pigeons; but he said that it must be very annoying to the farmers to see a tribe of birds devouring the produce of their hard labour and anxiety; and that he did not wonder at their endeavouring to destroy the thieves. He said that if he spoke about it, the farmer would say, "Shut up your birds, and if they don't meddle with us, we shan't meddle with them." Then we consulted whether we could cage our pigeons; but they had always had their liberty, and we were sure that they would not thrive if shut up. So we must take our chance, and the naughty things persisted in flying over the fields to the distant corn. One day, no Puffer returned to us; and in despair we gave away all our remaining pigeons. DR. BATTIUS--THE BAT. I now come to rather a singular pet. Every one--or rather every child--has a dog, or a cat, or rabbits, or thrushes; little birds in cages are dreadfully common, and so are parrots; so are jackdaws; and, as for ponies and donkeys, what country-house is without them. But I think that many people have not had a tame bat. It is not generally a tempting-looking creature; and I should never have thought of taking any trouble to procure one with the intention of petting it. Our bat put itself into my possession by coming or falling down the chimney of my bed-room. The room was dark; and I heard a scratching and fluttering in the chimney for some time. Then I heard the flapping of wings about the room; and thought that a robin or a martin had perhaps fallen into the chimney and had been unable to make its way again to the top. I got up, and was seeking a match to light my candle, when the little creature came against me, and I caught it with both hands spread over it. I felt directly that it was not a bird; there is something so peculiarly soft and strange in the feel of a bat; and I was nearly throwing it down with a sort of disgust. Second thoughts, which are generally best, came in time to prevent my hurting the poor little creature; and I lighted the candle, and took a good look at my prize. It was about the size of a small mouse; it kept its wings closely folded, and I placed it in a drawer, and shut it up till morning, when I and my sister had a long inspection of my prize. I do not know of what variety it was; for there are, I believe, a great many different kinds. He had not long ears; his eyes were very small indeed, though bright. We had never handled a bat before, and were not soon weary of examining his curious blackish wings; the little hooks, where his fore-feet, apparently, should have been; his strangely-deformed hind feet; and his mouse-like body and fur. We wrapped him up and shut him in a basket, and during the day, I caught a handful of flies, of all sizes, and put them into the basket. When it grew dusk, we opened the basket, and he soon came out and fluttered about the room for a time; we found that he had eaten all the flies, but not the wings of the larger ones. When he had been at liberty for some time, we easily caught him again, and shut him up; and when he became a little more used to me, I left him out all night, being careful to close the opening into the chimney; and he used to have the range of mine and the adjoining room during the night. We tried him with a variety of food. I had fancied that bats ate leaves and fruit; but he never touched anything of that kind. He would eat meat, preferring raw to cooked; and would drink milk, sucking it up, more than lapping. He evidently did not like the light; but sometimes would make flights about the room when candles were burning; and, occasionally, I took him about in my jacket pocket in the day-time. If I took him out to show him to any one in the broad day-light, he never unfolded his wings to fly, but remained quietly in my hand with his wings folded. We had been reading a book in which one of the characters, a strange old man, was named Dr. Battius; so we called our bat after him; and I do think the little creature learnt to know me. He never fluttered or tried to get away from me; and would always let me take hold of him without manifesting any fear. He went several long journeys in my pocket; once I had him with me in a lodging by the sea-side, and amused myself much with him. He would sit on the table in the evening, lap his milk at my supper-time, and would vary his exercise by crawling or progressing along the floor, darting about the room, or hanging himself up to something by his hooks, and letting his body swing about. He cleaned himself carefully, used to rub his nose against the soft part of his wing, or rather his black skin, for it was not much like a wing, and would scratch and clean his body with his hind feet. People used to say, "How can you keep such a repulsive sort of animal?" But, in fact he was not a dirty creature; he spent as much time rubbing and scraping himself, as any cat would do; and he ate nothing dirty, raw beef and flies being his chief food, with a very little milk. We had heard and read that bats have some extraordinary way of seeing in the total darkness, or else that their touch is so delicate, that they can feel when approaching any wall or hard thing; and it was so with Dr. Battius, excepting on one occasion--the night when I first caught him; then he struck against my chest; so that I secured him easily, by clasping both hands over him. But I never after saw him strike against anything; he used to fly about my room at night, and I never heard the least tap against any object; he even would come inside my bed curtains, and fly to and fro; but I could not detect the slightest sound of touching them. The black skin that formed his wings was so wonderfully soft to the touch, that perhaps he felt with that, when the wings were spread out. I cannot imagine that his crushed-up little eyes could see in the dark; they appeared scarcely good enough to see at all in any light. This poor little creature lived in my care for many months. I went to visit some friends who were not fond of any animal in the house; and I knew that this dusky little creature would inspire disgust, if not terror, among some of the party. So, unwillingly, I left him at home. But my sister being away too, the servant, perhaps gave him too much food, or he missed his exercise about the room. One morning he was found dead in his drawer. I have no idea whether bats are long-lived animals; or whether they would, for any time, flourish in solitude. Had I kept the poor little doctor with me, I might have found out more about him. THE CHOUGH. I think I may here describe a bird, which, although he was not our property, was watched with much interest by us, and which we never met with but once. It was a Chough. It belonged to an officer who was living in the same barracks; and we first saw it perched on the window-sill of his kitchen. "Is that a crow?" asked my sister, pointing to it, as we stopped to examine it. "That cannot be a crow," I answered; "its legs are yellow, as well as its beak; and it is more slender, and a more bluish sort of black." When we approached and offered to touch it; it did not draw back or appear shy, but allowed us to stroke its back and look at it quite closely. It was a very handsome bird; its plumage beautifully glossy; its claws hooked and black; and its tongue very long. It was pecking at a plate of food that was near it; but did not appear very hungry. Presently, the officer's servant came to the window, and we enquired what it was. "A Cornish Chough," was the answer. We had never seen one before; indeed, knew nothing about that sort of bird. We had, indeed, heard its name in an old song or glee, called the "Chough and Crow;" or that begins with those words. So we asked Mamma about it when we went in, and she showed us an account of it, in which we found that it is not at all common everywhere, like a crow; but that it only lives in the cliffs of Cornwall, Devonshire, and Wales; and has sometimes, but rarely, been seen about Beachy Head, and in no other part of Europe, excepting the Alps. So that it is really a very uncommon bird. The same account said that they could be taught to speak like a jackdaw. But we never heard this one say anything, or make any noise, except a sort of call or croak, with which he answered the servant who attended to him. We always stopped to stroke and pat him when we went out to walk; and he was a great pet with the soldiers, and went about some years with the regiment. He showed his intelligence and quickness in a very curious way. During the time that the regiment was quartered in Scotland he was lost; he had either wandered out of the barrack-gate, and had failed to find his way back again; or he had been picked up and carried away by some thief. He was, however, never seen or heard of for many months, and was given up as lost. The regiment then removed to Edinburgh; and two or three soldiers went to visit a sort of zoological garden in the outskirts. There were a great number of cages, among other things; and the attention of the men was attracted to one of these cages by the violent fluttering and exertion made by the inhabitant to get out. On coming closer to the cage, they perceived that the prisoner was the old Cornish Chough; and they asked the keeper if it was lately that they had confined it, since it seemed so uneasy. The man said that it had been in that cage for a long time, and never had been otherwise than perfectly quiet and satisfied. They wished to take it away, saying they knew the bird's former master; but the owner refused to part with it, and the soldiers passed on. On their way back, the keeper was still standing watching the bird; who, as soon as the soldiers came again in sight, fluttered and dashed itself violently against the bars. The man said that losing sight of them, it became quiet, and sat dolefully on its perch; but the moment it again saw them, it exerted all its strength to reach them. There is no doubt that the poor bird recognised the red-coats, among which it had formerly lived, and wished to go to his old friends. The soldiers told the officer how they had discovered his old pet; and he purchased it from the keeper of the garden. The poor Chough manifested great pleasure at being again in the barrack kitchen, and followed the fortunes of the regiment until his master's death, when we lost sight of the yellow-billed yellow-legged Cornish Chough. THE KITTENS--BLACKY AND SNOWDROP. "Guess what we have, Mamma! Guess!" cried I and my sister, as we ran into the dining-room, with something wrapped up in each of our pinafores. So Mamma felt, and found that we had something alive; then she guessed guinea-pigs, then rabbits; at last we rolled out on the carpet two little kittens. They were such soft, pretty little things; one was black and the other white. I chose the black one, and my sister had the white. They lived chiefly in the nursery, and were soon very familiar, and quite at home. My black one, however, was pleased to be much fonder of my sister than of me; it particularly insisted on sleeping on my sister's bed; and we sometimes changed beds to see if it would follow her. Blacky would jump on the bed, come and look at my face, waving his tail about in the air, and seeing that it was his own master, he would bound off the bed and go and look in the other, and being satisfied that my sister was there, he would curl himself up at her back. In consequence of some illness in the nursery, my sister was sent to another room, and Blacky not finding her in the nursery, went and looked into all the bed-rooms until he found her. Snowdrop, as we called the white cat, used to sleep in a large wardrobe, rolled up upon some of the clothes. They were both very fond of getting into cupboards and drawers, and often startled us, and others, by springing out, when drawers and closet-doors were opened in different rooms; we were obliged to forbid them the drawing-room, because they would get on the chimney-piece, and on the top of a book-case where there was a good deal of china, and we thought they would certainly throw down and break it all in their rough games. At the time we had these cats, we had also the jackdaw and hawk; and Blacky and Snowdrop often went to have a game with Jacky, who liked them; they used to run after him round his bush, and amuse themselves with whisking their tails about, and seeing him peck at them. But when they tried the same game with the hawk, they found a very different creature to deal with; for the savage bird darted at the playful little creatures, and very nearly bit off Blacky's tail; and afterwards, if he saw them in the garden, although they did not offer to approach his stump, he would slyly steal among the shrubs and bushes, till he got near enough to them to make a dart at their tails, and many a savage bite he gave them. We did not keep these cats long. Blacky disappeared entirely; whether some one stole him for the luck of having a black cat, or what became of the poor little fellow we did not know. Snowdrop was fond of running on the top of the garden-walls, and of hunting little birds about the roads; and it seems strange that so active an animal as a cat should allow itself to be run over, but Snowdrop, in hunting a bird across the railway, which ran on the other side of our garden wall, was actually killed by the train. BLUEBEARD, THE SHETLAND PONY. Our donkey, Neddy, was never replaced; but instead of him we had a far better pet, a beautiful little Shetland pony! We had left Ireland, and went to live in England; we had a nice garden, a paddock and some fields, and a stable; and when we saw all this, we ran to Papa and begged that we might now have another donkey, as there was plenty of room for him. But Papa said we might now very well ride a pony, and that he would look out for a nice one. Shortly after this he went to a large horse-fair at Doncaster, and almost before he could have arrived there, we began to look out and watch for his return with the pony. We made all kinds of guesses about the size and the colour that the pony would be, and wrote out a long list of names suitable for a Shetland. I wished that it might be black, and my sister wished for a cream colour; but I believe that no such thing exists as a cream-coloured Shetland. And after all our expectation, Papa came home so late, that we did not see him that night. We besieged his door next morning, shouting, "Did you find a pony? Have you bought the pony?" Yes, a pony had come, but we were not to look at him until Papa came down; and after breakfast, Papa sent for it to the dining-room window. Oh! what a nice little roly-poly of rough hair it was. It was very small, and its funny little face peeped out from the shaggy bunch of hair over its eyes, in such a sly way. Its mane was a complete bush, and its tail just swept along the ground. And all over its body the coat was so thick and soft, and so long, that the legs looked quite short and dumpy. Altogether, it was the most darling little fellow any one could imagine; its colour was dark-brown, and its mane and tail nearly black. Papa promised to get a nice saddle and bridle for it, as we declared that Neddy's old pad was so shabby, that it would be a shame to put it on this little beauty. But, meantime, we were well satisfied to use it, and commenced our rides forthwith; scarcely a day passed without our making a long excursion. Sometimes Mamma walked with us, and sometimes only nurse; we used to trot along the road for some distance, and then canter back again to Mamma, so that we had a long ride, whilst she only took a moderate walk; and we soon had explored every lane and bye-road near our new home. After much debate about the pony's name, we had fixed on two or three, and finding that we could not agree on the important subject, we wrote out the names on slips of paper, and drew lots. "Bluebeard" was the name that we drew the oftenest, so that was decided; and as he really had a very long beard, we thought it very appropriate. Although Bluebeard was a decided beauty, it must be confessed that he had a great number of tricks, and was not the best-behaved pony in the world. When we were out riding, if we met any carts on the road, or in passing through the streets, Mamma or nurse used to lead him by the bridle; this _we_ used to consider a great affront to our horsemanship, and Bluebeard, doubtless, thought it an affront to himself, for he could not bear to be led; he shook his head, and tried to get the bridle out of their hand, and failing to do so, he revenged himself by biting and tearing Mamma's shawl or dress; and our poor nurse had scarcely a gown left that was not in rents and holes from Bluebeard's teeth; she said it took her half her time to mend her clothes, for she never went out with us and returned with her clothes whole. This amused us very much; but Mamma thought she should have liked Bluebeard better if he had been less playful. With good living, and the care that was lavished on him in our stable, he soon became fatter, and very frisky, so full of wild spirits and play, that we could not quite manage him. So Mamma had a very small basket-work carriage made, just to fit Bluebeard; it was painted dark-blue, and was very pretty; it had two seats, so just carried us, and Mamma and nurse. Now we drove out one day, and rode the next; the carriage was so low, that we could jump in and out as Bluebeard trotted along; and we liked to run, holding on by the back, to see whether we could run as fast as Bluebeard at his fastest trot; and when we jumped out, he used to turn his head round and look for us, and sometimes made a full stop till we got in again. Mamma thought that the heavier work of drawing the carriage with four people in it, would prevent Bluebeard from becoming too frisky and unmanageable, as, certainly, it was far greater labour for him than a quiet trot with only myself or sister on his back; but I believe that the more work he had, the more corn he ate, for he scampered along with the carriage as if it were nothing at all, and grew more and more skittish. It was very amusing to watch for donkeys as we drove along the roads, for he could not bear to meet one; if he spied the long ears at a little distance, he used to fling up his head, stand still for an instant, and then turn sharply round, and rush away in the opposite direction to the offending object; this he did whether we were riding or in the carriage. It signified but little when we rode; for all that happened was our tumbling off, when he twitched himself round; and as he met Mamma and nurse a little way back on the road, he was always stopped. But in the carriage it was a very awkward trick, and we should often have been upset, had not the front wheels turned completely under the body of the carriage, so Bluebeard could twist round, and put his head quite inside without upsetting us. Once or twice, when going up a hill, a donkey suddenly put up his head from behind the hedge. Round flew Bluebeard with such a jerk, as nearly to throw us out of the carriage, and having whisked us round, he tore down the hill at a furious rate. All that could be done on such occasions, was for one of us to jump out and hold his head before he had time to turn round; and, therefore, we always kept a sharp look out for donkeys on the road. This dread of Bluebeard's was the more strange, as he was extremely friendly with a poor half-starved donkey that was sometimes put into the same field with him. He used to rub his head against it, talk to it, (that is, hold their noses near together), and seemed quite to like its company. But any other donkey inspired him with downright terror. Another bad trick when in the carriage, was kicking, which he often did, sometimes throwing his heels so high that he got them over the shaft, and then we had the fun of unharnessing him completely, in order to put him in again. It sometimes took a very long time to catch him, though the field was very small; he would come close to the groom, and when he put out his hand to catch him, he would give his head a toss and gallop off round the field; now and then, when weary of his fruitless attempts at catching him, the groom would set the field-gate wide open, and Bluebeard would dart through it, along the lane, and up the hill to our house. But it was rather a risk doing so, as it was quite a chance whether he would go home, or in any other direction. When he was fairly in the stable, and cleaning and harnessing had commenced, he by no means ceased from his playful tricks: he would roll in the straw with his legs kicking up; then he would bounce about in all directions, to prevent the bridle from being put on; and shake his head till all his shaggy mane fell over his eyes. All this was meant for play and fun; but the groom often was reprimanded for unpunctuality, in not bringing the carriage to the door for half-an-hour or more after the time when it was ordered. Certainly, if Bluebeard would not be caught, and then would not be harnessed, it was not the groom's fault. However, he began to be very sharp and cross with the pony; and once pulling him roughly up from sprawling on his back, instead of standing still to be combed, Bluebeard dashed his head at him and gave him a bad bite on the chest. When Mamma came out to put a plaister on the bite, she was very angry, and said that if Bluebeard bit in his play, she could not allow us to keep him; and she desired that he should not have half so much corn. But I do believe the groom paid no attention to this order, and gave him just as much as before; for the wicked little pony never became one bit quieter, and we often had to beg hard that sentence of dismissal should not be pronounced. Whenever Papa had time to take us riding with him, or could spare his horse for the groom, we had a nice ride, Bluebeard having a long rein which Papa or the groom held, we found that he went a great deal better than when Mamma walked with us; indeed, he had then no time to play tricks, for it was as much as he could do to keep up with the great horse, whose walk matched with our gentle trotting; his trot to our cantering; and when the horse cantered, Bluebeard was put to his full speed. We enjoyed these rides immensely; but, unluckily, they were few and far between, as the horse could be spared very seldom; therefore, we still continued our plan of Mamma walking, and we riding by turns; and it was a great excitement to us, watching for Bluebeard's tricks, for we were much afraid of his being sent away as too tiresome; and we tried in all ways to prevent and to conceal his delinquencies. I very frequently went over his head, for he liked to go precisely the way he chose; and if we came to a turning in the road, and I pulled the bridle in one direction, Bluebeard was certain to insist on going the other. Then he tugged, and I tugged; but his neck was so strong, and his mouth so hard, that I seldom could succeed in making him go my way; and unless some one came to my assistance, the dispute generally ended by Bluebeard putting his head between his legs, and pitching me over his head. My sister suggested that the best way to manage him would be always to urge him to go the way we did not wish, and he, being certain to differ from us, would take, as his own choice, the road that we really intended. This was the same plan as that suggested for refractory pigs, who will never go forwards; viz., to pull them backwards, when they will at once make a bolt in the desired direction. But I objected, that it was a shabby way of proceeding to manage him by deceit, and I preferred being flung over his head in open contest; and the plan was given up as too cowardly; and as my rolls were generally in the soft sandy lanes or on the grass by the road side, I never was in the least hurt. My sister, too, had several tumbles which made us laugh very much. We came once to a place where three lanes met, and Mamma called out to my sister, who was riding some way in front, to turn to the right; so she pulled the rein, and, as a matter of course, Bluebeard shook his mane, tossed his head about, and intimated that he intended to turn down the opposite lane to the left. Then my sister pulled and pulled, whipping Bluebeard at the same time; but his coat was so immensely thick, that he really did not feel a switch the least in the world, especially from a little arm like my sister's. So he did not stir, but kept twisting his head along the left-hand lane. "He will kick in a minute," I said; and Mamma ran quickly to take hold of his bridle. When naughty little Bluebeard felt her touch the rein, he made a bolt down the lane so suddenly, that he dragged Mamma down on the ground, and flinging up his heels at the same time, sent my sister flying, and she came down upon Mamma; so there they were rolling over each other in the dusty lane. Bluebeard scampered a short way down the lane and then came back to us, whisking his tail, as if to say, "You might as well have come my way at once, without causing all this fuss." And whilst we were employed in shaking the dust off Mamma's and sister's clothes, he stood looking at us in a triumphant kind of manner. But after all, he did not have his own way; for when my sister was mounted again, Mamma took the bridle and led him down the lane to the right and all the way home; and he was not in favour with Mamma for some time after. When the winter came on, his coat grew so thick and heavy, and his mane and tail so bushy and long, that he really looked like a great bundle of hair rolling along the road; for his legs scarcely showed as high as his knee. As for his eyes, it was a mystery how he saw at all; for they were not visible, except when we pulled back the hair to look at them: there never was such a curious rolypoly-looking little creature. When the cold of the winter was passing away, it was agreed that Bluebeard had better be clipped, his coat being really much too heavy; no sheep's fleece could have weighed more. So we had the pleasure of seeing the little fellow carefully shorn of his thick dress; his long bushy tail was left at our particular request, and also plenty of mane; we liked that, because we found it a great help to clutch a handful of mane, when he tried to kick us off; but his eyes were left free to look out, and very saucy they looked. We were astonished to find how small he looked, and how thin and elegant his stumpy little legs appeared, we thought they scarcely seemed strong enough to bear our weight; and in the carriage he would appear a perfect shrimp. Then his colour was entirely altered. Instead of dark brown, he was now a pale sort of grey; indeed, we could scarcely believe that the same pony was before us. He did not look so droll and round, but much prettier; and we felt quite proud of him the next time we rode out with Papa. When he was next put into the pony-carriage, he almost appeared too small for it; and one bad effect of clipping him was, that he evidently felt so light and unshackled, that he could not restrain his wish to prance and jump; he now perpetually was kicking his legs over the shafts; and so, two or three times during a drive, we unharnessed him before we could replace him where he ought to be--between the shafts; instead of having his fore legs inside, and his hind legs outside. Mamma said that this was dangerous, and that she feared Bluebeard might either break his own legs by this trick, or would upset the carriage and break ours. And we began to fear that Bluebeard would some day bring on his own dismissal. One day, Mamma rode Bluebeard herself; and in spite of the greater weight, which he must have found very different from that of such small children as my sister and myself, Bluebeard kicked so much, and behaved altogether in such an improper manner, that Mamma declared he was no longer a safe pony for such young children, and said she should expect to see us brought home with fractured skulls or broken limbs, if we were allowed to ride him. All our beggings and prayings had no effect. Bluebeard was sold to a man in the neighbouring town. When this man said that he wanted the pony for a little boy to ride, Mamma said that he was too ill-broken and too unmanageable for any child, and that she did not wish to sell him for that purpose. But he said that he intended to tie the boy tightly on to the saddle, and should make a groom walk with him with a long rein; and then should have no fear about the boy's safety. And he bought him, notwithstanding Mamma's warning. We were so sorry to see the poor little fellow led away; our only consolation was, that in a year or two we should become too big for Bluebeard; and then, at any rate, we must have parted with him. Now and then we saw the little boy riding him; and the groom that was with him showed us that he was strapped on to the saddle by a strap across each thigh, and also a strap below each knee; so that it was really impossible that he should fall off. Mamma said it was not at all safe for a child to be fastened in that way; for if Bluebeard should take into his head to roll on his back, he would most probably kill the child. But as she had warned the father, and had told him of all the pony's bad tricks, it was no longer her affair to say anything about him, or to meddle with his arrangements. It was a long time before Papa met with a pony to suit us better. The next one was to be so large, that he would last us for many years; he must be frisky enough to be pleasant and amusing, and yet must have no bad tricks; no kicking and running away; and, above all, he must be very pretty indeed, with long tail and mane. All these qualities were not so easy to find combined; and before I talk about the next pony, I will mention some of our other pets. So good bye to dear little naughty Bluebeard. JOE, THE GERMAN DOG. Being for some months in a German town, we proposed, before returning to England, that we should procure one of the strange-looking little German terriers, with long backs and short legs; and we made inquiries as to where we could obtain one of the real German breed. We found that there are several different races of these dogs; they have all the long back, and short bandy legs; but one kind is very large, with pointed nose and long tail; another kind is small, with excessively soft hair, small head and magnificent large eyes; another kind is small, rather wiry in the hair, and unusually long and pointed in the nose. After seeing several, we at last had one offered to us that we liked, and bought; he was of the last-described species; his body long and narrow, his legs very short and crooked, and his feet enormous, big enough for a dog of three times the size; his tail was long, and dangled down in an ungainly sort of way; his head was small, and his nose much elongated and pointed; his eyes small and sparkling, and his ears rather soft and long. Altogether, he was the queerest-looking little animal you would wish to see. We named him Joe, and commenced his education by showing him, that he was not to consider our baby sister a species of rat, and to worry her accordingly, and by teaching him to sleep on a rug in the corner of one of the bed-rooms. He was a very sociable merry little fellow, liked scampering after us through the range of rooms, all on one floor or flat, and enjoyed running along the roads and in the park with us; but he was terribly chilly; he could not bear sleeping on his mat, always wanting to be on the bed, or at least muffled up in a flannel gown; and in the day, he was happiest when he was allowed to creep under the stove and lie there, really almost undergoing baking. I never saw an animal bear so much heat with satisfaction to himself. He destroyed half the things in the house before he got over his puppy-days; but every one liked him, and he generally escaped punishment. He was sharp enough to know his way home, in a very few days after we bought him. We had him out in the park and missed him, a long way from home; seeing no sign of him, we concluded that some one had picked him up, and gave him up for lost, having no idea that the little young creature would know its way home; and we were quite surprised when we reached our own door, to find Joe sitting there waiting; he had come along the crooked walks of the park, through the streets, and up our long flight of stairs, and our opinion of his sagacity rose in proportion. Shortly after we had bought Joe, we travelled to England, and determined to try whether we could manage to take him in the carriage with us, instead of letting the poor little fellow be shut up in a dog-box on the train, with, perhaps, a dozen other savage dogs. So Papa carried him under his cloak; Joe was very good at the station, and kept himself perfectly quiet, until we were all seated in the railway-carriage. We were beginning to think that we had him safe for that day's journey; and as soon as we had shewn our tickets, could let him run about the carriage. The ticket-taker came to the door, had looked all round, and Papa was showing his ticket, when, at the last minute, Joe began to plunge and push about under the cloak. Papa held him fast, but the stupid little animal set up a yelp, just as the man was leaving the carriage. He immediately asked if we had a dog, and poor Joe was hauled out by his neck, and Papa had to run in great haste to see him placed in a dog-box. And for the next three or four hours, Joe howled incessantly. When we halted in the middle of the day, we managed better; Mamma took him under her shawl, and got into the carriage some time before the officials came peeping about, and he lay quiet in her lap, and no one meddled with him; so the afternoon of his first day of travel was not so miserable as the commencement. Altogether, Joe was a good deal of trouble on the journey; there was always a fuss about gaining permission to have him in the carriage, and we did not know what to do with him at the inns, for fear he should go down stairs and be lost. At last we reached England, and for a time lived in London. At first we were much afraid that Joe would be darting out of the front door, and would be stolen immediately. But he soon got used to the confinement, only having a yard behind the house to run in, and he made himself extremely happy. The house in which we were staying possessed two dogs, a cat, a variety of birds, and in the yard lived a cock with several hens. Joe and the cat used to have famous games together, rolling each other over and over, then racing round the kitchen, over the tables and chairs. When pussy was tired, she sat upon a chair and slapped Joe's face, whenever she could reach him, as he ran barking round the chair. One of the dogs was very old and fat, and did not at all approve of the new comer's vivacious ways, but growled at Joe fiercely when he tried to entice him to play. The other dog was also too fat to be very active; and when Joe found that no fun was to be had with them, he merely danced round them now and then, to have the pleasure of making them angry, and seeing them show their teeth; and then he left them to their slumbers, and scampered off to the cat, who was more suited to his age and manners. Out in the yard he had much amusement with the fowls; at first sight he had been rather frightened at them, but soon took pleasure in seeing them flutter about and run away from him. The cock, however, did not run away, but faced Master Joe, and crowed at him, and ran at him in the most valiant manner; and when Joe was too pertinacious in barking at him and teazing him, the cock actually sprang upon his back and pecked him, until Joe crouched down on the ground fairly beaten. In return, however, Joe nearly caused a death-warrant to be pronounced against the cock and all the hens, by teaching them to eat eggs. One morning, the hens were observed to be in a great state of excitement, pecking greedily at something on the ground, which, on examination, proved to be a new-laid egg, broken and devoured by the unnatural hens. The next day another and another was found in the same way; in fact, as soon as the eggs were laid, they were brought out of the hen-house and broken. So it was agreed, that the hens having once contracted this bad habit, could never be cured, and had better all be killed. But before this determination had been put in practice, Mamma chanced to look out of the window early, just after Joe had been sent out for his morning walk, and spied the naughty creature coming out of the hen-house with an egg in his mouth. Presently all the hens and the cock ran out after him, calling, "Stop thief!" or, rather, implying those words by their cackling and noise; and they pursued Joe round and round the yard, until they came up with him all in a body, and the egg being dropped in the scuffle, was of course broken; and then the hens fell upon it and ate it up. This it seems took place every morning. Joe fetched eggs out of the nests; and the hens, after pretending to be very angry, ended by joining in the robbery. The next time Joe was seen with an egg in his mouth, one of the servants went out and called to him, when he placed it on the ground so gently, that it was not even cracked; and if we could manage to catch him before the hens rushed upon him, we always obtained the egg safe enough; for he did not break it or eat it himself, only put it into the hen's heads to do so; and, probably, his only object was to make the whole family of hens run after him, which he seemed much to enjoy. So the sentence of death against the cock and hens was not pronounced, as it seemed the whole fault lay with Joe; and whenever we could catch him approaching the hen-house he received a good whipping. He had, however, that sort of temper which cares not the least for whipping or scolding; he never was at all abashed or cowed; but made a most dreadful yelling whilst the whipping was inflicted, and the moment he was released he would dance about perfectly happy, and immediately go and repeat the fault--he was quite incorrigible. We managed to prevent, in a great measure, his stealing eggs, by not letting him out so early; and when he went into the yard people were going in and out, that could watch him. So, to make amends for the loss of his morning's fun, he used to push aside the window curtain and blind, as soon as it was light, and stand on his hind legs at the window, watching the cock and hens; now and then signifying his approval of their proceedings by a short bark. He slept in an arm-chair, covered up with an old dressing gown. On one occasion this was removed, and we thought Joe would do just as well without it; but with his great love of warmth, he absolutely refused to sleep without a warm covering. He was much perturbed, and ran squeaking about the room, till after keeping us awake half the night, we were obliged to get up, and supply him with something soft to envelope him in the arm-chair. When Joe was tired of playing with the cat, the dogs, and the fowls, he used to go to the top of the house into our baby-sister's nursery. He was very fond of her; but usually timed his visits so as to come in for her dinner or supper, of which he always had a share. She used to put her tin of milk on the floor and sit beside it: first Joey took a lap or two, then baby had a sip; and so they emptied the mug together: and at her dinner, Joe used to eat the pudding at one side of the plate, whilst baby worked away at the other. Then they took a roll on the floor together, and whatever rough pull or pinch was bestowed on Joe, he never snapped or hurt the little girl; indeed, would let her do anything she liked with him. He was very long before he gave up his puppy fashion of tearing and biting everything. If a book or a piece of work fell on the ground, Joey's sharp teeth soon brought them into a deplorable condition. If he could get hold of a bonnet, he soon dragged off ribbon, flowers, lace, and whatever it possessed; and poor little baby's toys, balls, and dolls were never presentable after they had been five minutes in the house. Then he wickedly pulled to pieces the mat at the bottom of the stairs, for which he was well whipped; in short, the mischief he did was terrible. His encounters with the cock did not prove sufficient exercise for the hardy little fellow; and he began to get so fat, that we determined to send him into the country, to some place where he would have a great deal of running about out of doors. We were sorry to part with him for the time we should be in London; but we did not wish to see him become too fat to waddle. So Papa took him with him when he went into the country to visit some friends. He placed him with a man who was to teach him rat-hunting; and Joe showed that he had an excellent nose, and promised to be a first-rate ratter. But when Papa had returned to London, we heard that poor Joe had made his appearance again at the house of the friend whither Papa had first taken him. He was looking sadly thin and wretched, and ran into the bed-room Papa had used, and searched for him in all directions. The poor little fellow remained there until Papa made another arrangement for him, as evidently he had been ill-used by the rat-catcher. He next was sent to a gamekeeper's, who lived in a nice park, where there was a beautiful rabbit-warren, plenty of stacks for ratting, a stream to swim in, and fields and farms to range about. There we hoped he would be very happy; and as poor little Joe is still alive, I have not to relate his end at present, and hope that he will still afford us much amusement. * * * * * Now I think I have described the greater part of the animals, birds, and creatures of all kinds that belonged to me and my sister. How much pleasure we derived from them! And what a mixture of pity and contempt we always felt for children who feared or disliked animals! There was a family of little children near us once, when we had our dear dog Tawney; how they used to scream and run whenever they saw him! even though he was taking no notice of them in particular. Then they would take up stones and throw them at him, really intending to hurt him; for their intense fear of the dog rendered them quite cruel; and when he found that they tried to hurt him, and shouted at him, he used to bark in return, which of course terrified them more. Then some of our friends had quite a horror of our hedgehog, and our bat, and wondered how we could kiss Neddy's nose, and Bluebeard's. I am sure their soft nice coats were quite as pleasant to kiss, as many people's faces. I only wish that all little children would love animals, and find as much amusement as we did in the care of our Live Toys. THE END. WERTHEIMER AND CO., PRINTERS, CIRCUS PLACE, FINSBURY CIRCUS. ORIGINAL JUVENILE LIBRARY. A CATALOGUE OF NEW AND POPULAR WORKS. PRINCIPALLY FOR THE YOUNG. [Illustration: Goldsmith introduced to Newbery by Dr. Johnson.] PUBLISHED BY GRIFFITH AND FARRAN, (LATE GRANT AND GRIFFITH, SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS), CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON. 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Long Evenings; Or, Stories for My Little Friends, by EMILIA MARRYAT (Daughter of the late Captain Marryat). Illustrated by JOHN ABSOLON. Super royal 16mo.; price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. Holidays Among the Mountains; Or, Scenes and Stories of Wales. By M. BETHAM EDWARDS. Illustrated by F. J. SKILL. Super royal 16mo.; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. E. LANDELLS. The Illustrated Paper Model Maker; Containing Twelve Pictorial Subjects, with Descriptive Letter-press and Diagrams for the construction of the Models. By E. LANDELLS, Author of "The Boys' and Girls' Toy Maker," "Home Pastime," etc. Price 2_s._ in a neat Envelope. "A most excellent mode of educating both eye and hand in the knowledge of form."--_English Churchman._ The Girl's Own Toy Maker, And Book of Recreation. By E. LANDELLS, Author of "Home Pastime," etc., assisted by his daughter, ALICE LANDELLS. Second edition. With 200 Illustrations. Royal 16mo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "A perfect magazine of information."--_Illustrated News of the World._ The White Elephant; Or the Hunters of Ava, and the King of the Golden Foot. By W. DALTON, Author of the "War Tiger," etc. Illustrated by HARRISON WEIR. Fcap. 8vo. price 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. "Full of dash, nerve and spirit, and withal freshness."--_Literary Gazette._ Frank and Andrea; Or Forest Life in the Island of Sardinia. By ALFRED ELWES. Author of "Paul Blake," etc. Illustrated by ROBERT DUDLEY. Fcap. 8vo. Price 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. "The descriptions of Sardinian life and scenery are admirable." --_Athenæum._ The Nine Lives of a Cat; A Tale of Wonder. Written and Illustrated by C. H. BENNETT. Twenty-four Engravings. Imperial 16mo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured. "Rich in the quaint humour and fancy that a man of genius knows how to spare for the enlivenment of children."--_Examiner._ Blind Man's Holiday; Or Short Tales for the Nursery. By the Author of "Mia and Charlie," "Sidney Grey," etc. Illustrated by JOHN ABSOLON. Super Royal 16mo. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "Very time to nature and admirable in feeling."--_Guardian._ Tuppy; Or the Autobiography of a Donkey. By the Author of "The Triumphs of Steam," etc., etc. Illustrated by HARRISON WEIR. Super Royal 16mo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "A very intelligent donkey, worthy of the distinction conferred upon him by the artist."--_Art Journal._ Funny Fables for Little Folks. By FRANCES FREELING BRODERIP (Daughter of the late THOMAS HOOD). Illustrated by her Brother. Super Royal 16mo. price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The Fables contain the happiest mingling of fun, fancy, humour, and instruction."--_Art Journal._ The History of a Quartern Loaf. Rhymes and Pictures. By WILLIAM NEWMAN. 12 Illustrations. Price 6_d._ plain, 1_s._ coloured. Uniform in size and price, The History of a Cup of Tea. The History of a Scuttle of Coals. The History of a Lump of Sugar (_preparing_). A Woman's Secret; Or How to Make Home Happy. 18mo., with Frontispiece, price 6_d._ Uniform with the above in size and price, and by the same Author, Woman's Work; Or, How she can Help the Sick. A Chapter of Accidents; Or, the Mother's Assistant in cases of Burns, Scalds, Cuts, &c. Pay To-day, Trust To-morrow; A Story founded on Facts, illustrative of the Evils of the Tally System. Nursery Work; Or Hannah Baker's First Place. Family Prayers for Cottage Homes; With a Few Words on Prayer, and Select Scripture Passages. Fcap. 8vo. price 4_d._ limp cloth. [Asterism] These little works are admirably adapted for circulation among the working classes. The Triumphs of Steam; Or, Stories from the Lives of Watt, Arkwright, and Stephenson. By the Author of "Might not Right," "Our Eastern Empire," &c. With Illustrations by J. GILBERT. Dedicated by permission to Robert Stephenson, Esq., M.P. Second edition. Royal 16mo., price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._, coloured, gilt edges. "A most delicious volume of examples."--_Art Journal._ The War Tiger; Or, The Adventures and Wonderful Fortunes of the Young Sea-Chief and his Lad Chow. By WILLIAM DALTON, Author of "The White Elephant," &c. Illustrated by H. S. MELVILLE. Fcap. 8vo., price 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ cloth, gilt edges. "A tale of lively adventure, vigorously told, and embodying much curious information."--_Illustrated News._ The Boy's own Toy Maker. A Practical Illustrated Guide to the useful employment of Leisure Hours. By E. LANDELLS. With Two Hundred Cuts. Fourth Edition. Royal 16mo., price 2_s._ 6_d._, cloth. "A new and valuable form of endless amusement."--_Nonconformist._ "We recommend it to all who have children to be instructed and amused."--_Economist._ Hand Shadows, To be thrown upon the Wall. A Series of Eighteen Original Designs. By HENRY BURSILL. 4to price 2_s._ plain; 2_s._ 6_d._ coloured. A Second Series of Hand Shadows; With Eighteen New Subjects. By H. BURSILL. Price 2_s._ plain; 2_s._ 6_d._ coloured. "Uncommonly clever--some wonderful effects are produced."--_The Press._ BY THE LATE THOMAS HOOD. The Headlong Career and Woful Ending of Precocious Piggy. Written for his Children, by the late THOMAS HOOD. With a Preface by his Daughter; and Illustrated by his Son. Third Edition. Post 4to., fancy boards, price 2_s._ 6_d._, coloured. "The Illustrations are intensely humourous."--_The Critic._ The Harpsden Riddle Book. A Collection of 350 Original Charades, Conundrums, Rebuses, etc. Fcap. 8vo. price 2_s._ 6_d._, cloth. The Fairy Tales of Science. A Book for Youth. By J. C. BROUGH. With 16 Beautiful Illustrations by C. H. BENNETT. Fcap. 8vo., price 5_s._, cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. CONTENTS: 1. The Age of Monsters.--2. The Amber Spirit.--3. The Four Elements.--4. The Life of an Atom.--5. A Little Bit.--6. Modern Alchemy.--7. The Magic of the Sunbeam.--8. Two Eyes Better than One.--9. The Mermaid's Home.--10. Animated Flowers. --11. Metamorphoses.--12. The Invisible World.--13. Wonderful Plants.--14. Water Bewitched.--15. Pluto's Kingdom.--16. Moving Lands.--17. The Gnomes.--18. A Flight through Space.--19. The Tale of a Comet.--20. The Wonderful Lamp. "Science, perhaps, was never made more attractive and easy of entrance into the youthful mind."--_The Builder._ "Altogether the volume is one of the most original, as well as one of the most useful, books of the season."--_Gentleman's Magazine._ Paul Blake; Or, the Story of a Boy's Perils in the Islands of Corsica and Monte Cristo. By ALFRED ELWES, Author of "Ocean and her Rulers." Illustrated by H. ANELAY. Fcap. 8vo., price 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ cloth, gilt edges. "This spirited and engaging story will lead our young friends to a very intimate acquaintance with the island of Corsica."--_Art Journal._ Sunday Evenings with Sophia; Or, Little Talks on Great Subjects. A Book for Girls. By LEONORA G. BELL. Frontispiece by J. ABSOLON. Fcap. 8vo., price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "A very suitable gift for a thoughtful girl."--_Bell's Messenger._ Scenes of Animal Life and Character. From Nature and Recollection. In Twenty Plates. By J. B. 4to., price 2_s._ 6_d._, plain; 3_s._ 6_d._, coloured, fancy boards. "Truer, heartier, more playful, or more enjoyable sketches of animal life could scarcely be found anywhere."--_Spectator._ Caw, Caw; Or, the Chronicles of the Crows. Illustrated by J. B. 4to., price 2_s._ plain; 2_s._ 6_d._ coloured. Three Christmas Plays for Children. 1. The Sleeper Awakened. 2. The Wonderful Bird. 3. Crinolina. By THERESA PULSZKY. With Original Music, composed by JANSA; and Three Illustrations by ARMITAGE, coloured. 3_s._ 6_d._, cloth, gilt edges. W. H. C. KINGSTON'S BOOKS FOR BOYS. With Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo. price 5_s._ each, cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. Will Weatherhelm; Or, the Yarn of an Old Sailor about his Early Life and Adventures. "We tried the story on an audience of boys, who one and all declared it to be capital."--_Athenæeum._ Fred Markham in Russia; Or, the Boy Travellers in the Land of the Czar. "Most admirably does this book unite a capital narrative, with the communication of valuable information respecting Russia."--_Nonconformist._ Salt Water; Or Neil D'Arcy's Sea Life and Adventures. With Eight Illustrations. "With the exception of Capt. Marryat, we know of no English author who will compare with Mr. Kingston as a writer of books of nautical adventure."--_Illustrated News._ Manco, the Peruvian Chief; With Illustrations by CARL SCHMOLZE. "A capital book; the story being one of much interest, and presenting a good account of the history and institutions, the customs and manners, of the country."--_Literary Gazette._ Mark Seaworth; A Tale of the Indian Ocean. By the Author of "Peter the Whaler," etc. With Illustrations by J. ABSOLON. Second Edition. "No more interesting, nor more safe book, can be put into the hands of youth; and to boys especially, 'Mark Seaworth' will be a treasure of delight."--_Art Journal._ Peter the Whaler; His early Life and Adventures in the Arctic Regions. Second Edition. Illustrations by E. DUNCAN. "A better present for a boy of an active turn of mind could not be found. The tone of the book is manly, healthful, and vigorous."--_Weekly News._ "A book which the old may, but which the young must, read when they have once begun it."--_Athenæum._ Blue Jackets; Or, Chips of the Old Block. A Narrative of the Gallant Exploits of British Seamen, and of the principal Events in the Naval Service during the Reign of Queen Victoria, by W. H. G. KINGSTON. Post 8vo.; price 7_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "A more acceptable testimonial than this to the valour and enterprise of the British Navy, has not issued from the press for many years."--_The Critic._ HISTORY OF INDIA FOR THE YOUNG. Our Eastern Empire; Or, Stories from the History of British India. By the author of "The Martyr Land," "Might not Right," etc. Second Edition, with Continuation to the Proclamation of Queen Victoria. With Four Illustrations. Royal 16mo. cloth 3_s._ 6_d._; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "These stories are charming, and convey a general view of the progress of our Empire in the East. The tales are told with admirable clearness."--_Athenæum._ The Martyr Land; Or, Tales of the Vaudois. By the Author of "Our Eastern Empire," etc. Frontispiece by J. GILBERT. Royal 16mo; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "While practical lessons run throughout, they are never obtruded; the whole tone is refined without affectation, religious and cheerful."--_English Churchman._ Might not Right; Or, Stories of the Discovery and Conquest of America. By the author of "Our Eastern Empire," etc. Illustrated by J. Gilbert. Royal 16mo. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "With the fortunes of Columbus, Cortes, and Pizarro, for the staple of these stories, the writer has succeeded in producing a very interesting volume."--_Illustrated News._ Jack Frost and Betty Snow; With other Tales for Wintry Nights and Rainy Days. Illustrated by H. Weir. 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The dedication of these pretty tales, prove by whom they are written; they are indelibly stamped with that natural and graceful method of amusing while instructing, which only persons of genius possess."--_Art Journal._ Old Nurse's Book of Rhymes, Jingles, and Ditties. Edited and Illustrated by C. H. BENNETT, Author of "Shadows." With Ninety Engravings. Fcap. 4to. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth, plain, or 6_s._ coloured. "The illustrations are all so replete with fun and imagination, that we scarcely know who will be most pleased with the book, the good-natured grandfather who gives it, or the chubby grandchild who gets it, for a Christmas-Box."--_Notes and Queries._ Maud Summers the Sightless: A Narrative for the Young. Illustrated by Absolon. 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "A touching and beautiful story."--_Christian Treasury._ Clara Hope; Or, the Blade and the Ear. By MISS MILNER. With Frontispiece by Birket Foster. Fcap. 8vo. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ cloth elegant, gilt edges. "A beautiful narrative, showing how bad habits may be eradicated, and evil tempers subdued."--_British Mother's Journal._ The Adventures and Experiences of Biddy Dorking and of the FAT FROG. Edited by MRS. S. C. HALL. Illustrated by H. Weir. 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "Most amusingly and wittily told."--_Morning Herald._ ATTRACTIVE AND INSTRUCTIVE AMUSEMENT FOR THE YOUNG. Home Pastime; Or, The Child's Own Toy Maker. With practical instructions. By E. LANDELLS. New and Cheaper Edition, price 3_s._ 6_d._ complete, with the Cards, and Descriptive Letterpress. [Asterism] By this novel and ingenious "Pastime," beautiful Models can be made by Children from the Cards, by attending to the Plain and Simple Instructions in the Book. CONTENTS: 1. Wheelbarrow.--2. Cab.--3. Omnibus.--4. Nursery Yacht.--5. French Bedstead.--6. Perambulator.--7. Railway Engine.--8. Railway Tender.--9. Railway Carriage.--10. Prince Albert's Model Cottage.--11. Windmill.--12. Sledge. "As a delightful exercise of ingenuity, and a most sensible mode of passing a winter's evening, we commend the Child's own Toy Maker."--_Illustrated News._ "Should be in every house blessed with the presence of children."--_The Field._ BY THE AUTHOR OF "CAT AND DOG," ETC. Historical Acting Charades; Or, Amusements for Winter Evenings. New Edition. Fcap. 8vo. price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. "A rare book for Christmas parties, and of practical value."--_Illustrated News._ The Story of Jack and the Giants: With thirty-five Illustrations by RICHARD DOYLE. Beautifully printed. New and Cheaper Edition. Fcap. 4to. price 2_s._ 6_d._ in fancy boards; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, extra cloth, gilt edges. "In Doyle's drawings we have wonderful conceptions, which will secure the book a place amongst the treasures of collectors, as well as excite the imaginations of children."--_Illustrated Times._ Granny's Wonderful Chair; And its Tales of Fairy Times. By FRANCES BROWNE. With Illustrations by KENNY MEADOWS. Small 4to., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "One of the happiest blendings of marvel and moral we have ever seen."--_Literary Gazette._ Pictures from the Pyrenees; Or, Agnes' and Kate's Travels. By CAROLINE BELL. With numerous Illustrations. Small 4to.; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "With admirable simplicity of manner it notices the towns, the scenery, the people, and natural phenomena of this grand mountain region."--_The Press._ The Early Dawn; Or, Stories to Think about. By a COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. Illustrated by H. WEIR, etc. Small 4to.; price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The matter is both wholesome and instructive, and must fascinate as well as benefit the young."--_Literarium_. Angelo; Or, the Pine Forest among the Alps. By GERALDINE E. JEWSBURY, author of "The Adopted Child," etc. With Illustrations by JOHN ABSOLON. Small 4to.; price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "As pretty a child's story as one might look for on a winter's day."--_Examiner._ Tales of Magic and Meaning. Written and Illustrated by ALFRED CROWQUILL, Author of "Funny Leaves for the Younger Branches," "The Careless Chicken," "Picture Fables," etc. Small 4to.; price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured. "Cleverly written, abounding in frolic and pathos, and inculcates so pure a moral, that we must pronounce him a very fortunate little fellow, who catches these 'Tales of Magic,' as a windfall from 'The Christmas Tree'."--_Athenæum._ Faggots for the Fire Side; Or, Tales of Fact and Fancy. By PETER PARLEY. With Twelve Tinted Illustrations. Foolscap 8vo.; 3_s._ 6_d._, cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. CONTENTS.--The Boy Captive; or Jumping Rabbit's Story--The White Owl--Tom Titmouse--The Wolf and Fox--Bob Link--Autobiography of a Sparrow--The Children of the Sun: a Tale of the Incas--The Soldier and Musician--The Rich Man and His Son--The Avalanche--Flint and Steel--Songs of the Seasons, etc. "A new book by Peter Parley is a pleasant greeting for all boys and girls, wherever the English language is spoken and read. He has a happy method of conveying information, while seeming to address himself to the imagination."--_The Critic._ The Discontented Children; And How they were Cured. By MARY and ELIZABETH KIRBY, authors of "The Talking Bird," etc. Illustrated by H. K. BROWNE (Phiz). Second edition, price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "We know no better method of banishing 'discontent' from school-room and nursery than by introducing this wise and clever story to their inmates."--_Art Journal._ The Talking Bird; Or, the Little Girl who knew what was going to happen. By M. and E. KIRBY, Authors of "The Discontented Children," etc. With Illustrations by H. K. BROWNE (Phiz). Small 4to. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The story is ingeniously told, and the moral clearly shown."--_Athenæum._ Julia Maitland; Or, Pride goes before a Fall. By M. and E. KIRBY, Authors of "The Talking Bird," etc. Illustrated by JOHN ABSOLON. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "It is nearly such a story as Miss Edgeworth might have written on the same theme."--_The Press._ Letters from Sarawak, Addressed to a Child; embracing an Account of the Manners, Customs, and Religion of the Inhabitants of Borneo, with Incidents of Missionary Life among the Natives. By MRS. M'DOUGALL. Fourth Thousand, enlarged in size, with Illustrations. 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "All is new, interesting, and admirably told."--_Church and State Gazette._ COMICAL PICTURE BOOKS. _Uniform in size with_ "The Struwwelpeter." Each with Sixteen large Coloured Plates, price 2_s._ 6_d._, in fancy boards, or mounted on cloth, 1_s._ extra. Picture Fables. Written and Illustrated by ALFRED CROWQUILL. The Careless Chicken; By the BARON KRAKEMSIDES. By ALFRED CROWQUILL. Funny Leaves for the Younger Branches. By the BARON KRAKEMSIDES, of Burstenoudelafen Castle. Illustrated by ALFRED CROWQUILL. Laugh and Grow Wise; By the Senior Owl of Ivy Hall. The Remarkable History of the House that Jack Built. Splendidly Illustrated and magnificently Illuminated by THE SON OF A GENIUS. Price 2_s._ in fancy cover. "Magnificent in suggestion, and most comical in expression!"--ATHEN�UM. A Peep at the Pixies; Or, Legends of the West. By MRS. BRAY. Author of "The Borders of the Tamar and the Tavy," "Life of Stothard," "Trelawny," etc., etc. With Illustrations by HABLOT K. BROWNE (Phiz). Super-royal 16mo., price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "A peep at the actual Pixies of Devonshire, faithfully described by Mrs. Bray, is a treat. Her knowledge of the locality, her affection for her subject, her exquisite feeling for nature, and her real delight in fairy lore, have given a freshness to the little volume we did not expect. The notes at the end contain matter of interest for all who feel a desire to know the origin of such tales and legends."--_Art Journal._ A BOOK FOR EVERY CHILD. The Favourite Picture Book; A Gallery of Delights, designed for the Amusement and Instruction of the Young. With several Hundred Illustrations from Drawings by J. ABSOLON, H. K. BROWNE (Phiz), J. GILBERT, T. LANDSEER, J. LEECH, J. S. PROUT, H. WEIR, etc. New Edition. Royal 4to., price 3_s._ 6_d._, bound in a new and Elegant Cover; 7_s._ 6_d._ coloured; 10_s._ 6_d._ mounted on cloth and coloured. Ocean and her Rulers; A Narrative of the Nations who have from the earliest ages held dominion over the Sea; and comprising a brief History of Navigation. By ALFRED ELWES. With Frontispiece. Fcap. 8vo., 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. "The volume is replete with valuable and interesting information; and we cordially recommend it as a useful auxiliary in the school-room, and entertaining companion in the library."--_Morning Post._ Berries and Blossoms. A Verse Book for Children. By T. WESTWOOD. With Title and Frontispiece printed in Colours. Super-royal 16mo., price 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth, gilt edges. The Wonders of Home, in Eleven Stories. By GRANDFATHER GREY. With Illustrations. Third and Cheaper Edition. Royal 16mo., 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. CONTENTS.--1. The Story of a Cup of Tea.--2. A Lump of Coal.--3. Some Hot Water.--4. A Piece of Sugar.--5. The Milk Jug.--6. A Pin.--7. Jenny's Sash.--8. Harry's Jacket.--9. A Tumbler.--10. A Knife.--11. This Book. "The idea is excellent, and its execution equally commendable. The subjects are well selected, and are very happily told in a light yet sensible manner."--_Weekly News._ Cat and Dog; Or, Memoirs of Puss and the Captain. Illustrated by WEIR. Sixth Edition. Super-royal 16mo., 2_s._ 6_d_, cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The author of this amusing little tale is, evidently, a keen observer of nature. The illustrations are well executed; and the moral, which points the tale, is conveyed in the most attractive form."--_Britannia._ The Doll and Her Friends; Or, Memoirs of the Lady Seraphina. By the Author of "Cat and Dog." Third Edition. With Four Illustrations by H. K. BROWNE (Phiz). 2_s._ 6_d._, cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "Evidently written by one who has brought great powers to bear upon a small matter."--_Morning Herald._ Tales from Catland; Dedicated to the Young Kittens of England. By an OLD TABBY. Illustrated by H. WEIR. Third Edition. Small 4to., 2_s._ 6_d._ plain; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "The combination of quiet humour and sound sense has made this one of the pleasantest little books of the season."--_Lady's Newspaper._ The Grateful Sparrow. A True Story, with Frontispiece. Second Edition. Price 6_d._ sewed. How I Became a Governess. By the Author of "The Grateful Sparrow." With Frontispiece. Price 1_s._ sewed. WORKS BY MRS. R. LEE. Anecdotes of the Habits and Instincts of Animals. Third and Cheaper Edition. With Illustrations by HARRISON WEIR. Fcap. 8vo., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. Anecdotes of the Habits and Instincts of Birds, Reptiles, and Fishes. With Illustrations by HARRISON WEIR. Second and Cheaper Edition. Fcap. 8vo., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. "Amusing, instructive, and ably written."--_Literary Gazette._ "Mrs. Lee's authorities--to name only one, Professor Owen--are, for the most part first-rate."--_Athenæum._ Twelve Stories of the Sayings and Doings of Animals. With Illustrations by J. W. ARCHER. Third Edition. Super-royal 16mo., 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. "It is just such books as this that educate the imagination of children, and enlist their sympathies for the brute creation."--_Nonconformist._ Familiar Natural History. With Forty-two Illustrations from Original Drawings by HARRISON WEIR. Super-royal 16mo., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 5_s._ coloured gilt edges. Playing at Settlers; Or, the Faggot House. Illustrated by GILBERT. Second Edition. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 3_s._ 6_d._ coloured, gilt edges. Adventures in Australia; Or, the Wanderings of Captain Spencer in the Bush and the Wilds. Second Edition. Illustrated by PROUT. Fcap. 8vo., 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. "This volume should find a place in every school library; and it will, we are sure, be a very welcome and useful prize."--_Educational Times._ The African Wanderers; Or, the Adventures of Carlos and Antonio; embracing interesting Descriptions of the Manners and Customs of the Western Tribes, and the Natural Productions of the Country. Third Edition. With Eight Engravings. Fcap. 8vo., 5_s._ cloth; 5_s._ 6_d._ gilt edges. "For fascinating adventure, and rapid succession of incident, the volume is equal to any relation of travel we ever read."--_Britannia._ "In strongly recommending this admirable work to the attention of young readers, we feel that we are rendering a real service to the cause of African civilization."--_Patriot._ Sir Thomas; or, the Adventures of a Cornish Baronet in Western Africa. With Illustrations by J. GILBERT. Fcap. 8vo.; 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth. Harry Hawkins's H-Book; Shewing how he learned to aspirate his H's. Frontispiece by H. WEIR. Super-royal 16mo., price 6_d._ "No family or school-room within, or indeed beyond, the sound of Bow bells, should be without this merry manual."--_Art Journal._ The Family Bible Newly Opened; With Uncle Goodwin's account of it. By JEFFERYS TAYLOR, author of "A Glance at the Globe," etc. Frontispiece by J. GILBERT. Fcap. 8vo., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth. "A very good account of the Sacred Writings, adapted to the tastes, feelings, and intelligence of young people."--_Educational Times._ "Parents will also find it a great aid in the religious teaching of their families."--_Edinburgh Witness._ Kate and Rosalind; Or, Early Experiences. By the author of "Quicksands on Foreign Shores," etc. Fcap. 8vo., 3_s._ 6_d._ cloth; 4_s._ gilt edges. "A book of unusual merit. The story is exceedingly well told, and the characters are drawn with a freedom and boldness seldom met with."--_Church of England Quarterly._ "We have not room to exemplify the skill with which Puseyism is tracked and detected. 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50702	----	Venus Boy BY LEE SUTTON Illustrated by Richard Floethe LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., INC. NEW YORK Copyright, 1955, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 54-7882 Printed in the U.S.A. All rights reserved [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To Mildred and Blake "Everything that lives is Holy." --OLD MARVA SAYING. _A Hero of Venus_ If you ever make a trip to the green planet of Venus, the first thing you'll see will be the fifty-foot high statue of Venus' greatest hero. It stands on the very top of towering New Plymouth Rock at the edge of the old colony of New Plymouth. Even from the rocket cradle, anyone can tell that the statue is of a twelve-year-old boy smiling up at the Venusian jewel bear perched on his shoulder. Cut into the huge rock below the statue are the words, "Virgil Dare (Johnny) Watson And the Marva, Baba. May their Friendship Endure!" Virgil Dare Watson, called Johnny by his friends, was the first human being born on Venus. He was named after Virginia Dare, the first pioneer child born in North America, and for a long time he was the only child on all Venus. And that would have been a lonely thing to be if it had not been for Baba. Baba, the bear, was not only Johnny's pet, but his best friend, too, and the only one who knew about his three secrets. Because of these secrets, Johnny got himself, his jewel bear, Baba, and the whole colony of New Plymouth into desperate trouble. And because of these secrets, he also became a hero worthy of a statue--Venus' greatest hero. Contents I THE FIRST TWO SECRETS 1 II THE TREASURE OF VENUS 9 III A DANGEROUS TARGET 18 IV THE THIRD SECRET 25 V A MYSTERY INDEED! 34 VI INSIDE NEW PLYMOUTH 45 VII THE RHINOSAUR STAMPEDE 54 VIII ONE SECRET IS REVEALED! 66 IX THE PRICE OF A BROTHER 71 X ALONE IN THE JUNGLE 81 XI THE FRIENDS ARE SEPARATED 97 XII THE PRICE OF A BOY 107 XIII OUTWITTING THE OUTLAWS 116 XIV CAPTURED! 129 XV A CITY IN THE TREES 140 XVI THE THUNDER OF RHINOSAUR HOOVES 155 XVII TEACHERS CAN'T PLAY HOOKEY 172 FACTS ABOUT VENUS 178 CHAPTER ONE _The First Two Secrets_ It was rocket day on Venus!--the day the yearly rocket from Earth arrived, and it was like Christmas, Fourth of July and your birthday all rolled into one! In the windowless, one-room New Plymouth school, Johnny Watson, a stocky twelve-year-old, sat toward the back of the room, a big Venus geography propped up in front of him. Johnny was supposed to be studying. Every time Mrs. Hadley, the teacher, glanced his way, a page of the book slowly turned. The teacher was much too busy with the half dozen squirming, excited first graders to notice that a small black paw fastened to a furry blue arm was really turning the pages. On Johnny's lap sat Baba, a perky-faced little blue bear with stand-up ears and bright blue eyes. To fool the teacher, the little bear, his eyes twinkling, flipped the pages one by one. "We gotta do something quick, Baba!" Johnny whispered to his bouncing, jewel bear cub in a tight worried voice. "It's only two hours till school's out." The little bear peered over at the clock on the wall. He lay a tiny black paw on his blue button nose and cocked his head as if he were trying to tell the time. When school was out everyone would go to the rocket field. Johnny knew that above all, he and his bouncing bear must not be there! Why Johnny and Baba dared not go was one of Johnny's three secrets. There was only one thing to do, Johnny thought. He would have to behave so badly that as punishment he would be forbidden to go. "Nudge me when Mrs. Hadley turns around," Johnny whispered. "We're gonna get out of here!" The little bear shoved his furry blue snout around the geography and peered from behind it. His bright eyes followed every move the teacher made. The instant Mrs. Hadley turned to write on the blackboard Baba gave the boy a kick. Johnny slipped down on to his hands and knees in the aisle and Baba hopped upon his back. Rapidly and silently Johnny crawled toward the armor room. Behind him a little girl kindergartner began to giggle. "Look at the horsie!" she yelled. Johnny heard the teacher call, "Quiet, children!" The little girl giggled louder. But he hadn't been seen! He scurried into the armor room. As Johnny jumped to his feet and grabbed for his suit of rhinosaur-hide armor, Baba leaped toward the wall and hooked his claws into the concrete. Then he scurried straight up the wall like a fly and snatched up Johnny's headglobe in his tiny black paws. While Johnny wriggled into the armor Baba fitted the headglobe over the boy's tow head. Without waiting to zip up, Johnny started toward the door. Baba jumped from the headglobe shelf and landed on his shoulder with a smack. The boy's hand was scarcely on the latch when the teacher turned around, her mouth making an O of surprise. Quickly, Johnny jerked open the door and dashed through, slamming it closed. There was a space of a few feet and then another door. Holding the second door open, Johnny snapped tight his headglobe, while Baba's small fingers pushed and pulled at the zippers fastening the armor. Both of them scanned the sky. No arrow-birds. Johnny grabbed a stone from beside the step and wedged it in the outer door so it could not close. To keep out these murderous flying lizards, all buildings were windowless and had double doors. When one door was open the other automatically locked. "Johnny, Johnny! You come right back in here!" a muffled voice called. Johnny sighed regretfully as he slipped out of the schoolhouse into the pearly green light of Venus. Baba on his shoulder, he started out at a dead run through the collection of windowless buildings that made up colony headquarters. The two had barely made it to the foot of a tall heavily leafed tree when the door of the main headquarters building began to open. "Up the meat tree!" Johnny yelled. Baba leaped from Johnny's shoulder and rolled himself into a furry blue ball as he fell. The little bear smacked the ground with the sound of a bouncing basketball and bounced high into the air! At the top of his bounce his arms and legs shot out; he hooked his claws into the trunk half way up the meat tree. Baba wasn't called a bouncing bear for nothing! Johnny jumped for the nearest branch. Weighed down by his arrow-bird armor, he was slow pulling himself up--too slow. Baba scurried down the trunk like a squirrel, his claws scattering bits of bark on Johnny. Hanging on with three paws he reached out and hooked his claws into Johnny's armor. One pull from that tiny but powerful arm and Johnny was sitting on the branch. From there up it was easy. The branches made a perfect ladder. Soon they were entirely surrounded by green shadowy leaves. Johnny carefully pushed aside a green fruit the size of a cantaloup and looked out. Striding across the dusty road came a tall man in headglobe and black armor--Captain Thompson of the colony guard. The teacher must have phoned for help. The man's square face was set in anger as he kicked the rock away from the schoolhouse door. The teacher stepped out and Johnny could hear their angry voices. After a moment Mrs. Hadley went back inside and the guard captain strode purposefully away toward Mayor Watson's office. Sitting on a branch swinging his legs, Baba winked a shiny blue eye. He reached over and patted Johnny on the spot where the boy was likely to pay for his pranks. "I think we've done it this time," Johnny whispered. "I hope it's not just another spanking." Johnny spoke with deep feeling. He had had three spankings in three days. The little bear looked sadly down his blue muzzle and made an odd deep clicking noise in the back of his throat. "Sure," Johnny said, as if answering the bear's clicks, "I want to go to the planet-fall, but we just can't." The bear clicked again. "I know," Johnny went on, "I know the earthies would give you chocolate. Besides I was going to have a job." Johnny's eyes began to shine with tears he wouldn't let come. For the first time he would have been working on the rocket field with the men instead of being on the sidelines watching with the women and little kids. The little bear patted him on the shoulder and clicked in low tones. "All right, I won't be sad if you won't." Johnny shook the tears away and tried to make a joke. "Gosh, Baba, you talk funny since _you know what_." Johnny screwed up his face. "You're such a mushmouth now I can hardly understand what you say." Baba stuck out his long blue tongue. This was Johnny's first secret. His little bear could talk! Baba's clicks were really the words of his own language. Although he couldn't make the sounds of the human voice, he could understand people perfectly. Johnny could both understand what the bear said and speak in the same clicking language. This hadn't started out to be a secret at all. As a little boy, Johnny thought everyone knew that those clicks were Baba's words. When Baba came to live with him, the little bear cub already knew his own language, but Johnny was just learning to talk. He learned human words and click words at the same time, and thought everyone understood them. When he was almost five, Johnny discovered to his amazement that no one understood Baba but him. He then went proudly spreading the news that he and his bear could talk together. When the first person laughed, Johnny didn't mind. But when everybody laughed at him he began to get a little mad. The crowning insult was being spanked for lying. After that, Johnny decided if telling grownups that Baba could talk only got him licked and laughed at, it might as well be a secret. Besides, it was fun keeping it secret. After a few minutes of waiting, Baba scurried along a branch and hung by his black claws while he thrust his blue button nose through the twigs and leaves. Johnny followed along another branch. "Looks clear," Baba clicked. "Let's go!" "Wait a minute." A quick movement in the distance caught Johnny's eye. Four men came out of a long grey building marked Hunters Hotel. Johnny was instantly alert. Colonists always kept a sharp eye on such men. These were the dangerous marva hunters, whose only law was an ato-tube gun. Johnny swung to a branch where he could see better. "What's up?" Baba clicked. "Hunters!" clicked Johnny. "They're watching the guard change at the old stockade." "Oh." The two looked at each other. Both knew what was in the stockade, locked away in the big safe. Marva teeth and claws. Jewel claws and teeth from grown-up bears just like the cub Baba! "Come on, Baba." Johnny shinnied back to a place where branches forked from the trunk of the meat tree. "We'd better check your nails 'fore we go down." After making sure no arrow-birds were feeding on the meat fruit, he undid one of his armor zippers and pulled a bottle of black liquid and a small brush from an inside pocket. Baba plopped down on his lap. "Smile," Johnny commanded. Baba pulled back his lips, showing black teeth. Johnny looked at them carefully, grunted, and then picked up one of the little bear's paws. All the nails seemed perfectly black, but on the tip of one of them there sparkled a point of bright blue. "Dang it, we gotta find something better than this nail polish. A little climbing and it's all scraped off." Johnny scowled and dipped the little brush in the bottle of black liquid. Carefully he painted the tip of the claw. Looking over the little bear's paws he found four more claws that showed blue. He painted them, too. "Now don't climb down when we go, Baba! When the polish is dry, jump." The little bear nodded. This was Johnny's second secret. Everyone thought Baba still had his valueless black baby claws and teeth. But, under the coating of black nail polish, each of Baba's claws was really a precious blue jewel. Johnny Watson owned a million dollar pet! CHAPTER TWO _The Treasure of Venus_ Yes, a million dollars, maybe even more, and all for one little bear! Johnny sighed shakily at the thought and hugged his bear to him. "What's the matter, Johnny?" Baba clicked, waving his claws to dry them, like a lady getting ready for a party. "You know," Johnny said, "I was just wishing for the good old days when you had your baby black nails and your pretty squeaky voice, and we didn't have to be afraid of anything." "I'm sorry," Baba clicked. "I couldn't help it. I just grew." Baba looked so sorrowfully down his nose that Johnny laughed, swung the little bear up above his head and sat him down on a branch. "You're a silly," Johnny said. "I know you couldn't help it. I was just wishing." Most of all he was wishing that bouncing bears didn't have jewels for claws at all. But he knew that was a silly wish, too. Grabbing a branch, Johnny swung himself back to a spot where he could see the hunters. As he watched, more were arriving. About a mile away a battered hunting tank came lumbering through the sliding doors of the fifty-foot high concrete wall surrounding the colony. Outside those walls, Johnny knew, lay the murderous animal life of the jungle planet. Every living thing on Venus attacked men. Not just the huge rhinosaurs and the horned river snakes, but even tiny scarlet apes and pigmy antelope. Johnny knew the colonists and hunters would never have come to such a savage place at all without the lure of tremendous wealth to be made from bouncing bears' claws. Harder than diamonds and just as clear, these magical jewels shone soft blue in the night and were blindingly bright in the sun. But that wasn't the only reason claws were valuable. A tiny piece of claw, or even of the duller teeth, melted in thousands of tons of plastic, made that plastic tough enough to be used for the hulls of rocket ships. Men called it marvaplast. With such a treasure beckoning, man could not stay away from Venus. Rockets came hurtling across space filled with hunters. Traders followed. After the traders came the colonists, led by Johnny's father and mother. Johnny sighed again. "Don't be so sad," Baba clicked. "We've been real lucky so far." "I suppose so." Johnny had to admit they'd both been lucky. Baba had been lucky not to be killed as his mother and brother had been. And Johnny had been lucky to get Baba at all. If there had been any other way of raising the bear until his black baby claws turned blue, Johnny never would have gotten him. All other young marva that had been captured had died. They refused to eat or drink. They simply squatted down and whimpered piteously until they died of what seemed to be loneliness and heartbreak. When Baba had been captured, Mrs. Watson brought him home, hoping to save his life. Two-year-old Virgil Dare, as Johnny was called then, was fascinated. "Ba-ba," he had cried, trying to say bear, and had thrown his arms around it. Surprisingly, the little bear had stopped whimpering and had hugged Johnny back. A few minutes later it had eaten some diamond-wood nuts. After a week, the colonists had decided that the little bear would live and he was taken away and put in a small diamond-wood cage for safe keeping. The little bear promptly refused to eat and almost died, whimpering over and over a sound that was just like "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." It was the only sound he could make beside the clicking noise. He had to be sent back to the little boy. From then on Virgil Dare was called Johnny. He and Baba went everywhere together, even to school. As the years went by they became closer than brothers and it was easier and easier to forget that the blue cub was really colony property. Then, Baba's voice had deepened; the black nails had gradually loosened; and, all in one Venus night, during Baba's long sleep through five earth days of darkness, the new nails had come in. Johnny had a mixture of india ink and nail polish all ready. It had worked for two months now. But the polish _did_ chip off and the claws had to be painted over and over. "Oh, Baba, why can't you be a sensible little bear and stay home where people can't see you," Johnny said. "You know why, Johnny," Baba clicked. "You're my kikac." This was a word in the clicking language that meant friend, pet and brother, all in one. Baba said kikacs should never be parted. That was the reason Johnny could not go to see the rocket come. If he went, Baba was sure to follow. Everyone, colonists and hunters, was going to be at the field, and if one of them caught sight of a flash of blue from Baba's claws, it would mean the end of Baba. The colonists liked the little bear but the colony was very poor. They wouldn't think long about killing him for his jewel claws. The hunters wouldn't think at all. They would steal him as quick as the flight of an arrow-bird. It was a very dangerous situation. But if he could keep from going to the rocket field, Johnny had a plan. The plan depended on Johnny's third secret. Draped over his branch, Johnny kept his eye on the hunters. They just seemed to be strolling about the settlement now--getting used to the fact that they were out of the dangerous jungle where they lived in concrete forts. When the door of the settlement headquarters opened again, Johnny pulled his head back in among the leaves. A grey haired man with heavy eyebrows stepped out of the door. It was Jeb, the old hunter, one of the first men to come to Venus hunting marva. Now he was one of the colony guards, and a very good friend of Baba and Johnny. When the old man came close enough for him to hear, Johnny crawled out where he could be seen, called down to him, and waved. "Hi, Jeb--whatcha doing?" The old man stopped in his tracks, looked carefully around him, then cocked an eye up into the tree. He frowned, his grey eyebrows making a V over his deep-set eyes. He shook his head in disapproval, but said nothing until he was directly under the tree. "What I'm doin' isn't important," Jeb said in a gruff voice, looking up at Johnny. "But what are _you_ a-doin' up that tree when you're supposed to be doin' book work?" "Aw," Johnny started, "I just...." "You just made your paw boiling mad, that's what," Jeb interrupted, "locking the teacher in that way." He snorted. "Did Dad say anything about keeping me away from the rocket landing?" Johnny demanded anxiously. "Nup," answered Jeb. "Cap'n Thompson wanted him to, but he says no, that you worked real hard all year. But I'm warning you. You better get on inside that school house, unless you want a good tannin'. Your ma's out lookin' for you with fire in her eye." He started to walk away. "Hey, wait a minute Jeb," Johnny called. "Well?" "I was watching those hunters. They're sure interested in the stockade. You better tell Cap'n Thompson." "We know they're interested. I don't think they'll do anything. That old reprobate of a Trader Harkness'll keep 'em in line. _You'd_ better watch out, though. I might tell Cap'n Thompson where he could find him a hooky-player." With a fierce snort the old man was on his way. Johnny smiled. He knew Jeb would never tell where he was hiding, in spite of the gruff warnings. Jeb was a nice old fellow. He'd shot his marva years before, gone down to earth, spent his millions in a few wild years and returned to Venus dead broke. In twenty years hunting he had never made another kill. Marva were as hard to find as they were valuable. "Guess you just weren't quite bad enough!" Baba clicked to Johnny. "My claws are dry. Let's go before your mother finds us." Johnny crawled down to the little bear. "We gotta think of something else bad to do. It's that or just plain refuse to go. But then they'd think something was funny, sure as shooting!" "There's lots of ripe meat fruit in the tree," Baba clicked, and grinned. "Maybe you could drop one on Captain Thompson!" "Oh boy!" Johnny exclaimed in excitement. Then he frowned. "Aw, he probably won't come by here again." "Somebody will!" Baba said. "Let's keep an eye out." The two of them posted themselves in different parts of the tree and watched for possible targets for ripe meat fruit. No one seemed to want to walk under the tree. Finally Johnny caught sight of a short fat bald-headed man and a tall redhaired man leaving the Hunters Hotel together. One was Trader Harkness, who all but ran the colony, and the other, his bodyguard, Rick Saunders. They seemed to be headed for the trading post and would have to pass directly under Johnny's tree to get there. Baba saw them at the same time. "How about Trader Harkness?" the little bear clicked. "Do you think he'd be a good target?" "A kind of dangerous one," Johnny clicked back, his heart racing. "But where's that meat fruit?" There wasn't any question about his getting into enough trouble this time. He just hoped he wouldn't get into too much trouble! Trader Harkness was a very important man, but Johnny didn't like him. He had started as a hunter and then had turned trader. By killing off most of his opposition, he had become the only important trader on Venus. If he hadn't wanted a walled settlement to protect his goods, the colony might have failed. A hunter would stop at nothing to get what he needed and the colony had had more than one of its tanks ambushed and stolen to hunt marva. A red, ripe meat fruit was not hard to find. Johnny wrenched one from the branch and held it carefully by its long stem. The size of a small melon, green meat fruit must be cooked before eating. Once ripe, their thin skins are plump full of a sweet strong-smelling paste--a natural high protein baby food. "There's plenty more," Johnny clicked softly. "Think we ought to get Rick, too?" "He's too good a friend," Baba clicked back. "Besides he might not give me any more chocolate." Johnny agreed with a laugh, and pushed leaves aside so he could see. He shivered. Below him came the most powerful man on Venus--a short, immensely fat man, who waddled forward rather than walked. On earth he would have been laughed at, but on Venus he was feared and respected. He liked that respect and demanded it. Johnny swallowed hard. The man he was going to drop the fruit on had once been ambushed by five hunters--none of them had survived. CHAPTER THREE _A Dangerous Target_ As the two men moved closer to Johnny's and Baba's meat tree, they appeared to be arguing about something. The trader glittered as he waddled forward. His armor was of the clearest, brightest marvaplast plastic, and his fingers were studded with marva jewel rings. They stopped just a few feet away from the tree. Johnny could tell the trader was angry. Though he was keeping himself under tight control, his heavy jaw was set and his little black eyes flashed under his smooth, hairless brow. "I'll put it to you straight, Rick," the trader's heavy voice rumbled up to Johnny. "I couldn't stay in business a year if I did as you asked me to." The redhaired bodyguard was flushed. "Well, then, I guess I'll have to do it," he said in a tight, defiant voice. "If you won't warn the colonists, I will." Harkness' jaw tightened. "Better think it over, Rick." His voice was still controlled and level. He gripped Rick's shoulder with a pudgy, jeweled hand. "Remember, those hunters trusted me. They figure my bodyguard wouldn't do anything I told him not to. If you warn the colonists, I'll have to make it clear you were on your own." His voice held a threat. "What do you mean?" Rick demanded, pushing the hand from his shoulder. "The least I would do would be to fire you back to Earth," he said ominously. Johnny drew in his breath. He knew how much Rick wanted to stay on Venus. The trader got his bodyguards by paying their way to Venus. He agreed to stake them for hunting if they did good work for a year. Otherwise they were sent back to Earth. It was said that men who crossed Trader Harkness never made it alive. "I'm sorry, Trader," Rick said, "but I'll take my chances. If you don't like what I do, I'll join the colony." "I should have guessed it," the trader said contemptuously, "when you began hanging around that worthless Jeb." The trader paused and then the threat in his voice was no longer veiled. "Believe me, Saunders, join that colony and you'll regret it." The heavy man turned slowly and moved toward his trading post. Fascinated, Johnny had all but forgotten the meat fruit in his hand. The trader was almost past him when he remembered. With a little toss Johnny let go of the juicy fruit. For an instant he thought he had thrown too far, but the trader waddled forward just right. With a sickening plop the red fruit exploded on the top of Trader Harkness' shining headglobe. Dripping purple gobs splattered through the air slits, smearing the stone-bald head. A strong sweet smell floated up to Johnny. For a moment Harkness stood perfectly still in shocked amazement. Then the tremendous man began to dance about in sheer rage and discomfort. "Water!" he yelled, his rumbling voice rising to a shrill cry. "Get some water!" He was bouncing up and down in an odd way, his clenched fists hitting the air. All his dignity was gone. Johnny stared open-mouthed, awed by his own daring. Rick Saunders stool still a second, and then broke into a guffaw. "I tell you, get me some water!" Trader Harkness roared. Three or four hunters and Jeb, the old guard, came running up. They took one look and they, too, broke into laughter. Jeb was carrying a fire bucket. "Never thought I'd ever get this chance, Will," Jeb cackled, and sloshed a bucket of water over Harkness. The water splashed on the bald head and washed the bits of fruit down the trader's neck and under his armor. The big man stood there dumb with anger. Johnny's throat ached with the laughs he'd kept back. He glanced up to the branch where Baba sat. The little bear's fur was shivering with fun. His eyes opened wide, and with a whir of clicks meaning, "Watch me, Johnny," he leaped into space. He kicked up a flurry of dust as he bounced to the ground and up to his feet in front of the trader and the other men. By this time the crowd had grown to a dozen men. Baba stopped a moment to make sure everyone was watching him. Then the round little bear began a dancing, bouncing waddle up and down. He clenched his forepaws into little fists and beat the air. His face was screwed up into a mighty frown. It was a perfect imitation of the trader. The men's laughter swelled to a roar. "Rick!" Harkness' voice rumbled out, tight and cold with rage. "Shoot it!" The laughter stopped suddenly, almost as if it had been switched off. It had been so long since anyone had made fun of the trader that the man had lost his head. "I can't do that!" Rick's lean brown face was horrified. Then he became angry. "I wouldn't shoot a kid's pet!" "Well, I will!" Moving with more speed than it seemed a large man could muster, the trader's hand snaked toward his holster. Baba saw the joke had gone too far. He leaped into the air, came down with a bounce and shot up the tree beside Johnny before the trader could level the gun at him. Johnny's mouth went dry. Already the trader was searching the tree for Baba, his pistol up, the safety switch off. The men stood in shocked silence. "He's right beside me, Mr. Harkness!" Johnny shouted, and crawled into full view. "C'mon, Baba, get on my shoulder. He can't shoot _me_." As Johnny came into full view, the trader's face grew angrier yet. "Baba didn't drop that meat fruit, Mr. Harkness," Johnny said firmly. "I did." "Kid's got guts," one of the hunters muttered. As Johnny slid down to the ground, he saw his mother pushing her way through the group of men. Her lips were tight together, her face white. "You're going to get it," Baba clicked. "Here come your pa and Captain Thompson, too." Mrs. Watson strode straight up to Trader Harkness, her eyes blazing. "You ought to be ashamed!" she said to the man. Then she turned on Johnny. "And so had you, young man. No planet-fall for you!" Johnny's heart leaped. He'd done it at last! "Now, Mr. Harkness," Johnny's mother's voice was very low, "what Baba and Johnny did was very wrong. I apologize for them. And Johnny will certainly be punished. Nevertheless, I never want to hear of you or anyone else threatening Baba again. Is that clear?" Taken aback, the trader nodded. "That goes for the whole family, Mr. Harkness." Johnny's father stepped forward straight and tall and put his arm around his wife's shoulder. "Not to mention the colony," he went on. "We have a pretty big stake in that bear." The fat, short trader seemed suddenly as cold as ice. His heavy jaw thrust out and his little black eyes looked straight at Johnny's father. "Valuable or not, I don't have to put up with insults. Not from those two or any of you. If that's the kind of thanks I get for ten years of working with you, I'm through. You can fight your own battles now." He jerked his head around toward Rick. "C'mon!" "I'm staying," the young man said. "All right. Stay." The smooth bald head swiveled back to the Watson family. "I told this man I'd fire him back to Earth. But let him stay. After the hunters have picked your bones, I'll take care of him." He turned, and with heavy footsteps walked away. His slow waddle did not seem funny now. The hunters in the crowd stood for a moment, and then followed him. Captain Thompson addressed Johnny's father. "That sounded like a declaration of war." Johnny's father nodded grimly. "I think our colony is getting too big for him," he said slowly. "He's been looking for a way to break with us and Johnny gave him just the kind of excuse he needed." "Yep," said Jeb. "But don't be too hard on Johnny. Maybe it's just as good it happened now when we got marva claws to buy us some extra fire power." "You might not have those claws long enough to do any good," Rick Saunders cut in. "I was just going to warn you. Four hunters just asked Harkness in on a plan to rob the stockade. The trader turned 'em down, but...." "Which four hunters?" Captain Thompson broke in. A shadow passed over Rick's face. "I don't know which ones." He looked at Mr. Watson eagerly. "I want to help, though. I'm hoping you'll take me on as a guard." "We can sure use you." Jeb stepped up and slapped the young man on the back. Mr. Watson appeared to consider for a moment. He looked Rick up and down, and then glanced at Captain Thompson, who nodded. "All right, Rick," he said. "You go on over to the guard barracks and Jeb'll check you out. When you're through, report to Captain Thompson." Rick Saunders grinned. Old Jeb threw an arm around his shoulder and they walked off together. When they were out of hearing Captain Thompson turned to Johnny's father. "I don't know if I like this," he said. "Harkness may have planted that man on us. I'm certainly not going to let him get anywhere near our claws. I'll keep an eye on Saunders personally." "But, gosh," Johnny broke in, "I heard him arg...." "I think, Johnny," said his father sternly, "you've said and done enough for one day. The trader is a proud man and by making a fool of him you've given the colony a deadly enemy." He turned back to Captain Thompson. "We'd better change our plans, Captain. It looks like we should double, maybe even triple the guard...." CHAPTER FOUR _The Third Secret_ Three hours later, boy and bear were trudging through the marshberry fields toward New Plymouth Rock. Johnny's bottom was still warm from his recent session with a strap. The boy was in full armor. A leather harness was strapped to the little bear's furry blue back. The last 'copter had long since left for the rocket field and, except for guards, the settlement was nearly empty. Because of this Johnny had been forbidden to leave his house. A lone person without a gun was supposed to be just what the arrow-birds were looking for. But Johnny wasn't afraid. He had his third secret. Johnny reached up and carefully picked one of the apple-sized marshberries for himself. It was a rich ripe yellow color. "They are just right this year," Johnny said to Baba. The little bear nodded gravely. Both he and Johnny had worked hard in those fields. Everyone did. Marshberries prevented a disease called colds that Johnny had never had, and were the only crop the colonists could send back to Earth. They had to be ripe for the yearly rocket or a year's work was wasted. Johnny trudged on under the weight of his armor while Baba bounced along beside him. A mile away loomed New Plymouth Rock. The huge mesa-like rock made up one corner of the settlement's barrier against the animals. The thick concrete walls of the settlement, topped with live wires, were joined to the rock on two sides. On its summit, stood a stunted diamond-wood tree. This was Johnny's and Baba's destination. Baba jumped high in the air, made himself into a ball and bounded on ahead. "Hurry up!" he clicked. "Hungry for nuts, eh?" Johnny asked. "Crunchy ones," the little bear clicked back, turning a somersault in the air. "Come on, hurry!" Johnny made a face at Baba. "Bear," he said, "you're certainly getting bossy lately." Baba did another somersault, bounced, and landed on Johnny's shoulder with a thump, almost knocking the boy down. He put his nose in Johnny's ear. "I'm a grown-up," he clicked in heavy tones. "Hear my beautiful new voice?" Johnny hunched his shoulders hard, spilling Baba to the ground. Then he grabbed him by the harness, and stood up. While Baba squeaked piteously, Johnny swung him round and round. At the top of one of the swings he let go, tossing Baba high into the air. "Help! Help!" clicked Baba, beating paws into the air, and screwing up his face. Just before he hit the ground he made himself into a ball. He hit with a smack and bounced higher than Johnny had thrown him. Both of them were laughing when he stopped bouncing. "Gosh, I wish we could have done that for the Earthies!" Johnny said The two fell silent, both thinking of the fun they were missing at the rocket field. They were coming to the end of the marshberry fields. Before them were the great boulders surrounding New Plymouth Rock. Johnny had made the harness Baba was wearing for forays among the boulders--forbidden forays, for arrow-birds nested there. Baba, with his strong nails and bouncy body, could go straight up the face of rocks. He was small enough to ride on Johnny's shoulder, but he was powerful too. By hanging on to Baba's harness, Johnny could go straight up and over large boulders, armor and all. "Let's go right by the nests," Baba clicked. "I want to be sure, right off." "O. K., worry bear, you lead the way." Johnny began to chant, "Grandpapa Baba sat in a corner, 'fraid that his shadow would burn in the fire." Baba bounced over the smaller rocks in the way. Johnny, weighed down with headglobe and armor, made his way slowly over them and between them. Baba helped Johnny over one steep place and then stayed beside him. It was hard going and Johnny's clothes were drenched with sweat under his armor before they clambered down the last boulder and on to a little flat place. They were already high above the level of the settlement. On one side they were surrounded by high red boulders. On the other side loomed the sheer cliff of New Plymouth Rock. Far above them, from many round holes in the rock, came strange squeaking sounds. Here were the arrow-bird nests! Johnny was deathly afraid. He'd seen what an arrow-bird could do when it shot itself at a man. "Get ready, Baba," he whispered. "Those are just babies up there," Baba clicked. "No danger yet!" "Let's climb up and get rid of them!" Johnny suggested. "Then there won't be any here to...." "No!" Baba interrupted. "But why? I'd be protected by my armor and...." "No!" Baba clicked more firmly. There was a stern but puzzled expression on the little bear's face. "The arrow-birds are my friend-pets, I must not hurt them." He used a word in the clicking language which meant both friend and pet. It was something like the word "kikac," which he called Johnny--"friend-pet-brother." "All right," Johnny said, "but I don't understand." "You mustn't harm them, either," Baba said. "Remember, I brought you here. Otherwise you wouldn't know where the nests were. Even if you just tell the grownups and they kill them--well, it would be wrong. I would have--" Baba was interrupted by a high whistling, shrieking noise, and the whir of wings. So quick you couldn't have followed his motions, Johnny squatted down, curled his feet under him, thrust his hands and forearms into special armor pockets. Six strangely shaped creatures were diving straight at him. Arrow-birds! A dirty greenish yellow, they were long and slender, over a foot long. One could not tell where their heads left off and their necks began. They were shaped like long arrow points. Their gossamer-thin wings were a blur of motion. Johnny braced himself so that if they hit him he would not be knocked over. In a fraction of a second they dived within fifty feet of him. "Go away friend-pets," Baba clicked, as loudly and as fast as he could. "Go away! Bother us not!" He repeated his cry in a kind of chant, so rapidly it was almost a trill. The shrieking whistle changed to a low hum. The arrow-birds pulled out of their dive. They floated in mid-air, their wings awhir. One had almost reached Johnny and was hovering in the air only a couple of yards away. It bent its neck out of arrow position and looked straight at him. Its little purple eyes glittered against the yellow green skin of its head. Then, like a flash, they were gone. "Whew!" Johnny breathed. He took his hands out of his armor and stood up. He turned around just in time to see the flight of arrow-birds crawl into the holes in the rocks that were their nests. This was Johnny's third secret. The arrow-birds obeyed Baba! Right after Baba's voice had changed and his jewel claws had come in, the two had made this astonishing discovery. They had stumbled upon this nesting place, and the arrow-birds, frightened for their nests, had slashed down at Johnny for the first time in his life. But Baba had cried out desperately in his new deep clicks for them to go away--and they had. It was like magic. Staring up at the sheer cliff, Johnny was excited, but afraid. Such a climb was too dangerous to do just for the fun of it, but Johnny thought he might have a way of saving Baba. Even when they were much younger the little bear had been willing to leave Johnny in order to climb for diamond-wood nuts fresh from the tree. It was the ideal place for Baba to hide. If Johnny could climb up with him they would be able to visit often-and Baba was so fond of fresh nuts he might be willing to use it for a hideout. Johnny hadn't told Baba about his plan. If they could make it to the top he would tell the bear then. The high shrieking whistle began again. Johnny suddenly had an idea. "Friend-pets, friend-pets, bother me not. Bother me not," Johnny clicked quickly, shaping deep clicks just like Baba's in the back of his throat. As the birds half-pulled out of their dive, the little bear started to speak. "No, let me keep trying," Johnny clicked. "Friend-pets, friend-pets, bother me not." At this, the birds hovered about him making squeaking noises, their heads still in striking position. "They're puzzled," Baba clicked. "They sense something's wrong. They expect to be shot at by people. I'll tell them to go and it will be all right. In a second they could kill you." "I've still got my armor," said Johnny. "Maybe if I tell them to come here they'll trust me." Johnny spoke the last in English and the words sent the birds fluttering farther away. They seemed to be on the point of making another dive. Johnny was pale under his headglobe, but clicked, "Friend-pets, come to your friend." The flying lizards slowly quieted, squeaking among themselves. Their wings humming, they hovered closer and closer. There were five of them. Finally their heads snapped out of arrow position. One of them hovered in very close. "Come to me, friend-pet," Johnny clicked to it, and held out his hand. The creature, watching him carefully with its little purple eyes, floated even nearer, its wings humming. Very gingerly it came to a perch on his hand. Its claws were cold and it smelled faintly of meat fruit. Johnny breathed deep. He was the only human being who had ever made friends with an arrow-bird. Slowly, while the other birds hovered in the air about him, Johnny drew in his hand and stroked the bird on its folded wings. It shivered under his touch. But, as he did it no harm, the other birds came closer and lit on his arms and his shoulders. One peered into his face. Another poked the air slits of Johnny's headglobe with its sharp bill. "Baba! Baba!" Johnny cried out. "Do you see this? Do you think I could sneak one home with us?" "Your people would kill him, Johnny," Baba clicked. "Go away, friend-pet," he clicked to the arrow-bird. The bird looked at Johnny. "Go, friend-pets," Johnny clicked regretfully to the five birds about him. With a flash of wings they were gone. "Gosh," said Johnny. "Gosh!" He unzipped and wriggled out of his armor. "Baba, I don't _have_ to wear armor ever any more. Do you understand? I can just walk around like you do!" The words fairly bubbled out of him. Baba was quiet for a moment, frowning. "Johnny," he clicked, "I've done something wrong. Something very bad. I'm not sure why, but I just know it's wrong. Those are my friend-pets, not yours. If _you_ use the word 'friend-pet' to them, that means you can never hurt them. You must always help them. But they will always try to kill your mother and father. It is all mixed up." "Gee, Baba," Johnny was frowning now, too. "C'mon, let's try the climb and forget it." From one of the armor straps he unhooked a flashlight he always brought along for exploring caves. He fastened it to his belt. A few moments later the two friends were looking up at the bare rock face that extended three hundred feet straight up. "Golly, Baba, do you really think you can take us up _there_?" Johnny asked. "If you can hold on, I can take you," Baba said from Johnny's shoulder. "Start up!" Johnny yelled. Baba leaped up onto the wall of rock, his claws cutting into it. Johnny grasped the harness and hooked his toes into a crack in the stone. CHAPTER FIVE _A Mystery Indeed!_ By the time Baba and Johnny had gone fifty feet up the cliff, Johnny felt as if his arms were about to be pulled from his shoulders. The boy helped push with his feet, but that took only a little weight from his arms. Below him there was nothing but boulders and sharp jagged rocks. In spite of that danger, he felt that he could hardly keep hold of the harness. Sweat poured down into his eyes. "Hurry, Baba," he said through clenched teeth. "Ledge soon," the little bear clicked. As he speeded up his climb he slapped his claws deep into the rock, making sharp clapping noises that echoed among the boulders below. He stopped short and Johnny saw a place where the rock jutted out a few inches. Gratefully he felt something solid beneath his feet. He couldn't put his whole foot down, but he could rest his arms a little. "Whew," Johnny said, "doesn't the ledge get wider?" "In a minute," Baba answered. Crabwise, with Johnny still hanging on, Baba worked along the ledge, which slowly widened until Johnny could stand alone. They were now on the jungle side of the rock. A few feet farther on, there was a narrow slit in the rock face that widened into a small cave. Deep in the cave's darkness Johnny heard the squeaking of young arrow-birds. As he crept inside he whipped his flashlight from his belt. Purple eyes glittered at him in the circle of its light. There was a flutter of wings. Johnny and Baba started to click at the same time. The fluttering stopped and the birds' heads disappeared into their nests. The cave ended in a pile of large stones. Johnny sat down. "Boy, do my arms ache!" Johnny said. "How about you, Baba?" "I can climb," Baba answered. "But can you hold on? We have far to go." "Aren't there any more ledges?" Johnny asked. "Small ones," Baba answered. "None are wide like this one. Do you still want to go up?" "Maybe we could tie me on some way," Johnny said. "Mountain climbers do it that way." In a moment the boy and the bear were trying to see what they could work out. Finally Johnny had Baba use the razor sharp point of one of his claws to cut a pair of long thin straps from the wide ones on the harness. These they tied to Johnny's belt and then to Baba's harness again. When the straps were finished, Johnny felt rested and they started out of the cave. They were stopped by the sight below them. At the foot of the rock there was a wide space of cleared ground, and then the jungle stretched out. About a half mile away some large greyish beasts were breaking out of the undergrowth. "Rhinosaurs!" Johnny shouted, pointing. "Golly, a whole herd of them!" There were more than thirty of the huge grey-blue saurians. Even at that distance they could hear the low thunder of the gigantic hooves. The beasts stayed close to the brush, knocking down small trees as they came. Johnny knew that heavy ato-tubes were trained on the rhinosaurs from the guard towers. The guards in the gate towers would have a full view of them. Johnny also knew that unless the beasts began to charge the walls, the guards would not fire. If they did, the whole herd might charge. Topped as they were with electric wires, the heavy fifty-foot high walls would be hard to breach. But rhinosaurs had smashed those walls once--before they were thickened and electrified. "Remember when they attacked and killed a lot of colonists?" "I remember," Baba clicked. "Your people killed them, too. These straps...." Johnny nodded. Because it was made of the skin of an animal the colonists had killed, he had had a hard time getting Baba to wear that harness. "Let's go!" Johnny said. This time the going was not so hard for Johnny, though they climbed much farther before he and Baba could rest. The next ledge they reached was not large enough to let them sit. Baba had to hang to the rock, but it didn't seem to tire him. Three more rests, and slowly but surely they were reaching the top. At the last rest Baba clicked to Johnny in warning. "The rock is getting softer. If my claws tear away from the rock, just relax and fall with me. I'll grab again further down." "All right," he said. Johnny didn't dare look down. He had been climbing with Baba since he was three, but never this high before. They had gone up only a few more feet when Baba's claws began to slip. Johnny let himself go limp just in case anything happened. Very slowly Baba's claws slipped down the rock. Then they caught hold again. "We will have to move to the side," Baba clicked. Johnny didn't answer. It was up to Baba. The little bear scuttled crabwise along the side until he found rock that didn't scale off. Then up they went again. Finally there was a ledge. The two scrambled onto it. Above the ledge was a gap in the rock, some boulders--and they were on the top! A faint wind was blowing, and Johnny could hear it sing through the top of the stunted diamond-wood tree growing on the summit. The top of New Plymouth Rock was flat, a hundred feet or more wide, but with many jutting boulders. Here and there grew small bushes and patches of grass. The diamond-wood tree sprang directly from the bare rock. With shaking fingers Johnny untied the straps and threw himself down on a patch of green. As he lay there, his breath rustling the grass, he heard Baba pattering about and wondered how the little bear had so much energy left. "Johnny," Baba clicked, "do you want some berries?" Johnny looked up to see the little bear holding some clear, almost transparent red berries in his paw. The colonists called them antelope berries because they grew mainly in antelope country. At that moment Johnny realized he was very thirsty. "Thanks, Baba!" He crushed the berries with his teeth and felt the sour-sweet juice trickle down his throat. He suddenly felt thrilled with triumph. He was now where no other human had ever been before! Johnny was just raising his head to look around when he heard the patter of tiny hooves behind him. "Look, Johnny!" Baba clicked. Johnny turned. Running toward them was a herd of the tiniest antelope he had ever seen. They were barely six inches high, their curled horns almost as tiny as needles. Head down, they charged directly at him. Johnny jumped to his feet. "Friend-pets," Baba clicked gently, "bother us not." The tiny creatures wheeled about and started back in the direction from which they had come. "Oh, Baba, don't send them away," Johnny said. Then, remembering his success with the arrow-birds, he himself clicked in a low tone, "Come here, friend-pets. Come here." The antelope with the longest curled blue horns stopped, turned slowly around and pawed the ground, his long neck arched. It was just seven inches high. Johnny laughed. The regular antelope were seven _feet_ high, but otherwise looked exactly the same as these. Johnny squatted down and, as he moved, the herd turned and ran, making little whinnying noises. Then they wheeled and returned. The leader pranced closer and closer and came to a halt within a foot of Johnny. It was soft blue all over, marked with spots of deeper purple. Its tiny hooves were blue black, and its eyes glistened with deep purple highlights. Johnny reached out both his hands and laid them before the little creature. "Come," Johnny clicked. Trembling, the little antelope pawed the grass. Then with mincing steps he came forward and placed his forefeet on one hand, his hind feet on the other. Very slowly Johnny raised him from the ground. The small hooves were sharp and dug into the palms of his hands. The little animal's eyes widened and it snorted in fear. Johnny, afraid it might fall, set his hands back on the ground. "Go, friend-pet," he clicked. With a bound the creature returned to his herd. Together the antelope leaped high over a small boulder and were gone behind a clump of bushes. Johnny looked up to see Baba watching him steadily. The little bear looked at Johnny the same way as when he had spoken to the arrow-birds. "Friend-pet-brother Johnny," Baba clicked, "I am sure I am doing wrong. First the arrow-birds and now the antelopes are your friends. But they are your people's enemies." "Not the antelopes!" Johnny said. "They fight us some, but we don't ever bother them except for meat." "Your people kill them," Baba said, as if that settled matters. "Now you can't. You've said they were your friends." "Is that some kind of rule?" Johnny asked. "You said they were your friends," Baba repeated. "You help your friends and your friends help you. That is the law and will be the law as the trees stand. Between friend and friend there is no parting more than the fingers of a hand." Baba said this in a sort of sing-song of clicks, like the song of a bird. It was something like a poem. "Baba," Johnny asked, "how do you know all this? You've never talked this way before." Johnny squatted down before the little bear, whose face was screwed up into a puzzled frown. "I guess I've always known it," Baba clicked. "But it just came back to me. I don't remember much before I came to live with you, Johnny. But I do remember being in a high tree. There was one like me whom I loved very much, and she sang the song I just sang to you. I remember going to sleep while she sang it. It is a true song, too." "Would you sing it again?" Johnny asked. The little bear began again: "You help your friends and your friends help you. It is the law, And will be the law as the trees stand. Between friend and friend there is no parting More than the fingers of a hand." This time the little bear really sang, trilling the clicks to a tune like the roll of a mockingbird's song. Johnny felt very strange. He patted Baba on the head and then stood up. "I think I understand," he said, and looked out over the surrounding countryside, thinking about the little antelope he had just held in his hands. "I'm hungry," the little bear clicked. With a jump and a bounce he started for the stunted diamond-wood tree. "Baba," Johnny called. The little bear bounced back. "Aren't there plenty of those nuts here for you to live on? I mean, enough to feed you regularly if you lived here all the time?" The little bear nodded yes, but frowned. "I want to live with you, Johnny," he clicked. "I know, Baba. But you're in danger. I hoped that if I could show you I'd be able to visit you, maybe you'd stay." At the unhappiness on the little bear's face, Johnny hurried on. "Look, Baba, I can't make you stay here. But somebody's going to find out about your nails if you stay with me. If you live here, I could come up and visit you when the nights come, and if we were lucky, I could see you most every wake-time down by the rocks...." Johnny's voice trailed off. Baba was looking unhappier and unhappier. "I want to live with you," Baba repeated. "Remember what the song says about parting. You stay here with me." It was Johnny's turn to look unhappy. He didn't want to leave his father and mother, any more than Baba wanted to leave him. The hard climb was all for nothing. "I can't, Baba. You know that," he said sadly. "I can't either," Baba said. Johnny continued arguing for a long time but it did no good. Baba wanted to be with Johnny: there wasn't anything more to say. "I'm still hungry!" clicked the little bear, plaintively. Then, with a bounce, Baba was up and away. The little bear was crazier about fresh diamond-wood nuts than anything else, even chocolate. Johnny felt sad and confused. He got up. Below him stretched the sweet green lands of Venus. The hard angles of the walls and the squat grey buildings of the settlements were somehow out of keeping with the rest of the land. There was an almost park-like look about the jungle from this height. In the distance the towering groves of diamond-wood trees, where the marva lived, shone blue green against the light green clouds that were the skies of Venus. Between the blue groves of diamond-wood were the meadow lands, soft and rolling. At the edges of the meadows were the lower and darker green meat trees, where the saber-tooth leopards stalked. The land was laced with rivers that shone in the green light. It was all so beautiful, and so deadly. In a few hours evening would begin--almost three Earth days of twilight. Venus turned so slowly that there was a whole Earth week each of daylight and dark. But of course people had to sleep and work by Earth days. The thick permanent clouds surrounding Venus glowed with light hours after sundown, making the twilight last and last. Beyond the marshes was the sea--filled, too, with savage life, flying crocodiles who made nests of the bones of their prey, great dinosaur-like monsters and shark-snakes. But none of these dared come onto the land, for the land animals fought them as fiercely as they fought man. Except for Baba, all the animals on Venus were determined to kill Johnny's people. And he had just been making friends with some of those enemies. He felt strange, as if he were being a traitor to his own kind. Johnny didn't like that feeling. Suddenly he thought of Baba living among people and wondered if the little bear felt the same way. Johnny turned away from the edge of the cliff and kicked a stone. He began to wander over the top of New Plymouth Rock, peering into bushes and piles of boulders. He passed near the antelopes grazing on some grass. They lifted their heads and whinnied, but went on grazing. Johnny liked that. Beside a pile of small boulders, he found some arrow-bird nests. He spoke to the birds and all was well. "That's an odd pile of boulders," Johnny muttered to himself. It didn't look just right, somehow. He pushed one of the stones and it rolled down almost to his foot. There was a dark empty space beyond it. He took his flashlight from his belt and shined it down into the opening. He almost dropped the flashlight. The light revealed the shape of a bouncing bear, a marva, just like Baba! "Baba!" Johnny turned and yelled, "Come here, quick!" When he looked back, the bear in the opening had not moved. It was not blue, but the color of the rock. Johnny stopped shaking. The opening was the entrance into a cave, and on the wall of the cave was carved the figure of a bear he had thought was alive. But he was sure that the bear had been blue! CHAPTER SIX _Inside New Plymouth Rock_ Johnny and Baba excitedly started clearing away the pile of boulders and stones from the mouth of the mysterious cave. Immediately the arrow-birds began flying around, their heads snapping into striking position. "They don't like us doing this," Baba clicked. "They don't like it at all." He turned to the fluttering birds. "Bother us not! Bother us not!" he repeated. The birds retreated, but hovered in the air not far off. "Go away!" Johnny clicked. The birds squeaked among themselves and went a little farther away. "I don't understand," Johnny said. "We aren't bothering their nests." He and Baba each picked up a stone and carried it away from the cave opening. Johnny watched the arrow-birds from the corners of his eyes. They dived in closer. "Go away," came a firm, deep click. The birds stopped in mid-air and then were gone. "Gosh," Johnny said to Baba, "you sure made them go that time." Baba's eyes opened wide. "I didn't say anything," he clicked. The bear and the boy looked at one another, puzzled, and then into the opening. The bear cut in the stone was all they could see. "Come on, Baba!" Johnny rushed to the opening and knocked down a few more stones. Baba pushed them farther away. In a few minutes of hard work the opening was big enough for Johnny to squeeze through. Around the edge of the cave, the rock was carved with the shapes of many animals. The floor slanted sharply downward. "Hurry, Johnny," Baba clicked anxiously. "He may have gone away." The little bear's eyes were shining with eagerness. Johnny's heart sank. Baba had not seen another live jewel bear since he had been captured. He had never seemed interested. But now he was quivering with excitement. If they found marva, maybe Baba would want to stay with them! Johnny wanted Baba to be safe, but he didn't want to lose him for always. The little bear was already scurrying down the steep slope. Without stopping to think of danger ahead, Johnny plunged after him. The ceiling was just high enough for him to stand upright. Flashing his light into the darkness, Johnny saw that the cave was a long passageway that curved down into the heart of the great rock. Soon they were too deep inside for any light to reach them from the mouth of the cave. Except for the beam of Johnny's flashlight, they were surrounded by complete darkness. The air was musty and cool and their footfalls echoed, making scarey hollow noises. "Stop!" Johnny said. He held his fingers to his lips. His words echoed and re-echoed in front of them. Then there was almost silence. A soft padding and clicking sound came from far in the distance. It was the same kind of noise Baba's feet and claws made on stone. The two started out again at a half run. The slope was almost too steep, and Johnny had to slide to a halt to keep from falling. Baba went bouncing along ahead and out of sight. As the slope became steeper yet, Johnny had to slide forward carefully. He stumbled and went down on his back. His flashlight slipped from his hand and went rolling on down the passage and out of sight. In a second it was pitch black. "Baba," Johnny yelled at the top of his lungs. His only answer was his own voice echoing down the long corridor. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and slid on forward on the seat of his pants, his heart beating rapidly. A few very long minutes later, he saw a light shining in the distance. It was Baba, the flashlight in his paw. "Hurry, Johnny!" he clicked. "Hurry." With the way lighted for him, Johnny got to his feet and could move faster. As he reached Baba, the passage began to widen and the slope became less steep. "I saw him," Baba clicked excitedly. "He was big. I'm sure if we could catch him he'd be a friend! I tried to talk to him but he went on ahead just when you called. Oh, Johnny, I do want to find him." Johnny had never seen Baba so excited. Suddenly, the passageway ended and they were in a great underground room. Johnny flashed his light around the walls. They, too, were carved with scenes of life on Venus. Beneath each carving was a small doorway leading into a side room. There was one large doorway opposite the one through which they had entered. "It looks like a meeting house," Johnny said. "With seats and everything." He flashed the light on one of the carvings. He had heard of carvings like these and had seen one once. His father said that they must have been made by an intelligent life form that had visited Venus from the stars. This cave must have been where they had hidden from the animals, just as men now hid from them behind the settlement's great walls. Johnny was awed. "Johnny, don't just stand here," Baba clicked. "We've got to find him!" Johnny looked from opening to opening. "Which way, Baba?" The little bear sniffed the air. "I can't tell," he said. "I can't tell." Hurriedly they made a circle about the great room. When they came to the large opening, Baba sniffed carefully. "Maybe here," he clicked, and plunged through. Down they went as before. This time Johnny grabbed Baba's harness and they were able to move faster. This corridor was just as steep and curving as the first one. In a few minutes they emerged into another room. It was smaller than the room above and had three small doorways and one large opening. "Let's try them all," Baba said. Through each of the three small doorways they entered similar rooms. The fourth opening was another corridor. Again Baba thought he smelled the path of the marva. Down that corridor they went, down and down. Finally it ended in hundreds of the rooms, large and small, the rock was like a honeycomb. Johnny's flashlight was already growing dim, and they didn't dare try to search much longer. Trying to follow the scent they took a side corridor that led from one small room to another, and came out into a narrow passageway. A faint light glimmered at the end of it. Baba bounded on ahead, Johnny running to keep up with him. The light seeped through a pile of rocks. Johnny flashed his light through one of the cracks. Behind the pile of rocks the tunnel continued for several feet. In the light of his flashlight Johnny could see bits of leather on the floor of the outer part of the cave. Just beyond them on the other side of the rocks was the cave Johnny and Baba had rested in while climbing up, the cave in which they had cut the long straps they had used to tie themselves together for the long climb upward. The bits of leather on the floor were scraps that had been left over. "Why, we're almost to the bottom," Johnny said. "Yes," Baba clicked. "I guess we can't find him. I don't smell anything now but arrow-birds," he ended sadly. "We gotta try," Johnny said firmly. He felt hollow inside when he thought Baba might go away for good, but he was convinced now that this was the only way to keep him safe. "Let's try farther down." Johnny turned around and a few minutes later they were going down one of the curving main corridors again. This corridor gradually straightened out. Soon it hardly slanted down at all. It finally turned into what seemed to be a long underground tunnel. Johnny had to stoop over to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. The passageway was no longer going through solid rock, and its walls and floor were a sticky clay. Johnny's and Baba's feet made squishing noises as they walked. It seemed as if the tunnel would never end. They walked on and on. "I think we're going away from New Plymouth Rock," Baba clicked. "I think so, too," Johnny answered. "We must've already gone 'most a mile." The walls had narrowed until Johnny and Baba had to walk single file. Suddenly the passageway slanted upward and a faint glow of light could be seen far away. As they began to climb toward the light the ceiling became so low Johnny had to crawl on his hands and knees. It was a long, sticky climb. As they approached within a few yards of the light, Baba stopped, blocking Johnny's way. "This cave must end up in the jungle outside the colony wall," the little bear clicked. "Maybe we ought to stop." He sounded worried. But Johnny was not going to let this chance pass. "Go on," he urged. "But the rhinosaurs...." "Who's afraid of an old rhinosaur?" Johnny demanded. "You are," Baba clicked. But he scrambled on. They emerged into the blinding light in the center of a tangle of thick, high brush. They were out in the jungle, far away from the rock! The boy and his bear were covered with mud from head to foot. They peered carefully around, listening. In the distance they could hear the rumble of moving rhinosaurs. As they crept away from the cave, their view continued to be blocked by large bushes and trees. They couldn't even see New Plymouth Rock. Stepping quietly and carefully they finally came to an opening in the brush. Far to the right was the Rock--and, farther in the distance, a guard tower. "Get back," Johnny shouted. "The guard will see us." The two jumped back. There was a grunt behind them. They turned. Behind a screen of brush, a great blue-scaled rhinosaur was waking up. It was between them and the opening to the cave. It snorted with the sound of a deep bass drum, and heaved up on its feet. Ahead, at the edge of the clearing, was a tall meat tree. They had two chances. They could turn quietly and creep away into the brush, hoping the big beast would not see or hear them. Or, they could make a run for the meat tree--in full view of the guard tower. CHAPTER SEVEN _The Rhinosaur Stampede_ The decision was made for them by the rhinosaur. The great scaled beast began to turn around, crashing down brush as he moved. In a few seconds he would be facing directly toward them. "Tree," Baba clicked very softly. Johnny nodded. The two slinked like hunting cats toward the tree. They didn't dare look back. "I think the guard saw us," Baba clicked. "He was waving his arms." The jewel bear had already climbed part way up the trunk. He motioned for Johnny to grab the harness. Not making a sound Johnny took hold of the harness, and the two of them started up the tree. When they reached the first branch, Johnny let go the harness and clambered up as quickly and quietly as he could. Only when they were screened from view by the fleshy leaves of the meat tree did he dare to look down. Through little openings between the leaves he could see the rhinosaur. It was shaking its ugly horned head. Its little black-blue eyes peered about under blue scaled eyelids. It trumpeted. The deep blasting sound echoed against the settlement walls. For some minutes it moved around in the brush, snorting. It paused, snuffing in air in great gulps. Then it headed straight for the tree and began to trot back and forth under it. It had smelled Johnny! Its hoofbeats on the ground made the limb Johnny sat on tremble. If the rhinosaur sensed that Johnny was in the tree it was the end. The tree was easily four feet thick at the base, but a rhinosaur could knock it down with one rush. Johnny and Baba were on the highest and smallest branch, but they were barely twenty feet above its head. The rhinosaur's shoulder brushed against the lowest branch and the whole tree swayed back and forth as if hit by a hurricane. Johnny was struck by an idea. "Baba," he whispered, "do you think it might obey you--just like the arrow-birds?" "I don't know, Johnny," Baba clicked softly. "I'll try." Baba started to climb down. By the slow careful way Baba moved, Johnny knew the little bear was afraid, too. It was an awful chance to take. Johnny was about to call him back, but as he opened his lips, the little bear looked up and grinned. Down Baba went. He was now halfway down the tree, thirty feet from the ground and level with the eyes of the rhinosaur. It caught sight of him, snorted, and pawed the ground, digging up shovelfuls of dirt with each movement. "Friend-pet! Friend-pet!" Baba clicked and Johnny suddenly wanted to giggle. Imagine having something that size for a pet! "Friend-pet!" Baba clicked again, "Go away! Go away! Bother us not!" The big creature stopped still. Muscles rolled and bunched under the heavy blue-grey scales. Was he going to charge or leave? They never found out. There was a roar of motors behind the beast, the clank of metal, the deafening blast of an ato-tube gun. The ground shook; leaves showered down on Johnny. The guards had sent a tank to rescue them! Things began to happen too fast for Johnny to keep track. The rhinosaur roared with pain and wheeled. It had been hit! It charged toward the oncoming tank--one of the colony's light duty tanks, built for speed and quick turns. The driver jockied for position. The tank shot down the clearing, turned and stopped. Its guns were too light to kill the huge beast, so the gunner did not bother to fire again. They were trying to draw the rhinosaur away from the tree. The rhinosaur's hooves thundered, echoing against the walls and the rocks as it gathered speed. It was almost on top of the tank. With a roar of the motors the tank shot forward. The rhinosaur was going too fast to stop or turn. It plunged on past the tank, bellowing its rage. Almost immediately the tank screeched to a stop beneath the tree. Its manhole swung open. Rick Saunders' red head emerged. "Get in here! Quick!" he shouted over the noise of the motor. Johnny needed no invitation. He was already halfway down the trunk of the tree. Baba jumped from his perch into the open manhole. As soon as Johnny was low enough, he grasped a branch, swung on to the top of the tank, and started down the steel ladder. The tank jumped forward with a lurch. The rhinosaur was bearing down on them. Their guns roared, but the rhinosaur did not stop. As a hand grabbed him, pulling him inside, Johnny saw the tree topple over as the rhinosaur crashed into it. "Fire the gate rocket!" someone's shout echoed in the tank. Johnny recognized Captain Thompson's deep voice. "Check!" Johnny heard Rick answer. Rick was up in the gun turret. After the outside light, it seemed very dark in the tank. It smelled of grease and the burnt air of cannon fire. There was the swish of a rocket. Johnny knew this rocket was a signal for the guard on duty at the steel gateways to be ready to open up. The motors were roaring with a high whining sound which meant they were going at full speed. The tank bounced and jolted, shaking Johnny from side to side. "Get ready for the gate!" warned Captain Thompson from the driver's seat. The tank seemed to be almost flying now. Johnny set himself for a violent turn. Like the doors of the houses, the wall gates were double. Each was a heavy steel portcullis, a great sliding door that could be raised and lowered. When a tank came in the outer gate its weight tripped a switch. That switched turned on motors that made the first gate fall and the second rise. Otherwise fast moving tanks would have smashed into the second gate. Johnny slid over to an observation slit. To his left he could see that the heavy steel gate was rising. His heart raced. When being chased by rhinosaurs a driver sped straight along the wall and then turned sharply through the open gate. If he timed it right the rhinosaurs plunged on and the tank was safe. It took split second timing. They were right by the gate. Johnny grabbed a brace. With a scream of the treads, the tank started into a turn. "Rhinos on the side!" shouted Rick. His guns blasted. Captain Thompson fought to straighten the tank out of the turn. Baba was sitting with his paws over his ears, his claws glowing. There was a bone-shattering crash. Then Johnny felt himself flying through the air. Everything went topsy-turvy. He banged his shoulder against the side of the tank. Then he felt Baba's furry body against his. Rick's feet seemed to come from nowhere and dig into his back. Johnny grabbed on to something solid and wedged himself in tight. The tank was rolling over and over. Something crashed against it again and again. There was a heavy thud and the sound of breaking metal. Then everything was still. The motors had stopped. From outside came the roar of guns and the bellowing of rhinosaurs. Johnny found himself sprawled on top of Rick Saunders. He was terribly shaken. Baba was hanging onto one of the rungs of the steel ladder. It was almost pitch dark. Rick struggled to his feet as Johnny scrambled from on top of him. "We're upside down," Baba clicked softly to Johnny. "What happened, Saunders?" Captain Thompson's heavy voice demanded from the driver's compartment. "Didn't Harkness teach you to shoot?" "Four of them rushed us right at the gate," Rick answered. "Did we make it inside?" "Think so. Anybody hurt?" Thompson asked. "Just scratched a little," Johnny answered. "Good," Captain Thompson grunted. "Is the righting jack O.K.?" Rick tested a lever. "O.K." "Let her rip!" "Hang on, Johnny," Rick said. "We're going to right her." Johnny knew just what was going to happen. A tank turned turtle had meant a dead crew until the righting jack had been attached to each of the tanks. Compressed air pushed out two rods fore and aft and flipped the tank right side up. Johnny braced himself. There was a rush of air. Johnny felt the tank tip slowly under him. Then it went over with a crash. The tank was right side up. "The gate!" Rick exclaimed. Just above his head Johnny saw light from the observation slit. He looked out. Then he knew what Rick meant. They and the four rhinosaurs had reached the gate at the same time. The rhinosaurs were inside. They had knocked the tank through the outer gateway and had smashed into the steel door before it was halfway down. The inner door must have met the same fate for Johnny could see that the sliding steel plates were bent and jammed open. The rhinosaurs had kept after the tank until now it lay fifty yards inside the settlement. Even as Johnny watched, another rhinosaur charged through the opening and headed into the settlement. Captain Thompson was grinding on the starter and Rick was working up in the gun turret. "The rhinosaurs got through," Johnny clicked to Baba. "And the tank is broken?" Baba clicked back. "Yes." "I have to get out," Baba said. "Maybe I can get the rhinosaurs to...." "No, Baba," Johnny said. "They're just plain crazy now." Captain Thompson climbed down out of the driver's compartment. "The motor's gone. How are the guns?" "Out of action," Rick answered. "Must be filled with dirt. We can't do any good here." "O.K.," Captain Thompson said. "Let's get moving. I'm needed out there!" Rick undid the wing nuts on the manhole and pushed. Metal squeaked, but the door stayed in place. "Jammed!" Rick said. "Get me a crow bar out of the box." Johnny dived for the tool box and came up with a pry bar. He handed it to Rick. "Hurry, man," Captain Thompson said as Rick went to work. His black angry eyes fixed themselves on Johnny. "We should have left you out there." "I'm sorry," Johnny said. In answer the man cuffed Johnny with the back of his hand. Johnny couldn't be angry. He knew what a rhinosaur raid was like, and this one was his fault. "Oh, leave the kid alone," Rick said from above. "Leave him alone!" Thompson snorted, and glared first at Johnny and then at Baba. "The kid and that bear have caused more trouble...." Captain Thompson stopped talking and stared at Baba. He reached out suddenly and grabbed the little bear by the paw. "Well, look at this!" he said in a hushed tone. In the steamy darkness of the tank Baba's nails shone clear and blue. The climbing and running had worn off all the paint. Thompson held up Baba's paws into the light of an observation slit. He scraped with one of his finger nails. "Nail polish!" he exclaimed. The manhole came open with a clang. "She's open!" Rick called. Captain Thompson paused only a fraction of a second over Baba and climbed the ladder. "Lock the kid and bear in the tank," Thompson ordered. "There's less danger here for the boy than there would be in the trip to the wall. You, Rick, go back to the gate. I'll run for headquarters. Make it fast!" Without another word he was up the ladder and gone. Rick Saunders reached down and patted Johnny on the shoulder. "Tough luck about your bear, son," he said, and then he, too, was gone. The manhole door clanged and Johnny heard a lock click into place. He hugged Baba to him. "Gosh, Baba," Johnny said, "what are we going to do now?" Baba, for once, had nothing to say. Johnny hugged the warm, furry creature closer to him. Tears began to streak down his cheeks. Baba didn't like this. He cocked a blue eye at the boy. "Don't cry, Johnny!" he clicked. "Come on, stop it!" he pleaded. "Why don't we go up in the turret and see what's happening." Johnny wiped his tears away and the two climbed into the gun turret. His stomach tightened. Through the four-inch thick bubble of marvite plastic he could see the destruction he and Baba had let loose. The whole settlement lay within view. A half dozen of the giant lizard beasts had turned, the colony into a dusty hell. Even within the tank the bellows of the beasts and the roar of guns was almost deafening. Most of the marshberry fields had already been trampled in the mud. One of the concrete houses lay crushed into rubble. Johnny was grateful that almost everyone was at the rocket field. He gave thanks, too, for Captain Thompson. He could see the big man marshaling tanks into an organized row. They were going to try to herd the great beasts out the open gates. Johnny turned his eyes toward the gates. Someone had manhandled one of the big ato-tube cannons into the opening, pointing it into the jungle. His friend, Rick Saunders, ran up to help. A dying rhinosaur lay not far from the muzzle of the gun. Evidently the other rhinosaurs were too sensible or too frightened to try the power of that cannon. Baba was pulling at Johnny's sleeve. "Look, Johnny, look!" Baba clicked. Johnny turned and looked toward the settlement again. A heavy duty hunting tank stood before the settlement stockade and store house. Its heavy cannon spoke once and the door dissolved. Four men leaped from the tank and ran inside. "They're stealing our claws!" Johnny cried out. Weighed down by the colony's strong box, the four men came out of the building. Inside that strong box were the colony's precious marva claws! The four hunters heaved the safe into the tank's carrier and climbed inside. With a spurt of dust, the tank rolled on. A few minutes later it had fought its way through the rhinosaurs and was passing the place where Johnny and Baba stared out of the turret. As it came up to the gate the hunting tank's manhole opened and a man emerged. He waved to Rick, standing beside the cannon. The redhaired ex-bodyguard waved back. Then he climbed up on the tank and down inside. The tank rolled on out into the jungle. Johnny stood, shocked and silent. Out that gate went the last valuable thing the colony owned! "I don't understand," Baba clicked. "I thought Rick was the colony's friend." "I did, too," Johnny said sadly. CHAPTER EIGHT _One Secret is Revealed_ It was now early evening and the Venus skies were a deep clear green. It was over an hour since the last rhinosaur had been killed or driven out. The gates had been temporarily repaired. Here and there a small building had been trodden into rubble. Johnny and Baba were still locked inside the tank which had been dragged away from the dangerous fighting. From the turret they were watching a group of men gathered outside the administration building. Johnny wished someone would come and let them out. Finally the crowd broke up. One group of men hopped on to the back of a tank and headed toward Johnny and Baba. The rest of the crowd followed on foot. "I wonder what's up," Johnny said. Baba shook his head. "I don't like the looks of it," Johnny went on. "We're in an awful pickle." He looked down at the little bear's paws. He had painted the nails again with the nail polish, but he didn't think it would do any good. The tank came rumbling to a halt beside them. The two crawled down from the turret. Johnny heard the men working on the lock. The manhole door was opened. "Come on out, Johnny." It was his father's voice. Baba jumped on his shoulder and Johnny climbed slowly out. Johnny's father and Captain Thompson were standing on top of the tank, surrounded by a crowd of grave-faced Venus pioneers. It was odd. None of the men looked angry. Johnny knew they should be very angry with him. He tried to shape words to say he'd try to make up for the trouble he'd caused, but the words would not come. Mr. Watson reached out and picked Baba from Johnny's shoulder. He lifted up one of the little bear's paws and looked at it carefully. "The claws still look black to me," he said. Disappointment, mixed with relief, came over the faces of the men. "Let me show you." Captain Thompson, not ungently, took Baba from Johnny's father. The little bear looked straight at Johnny, an odd expression in his deep blue eyes. But he didn't struggle. Captain Thompson set Baba down on the top of the tank and took one of the paws in his hands. With his fingernail he scraped at one of the claws, then another and another. He held the paw up for the men to see. The claws glowed clear blue in the evening light. "You see," he said, triumphantly, "it is just as I said. The boy has been covering them up." The crowd sighed with wonder. Captain Thompson turned back to Johnny's father. "You'd better tell the boy right away. It will be easier." Many of the crowd nodded their agreement. For the first time Johnny made out the object that Captain Thompson had been carrying. It was a small cage made of diamond-wood. Johnny's father reached out and touched him on the shoulder. "You know what happened here today, don't you, Johnny?" he asked in a grave tone. "Yes, sir," Johnny answered in a low, shamed voice. "The crop's been ruined, and those hunters stole our claws." "That's right," his father said. "And I think you also understand that if it hadn't been for you, this needn't have happened." "Yes, sir." The words were almost a whisper. Johnny felt the tears coming up into his eyes. "You can understand, then, it's up to you and us to make amends to the colony." "Yes, sir." Johnny's whisper was even lower. "Well, son, I'm sorry to do this, but I have to. I know Baba has been your pet for a long time, but you are going to have to give him up. I've just given him back to the colony. Now, get him into the cage, so we can get this over with." "But you'll kill him!" Johnny cried out. He reached down and swept the little bear into his arms. "No, son, not right away," his father answered. "The rocket captain says the colony could make some money by showing him alive on Earth before they--put him to sleep." "But you know that he'll die. Oh, Daddy, please don't!" Johnny looked up, pleading, at his father. Frederick Watson's eyes met Johnny's. They were kind but stern. He shook his head firmly. Johnny looked around him through his tears. Baba was warm and furry in his arms. The men stood about; their faces were grave and determined. Most still held ato-tubes in their hands. Even at that, Baba had a chance. Johnny began to click in the ear of the little bear. "Baba," he clicked very softly, "you can get away, over the wall by the rock. It isn't very far. I'll throw you as far as I can. If you bounce like crazy they could never hit you." But the little bear jumped to the steel tank top. "No, Johnny," he clicked. "You are my friend-pet-brother, no matter what happens." Then, just as if he had been told to go by Johnny, the little bear walked over to the cage. Captain Thompson was holding a sliding door open. Baba climbed in. He squatted there and made a little whimpering noise that was the only sound he could make beside his clicks. He waved a paw at Johnny. "The little devil acts almost human," the old guard, Jeb, said from the crowd. Only Johnny knew how true that was. "Better hustle that kid inside a tank," someone shouted. "He hasn't got any armor on." Frederick Watson's head jerked around. His eyes widened. In one motion he took Johnny into his arms and jumped to the ground. Seconds later Johnny was in a big hunting tank headed for home, a home for the first time in ten years empty of a little bouncing bear. CHAPTER NINE _The Price of a Brother_ Johnny had some tall explaining to do about his lack of armor. He was in a tight spot, for the less he let anyone know, the more chance he had to find some way of rescuing Baba. Johnny was very careful about his explanation. There might still be a way. The fact that he had been seen on top of New Plymouth Rock made his explanation easier. He simply said that he had been looking for a place to hide the little bear and, in order for Baba to help take him up the rock, he had had to chance taking off his armor. He said nothing about Baba and the arrow-birds. Being found in the jungle was harder to explain without telling a lie--but he managed it. He said that he and Baba had taken a route down that had made them land on the jungle side of the rock. It didn't explain why they were beyond the clearing, but his parents seemed to assume that he had been trying to get among the brush where he could hide from the animals. He said nothing at all about the caves in the rock. It was a pretty thin story, but his family was too relieved that he had come home alive to worry much about it. It was long past supper time when the explaining was over and his mother began to prepare a meal. Ordinarily Johnny's father would not have been home even for supper. Rocket day was a busy time for the leader of the colony. But with all the confusion, the business of the day had to be put aside. It was a strangely sad and silent house. Johnny himself was so good his parents could hardly recognize him. He had showered without being asked and changed into clean clothes. His hands were perfectly clean at the table. His mother had hidden Baba's high chair away; the little bear had always sat with them at table. It was a quiet meal. Often after the before-sleep meal Johnny and his father worked on model rockets, but this evening models were forgotten. Johnny got a book and his father busied himself with papers. But Johnny didn't read. He kept thinking of Baba, all alone in the settlement storage house, surrounded by guards. The whole area was lit up in case hunters should try to steal the little bear just as they had stolen the marva claws. The family sat in silence. Once Johnny saw his mother wipe a tear away from her eyes. He knew she liked Baba, too. But she liked him only as a pet. "Dad," he said suddenly. His father looked up from his work. "Would you--?" Johnny didn't know how to put the question he had to ask. "I mean ... well, the colony's in pretty bad shape, isn't it?" "Yes, son," his father said gravely, "it is." "The million dollars we get for Baba will help out a lot, won't it?" Johnny was very serious. "But, without it, would everybody starve to death?" "A million dollars will help the colony out," his father answered. "But even without it, nobody would starve. There are the meat fruit and berries to gather and the animals to hunt. But everyone would have a very hard time. It isn't a simple thing to keep a colony going. It is very difficult and very important. Mankind is reaching out, son, and some day we may inhabit planets of all the stars in the heavens. But only if Venus colony succeeds. It is a big thing, Johnny." Mr. Watson's voice was serious, as if he were talking to another man. Johnny was quiet a minute. "Dad," he said slowly, "in order to get that million dollars would you have mother or me"--he paused--"put to sleep?" "Johnny!" Johnny's mother broke in in a horrified voice. "That's no question to ask your father." "I've got to know, Mother. I've just got to," Johnny said earnestly, his brow wrinkled. Johnny's father looked at him strangely. "Did you really think," he asked in a tight, hurt voice, "I would do a thing like that?" "Not even Uncle Nathan?" Johnny persisted. Nathan was his mother's brother. "All right, Johnny," his father said in a firm voice. "I'll answer you. No, I wouldn't have you, your mother, _or_ your Uncle Nathan 'put to sleep' for any amount of money--for the colony or for myself. But you must understand, Johnny, you aren't the same as a little bouncing bear." "But Baba--" Johnny began. "Baba is an animal," Johnny's mother broke in. "I know how you love him. But you have to understand that your father could not do differently from what he did." She came over to Johnny and put her arm around him. "We love Baba, too, and it hurts us to give him up. Still we must. You do understand, don't you?" Johnny looked up into his mother's face and smiled. It was a very small and very weak smile, but a smile none the less. "I understand," he said, and turned back to his father. "Thanks for answering my question, Dad." Johnny felt better for the first time since Baba had been put in the cage. Now he knew just what he had to do. It was right to do it. Baba was as close to him as _any_ brother. "Do you think I could go see Baba before sleep time, Dad? You know he won't eat if I'm not there." Johnny's father looked at his mother. "It couldn't do any harm, Fred," she said. "Let the boy go. But he must be in bed soon." "All right, son," his father answered. "But remember, the whole thing is out of our hands now. You'll just have to accept what is going to happen." "O.K., Dad," Johnny said. Everything was going to be all right, but he'd need every ounce of courage he had. * * * * * A few minutes later Jeb, the old guard, let Johnny and his father into the store house. The little bear sat quietly in his cage. There were a dozen uncracked nuts on the floor. An untouched bar of chocolate lay beside him. "I'm sure glad to see you!" said old Jeb. "Ever since he got here the little critter's been sitting just like that, kind of crying to himself. He wouldn't pay attention even when I gave him the chocolate." "He'll be all right now," Johnny's father said. "It probably oughtn't to bother me so much." Jeb closed the door and stood there with them. He took off his headglobe and scratched his head. "But my partner'n me caught one of the little ones once. We watched it just waste away, crying like that all the time. I always figured we should have let it go. But then there was always the chance it'd grow up and be worth a million." He glanced down at Johnny, who was removing his armor, and came to a stumbling halt. "Sorry, kid," he said. He put his headglobe back on and went out. As soon as he saw Johnny, the little bear's ears perked up. "Hi!" he clicked. Johnny winked. Johnny's father stood there and watched them. "Remember, Johnny," he cautioned, "this is just a visit. What the colony decides in this matter goes." "I know, Dad," Johnny answered. "I'll be back in half an hour," his father said. "Get him to eat, if you can. Night will be here in a few hours and he'll sleep then." With this he opened the door and left. Johnny rushed to the cage. His hand was on the latch when the door opened again. It was old Jeb. "Sorry, son, but I got orders not to leave you alone with the critter. If he ever got out he'd be mighty hard to catch." Jeb walked over and seated himself on a box. "That's all right," Johnny said, and squatted down in front of the cage. It wasn't part of the plan for Baba to get away--yet. "Besides, he wouldn't run away while I'm here," he said. "Can't take no chances." Jeb sprawled out as if glad to be off his feet. Johnny turned to Baba. "Baba," Johnny clicked in the marva language, "can you get out of here, if you want to?" Johnny didn't like to talk in the clicking language with Jeb around, but there was no avoiding it. "Yes," the little bear answered after a time. But then he whimpered again. "Doggone it, stop that!" Johnny said in English. Then he clicked, "If things work out right, you aren't going to have to go to Earth _or_ get killed." "But how?" Baba asked. He seemed to revive a little. "If I got out and came to you they'd just bring me back here." "I know, but they don't think you're smart enough to do anything else. They don't know anything except that we were up on the rock." The little bear grinned. Then suddenly he began to sniff. He looked all around him, found the chocolate and began to stuff it into his mouth, making loud smacking noises. Johnny gave a sigh of relief. Baba was on the mend. "Now, listen, we've gotta make plans." "But what can we do, if they know we were on the rock?" Baba clicked through a mouthful of chocolate mixed with nuts--his favorite combination. Johnny took a deep breath. "We could run away into the jungle!" he clicked. He jumped when Jeb moved away from his box. "That's quite a racket you two're making." Jeb walked over and peered at them from under jutting grey eyebrows. "Well, you've got the little devil to eatin'!" He smiled and waved at Baba. Baba waved back and the guard laughed. "It's a pity, that what it is. It's just a pity you're worth so much money!" He went back to his seat. "But, Johnny," Baba clicked, "you couldn't live in the jungle." "_You_ can't live _here_--or on Earth. Sooner or later they're going to--well, they're going to want your claws and teeth. Out there we would have a chance. Why, we might even find some of the--" He put in the word 'wild' in English, for there was no word for it in the clicking language, "--marvas, and we could live with them." "No!" Baba interrupted. "You might be killed. I can make the arrow-birds go away, but there are the horned snakes and the leopards and rhinosaurs and...." "Wasn't that old rhinosaur about to go away?" Johnny broke in. "Just because you said so?" "Maybe," Baba admitted. "He stopped a second. But then we don't know for sure!" "I've got to take the chance. I've just got to!" Johnny insisted. "I can't let them take you away and use you for making somebody's rings or a mess of plastic. Remember that song you sang." Johnny tried to sing the little lullaby that Baba had sung on the top of New Plymouth Rock. The little bear grinned and put his paws over his ears. "The words are right," he said, "but the tune is all wrong. Listen!" The little bear sang the song that was like the roll of a mockingbird's call. "That's right pretty," Jeb said from his box. "I'd heard men say that the critters sang, but never did hear one myself. Old hunter friend of mine said he came on a marva once singing to her little ones that way. It was so pretty he stopped to listen and by gum if she didn't smell him and bounce off 'fore he could draw a bead on her." "Baba sings real well--when he's happy," Johnny said, and turned back to Baba. "And you sing true, too, Baba," he clicked. "All right," the little bear clicked. "How will we do it?" The plan came out in a rush. Johnny had it all worked out. "It's Venus evening now," Johnny said, "and we're supposed to be in a sleep period. That means there won't be too many people up but guards. I'll take some food for me and some matches and a flashlight and some other things." He paused. "They leave you alone in here, don't they?" "Yes," clicked Baba. "Do you think you can cut a hole in the bottom of the cage?" Johnny asked. "Easy!" The little bear touched a bar with his claws. "Good. When you're out, dig a hole in the floor. But be careful. They have guards walking all around, and they already have lights rigged up. The switch is in between the double doors. Get your escape holes all made, turn out the lights, and then scoot! I'll be waiting for you by the rock. O.K.?" The little bear nodded. "We'll have to find a place to be when it gets dark," he clicked. Baba didn't sleep as people did, but during the four day period of darkness he had to sleep most of the time. "We'll find some place," Johnny clicked. "Now, listen. I'll try to get some sleep and I'll be ready in five hours. Don't try to get out before then. My folks will be asleep and I can slip out of the house. If it takes you longer, I'll wait." "Leave it to me," Baba said. They had everything settled and were playing together through the bars of the cage when Johnny's father came after him. "Time for bed, son," his father said. "Say goodbye, now." Johnny got into his armor, said goodnight to Jeb and followed his father outside. In the deep green twilight every building of the settlement stood out sharp and clear. A cool breeze was coming up. Johnny looked over to New Plymouth Rock. Behind that towering rock lay the vast and menacing jungle. CHAPTER TEN _Alone in the Jungle_ Johnny was afraid. Behind a boulder by New Plymouth Rock, he had been sitting and waiting for Baba for almost one hour. It was too long a time to wait with nothing to do but imagine what might happen in the jungle. Johnny was dressed for the cold night to come in a synthetic fur parka. Strapped on his back was a pack containing food and jungle equipment. Beside him was Baba's harness. He was very tired and sleepy. He leaned over and peeked cautiously from behind the boulder. The lights around the storage shed were still on. He wondered what was keeping Baba. He made himself comfortable again and listened to the night sounds. He listened hard for any sound of rhinosaurs outside. There was only the sigh of wind through the trampled marshberries. As he listened, his head nodded down on his breast, and his eyes closed. He wished Baba would come. Maybe he couldn't make it. Maybe he.... But his thought trailed off into a dream. He was up in the meat tree being attacked by a rhinosaur standing twice as high as the tree. Far away someone began shooting at the rhinosaur. Then the tree was being shaken back and forth. Baba was clicking something in the dream Johnny couldn't understand. "Wake up, Johnny! Wake up!" Johnny's head jerked up. The shaking was real. It was Baba pushing his shoulder. The shooting was real too. Men were running about the settlement with flashlights. It was hard to see for any distance through the green twilight which would last for many hours longer. "Hurry, Johnny!" Baba clicked. "O.K." Johnny said. He was still dazed with sleep as he helped Baba struggle into his harness. As soon as the harness was on, they began to run deeper among the boulders. Hundreds of small stones under their feet made a sound like a landslide. They stopped still, listening. The men had not heard. "Maybe we'd better go straight up the main rock," Johnny said. Baba nodded. Both knew it would be harder work, but safer. Johnny tested the straps on Baba's harness. There was no time to tie himself on. This time it was going to be harder for both of them. Baba didn't dare bounce, so they started right from the foot of the rock. In the half light it was not likely that the men would see them. Even if they did, there was a good chance they would hold their fire when they saw Johnny. If so, the two of them could still get away. Oddly, Johnny's fear was gone. From below them came the sound of a man moving among the rocks. "Quiet, Baba," Johnny whispered. Baba stopped. Jeb flashed his light among the rocks and up along the main rock. For a fraction of a second the light was full on them. But it passed by without pausing. "Nothing over here!" Jeb called out in a loud voice. "Dang critter must have got clear away." There was the sound of footsteps hurrying toward them. Johnny and Baba froze to the rock. "Hey, you two," Jeb's voice came softly, "I don't know what you're aimin' to do, but you'd better hurry up about it. They're fixin' to mount searchlights on the wall." Johnny was flabbergasted. The old hunter was helping them! There was a chuckle from below. "Hurry up, now. I don't want no more baby marva a-haunting me like the one I told you about." "Thanks," Johnny whispered. "Golly, thanks! Come on, Baba," he clicked, turning his head back to the little bear. Baba began to scurry along up the rocks once more. "Just one thing more," the whisper followed them. "Ain't that clickin' the way those critters got of talking?" "Yes," Johnny answered. "I figgered it, by gosh!" Jeb chuckled deep in his throat. "I just knew you was fixin' up a getaway. Good luck, you two!" "Goodbye," Johnny said. "You are a good man," Baba clicked. "A true friend!" "Baba said you are a good man and a true friend," Johnny whispered. "Thank you, Baba," the old man said. Then he was gone. Baba and Johnny began climbing in earnest now. Johnny couldn't let himself get tired. As silently as they could, they went on and on. They climbed for what seemed an hour. Actually it was fifteen minutes later when they reached the ledge leading to the cave in the rock. They were barely inside when search lights cut through the twilight and began to play on the rock. The two sat down to rest, but not for long. Soon they were tearing down the pile of rocks at the back of the cave so they could get into the main caverns. They had talked about staying the night within the inner rooms, but decided it was too dangerous. Sooner or later the colonists were bound to drop someone from a helicopter to search for Baba on top of the rock; and there was too great a chance the entrance would be discovered. Once inside the main caverns, the first job was to make their way through the long passageways to the top of the rock to block the entrance they had made earlier in the day. It took precious time, but they had to do it. They almost didn't make it, for as they were filling in the last stone at the cave mouth they heard the sound of 'copter motors. Johnny grabbed Baba's harness, and down the long winding passageways they went, full tilt. Soon they were picking their way about the brush near the exit of the long, damp tunnel. Through the green twilight they could see the searchlights brightening New Plymouth Rock. Baba was sniffing the air. Johnny listened carefully for the sound of rhinosaurs or of tanks. There was no evidence of either man or animal. "We made it, Grandfather Bear!" Johnny said aloud to Baba. "You're safe!" Baba grinned. "No rhinosaurs around either," he clicked. "We'd better hurry." "Let's stick close to trees for a while--just in case," Johnny suggested. Only heavy brush surrounded them. "We'd better get to a tank path," Baba clicked, "or we won't get very far very fast." Johnny nodded. He settled his pack on his shoulder and the two moved forward. Using Johnny's compass they cut through the brush and soon came to a tank path. It was very still. There was no sound but the wind rustling the trees. All around them were trees and brush and pools of deep green shadow. The first two miles were the easiest. In the absence of rhinosaurs, there was nothing much to fear here but arrow-birds, and they would soon be heading for their nests. Most of the Venus animals kept well away from the settlement. Twice a flight of arrow-birds came shrieking down at them, and twice Baba's clicks sent them whirring on their way. Otherwise the jungle was empty of life. It was a relatively safe zone. But in order to make sure of Baba's safety, they would have to go on into an area of teeming life. Johnny thought of the comfort and safety of the settlement, of the love and protection his parents had given him. He had left a note for his parents. "I am sorry to take Baba away since he is worth so much to the colony," he had written. "But he is just like a brother to me. Don't worry. I will be safe with Baba." He hoped they would understand. Though he had bravely told his parents not to worry, here in the jungle, Johnny, himself, was already frightened and very homesick. "Baba," he said suddenly, "it's going to be hard being away from Mom and Pop." They were walking now through the thick grove of meat trees that edged a forest of diamond-woods that loomed up in the distance. "Yes," Baba clicked, "I know." "Well, I was thinking," Johnny continued, "that after we find your people, maybe after a month or so, I could go back home. Later I could come for visits and things." Johnny watched Baba from the corners of his eyes to see how the little bear would take to the idea. For a while, Baba bounded along beside Johnny, his eyes straight ahead. "I know what it's like being without a mother and father," the little bear clicked so softly Johnny could hardly hear him. "It happened long ago, but I remember how it was at first. I can't bear to think of your going away. But we will see what happens." Baba turned toward Johnny. "I think you shouldn't have come." Johnny was sorry for having brought up the subject. "Let's skip it," he said. "Don't be an unhappy old grandfather bear," he joked. "Think about the nuts you'll find right ahead." The nuts were not really very close. It took a good deal of hiking before the tank trail began to wind among gigantic trees. Bigger than Earth redwoods, they rose almost like mountains around them. Here even the wind did not enter, and beneath their feet was a cushion of fine leaves. All was silence. Johnny was glad to rest his feet while Baba gathered a few nuts. Then they trudged on. Hours later they emerged from the darkness of the diamond-wood forest into the green twilight of the surrounding meat trees. Johnny was exhausted. A sudden coughing roar in the distance sent a shiver up Johnny's back and brought them to an abrupt halt. It was a saber-tooth leopard! Johnny heard a slight stir of movement in the underbrush. About them, birds of all kinds twittered and chirped, readying themselves for the long darkness of Venus night. They were out of the safety zone. Though many hours had gone by, it was still Venus evening. He and Baba had to push on into the deadly part of the jungle before they could rest. The leopard's roar had come from far away and there was no immediate danger, but from that time on the two watched every step they took. A faint breeze blew in their faces. That was good. Johnny's scent would not be blown to any of the animals. Johnny set his voice to click, not to speak. He had to try to forget human speech, and talk always like Baba. He spoke to Baba constantly in the marva language, and Baba corrected him when he let his clicks become high pitched as Baba's once had been. The meat tree grove was thinning out. The tank tracks were getting fainter and fainter. Vines wound around the trees and bushes. On the vines great orange flowers seemed to burn with color in the green light. Johnny watched the flowers carefully because one might really be a scarlet ape. Men called these flowers monkey flowers since they were so near the color of those small apes that lived on the edge of meat tree groves. As the two adventurers walked, the noises of animals became louder and more numerous. A large bird fluttered across their path and went shrieking ahead of them. Then there was sudden silence. They stopped. Baba hurriedly clicked loudly into the silence, "Friend-pets, friend-pets, bother--" He did not have time to finish the sentence. Johnny was struck suddenly on the back and sent sprawling on his face. A hundred tiny hands seemed to be pulling at his hair. He felt a rip of cloth and then a sharp pain as a small claw cut into his back. Baba was clicking loudly. As suddenly as he was struck down, the attack on him stopped. Dazed, he painfully got to his hands and knees. "Friend-pets, bother us not. Bother us not!" Baba was repeating over and over again as loudly as he could. Johnny's eyes widened. Surrounding them were hundreds of tiny monkeys no more than eight inches high. Scarlet red in color, they sat perfectly still, their eyes fixed on Johnny and Baba. Sitting high on a nearby bush one of the little apes held a packet of Johnny's food in its tiny hands. Johnny stood up to his full height and a low growl went up from the animals. The monkey with Johnny's packet hurled it at Johnny with surprising strength. Johnny made a quick catch. "Thank you," Johnny clicked in the marva tongue. The monkeys chattered excitedly. "Thank you, friend-pet." "Give it something," Baba clicked. "Oh, I'm afraid, Johnny. They hate you so much--I can feel it." Johnny knew why. The skins of these animals were much in fashion for coats back on Earth. Johnny reached down for his knife to cut the strings of the packet. As the knife came in sight a menacing growl went up. As Johnny and Baba stood there, more and more of the monkeys leaped from the bushes to join the crowd. The whole path was covered; the trees seemed to be filled with red flowers. Some of the new-comers were intent upon rushing Johnny when the knife glittered in the half light. But Baba stopped them with his sharp, repeated commands. Johnny cut the packet open. Among other things, a large bag of candy was inside. He had raided the cupboard well. "Come here," Johnny clicked, as firmly as he could manage. "Friend-pet, come here." He pointed at the little creature who had thrown the package at him. Showing its teeth and growling faintly, the monkey bounded forward. Johnny held out a piece of candy to it. It sidled up, snatched the candy, and ran back to the others. It sniffed at the sweet, chattering wildly. Then its long black tongue went out and licked it. The monkey's eyes widened and it popped the candy into its mouth, smacking its lips. Again Johnny was almost knocked down. He was surrounded, climbed over, patted, peered at, and deafened by chatter. In a few seconds not a piece was left. But the monkeys no longer growled. "Go away! Go away!" Baba clicked. Reluctantly the animals parted from Johnny and took to the trees along the path. The branches swayed under them as they chattered among themselves. Suddenly, as quickly and mysteriously as they had appeared, the monkeys were gone. Something was wrong! Johnny's fear returned with the sense that something was watching him. Hardly daring to, he looked behind him. There in the half-darkness, glowed three pairs of green eyes. Crouched ready to spring, a leopardess was watching them, her two cubs beside her. How long they had been watching, Johnny never knew. He froze in his tracks. Baba had not looked around. "Friend-pets, bother us not, bother us not!" Baba was clicking loudly in preparation for going forward. As Johnny watched, the leopard, followed by her cubs, slipped into the jungle. "You didn't see her," Johnny clicked. "There was a leopardess and two cubs." Baba turned in the direction toward which Johnny was pointing. "We'd better go back," he clicked. "No," Johnny insisted bravely. "She and her cubs went away when you began to talk." "Not _far_ away." Baba sniffed the air. "I can smell them. I smell rain too." "Then we'd better find shelter. C'mon. Maybe we better take a path over to the right, away from the tank trail," Johnny suggested. "The leopardess went the other way." Baba nodded. They trudged on and took the first animal trail to the right. Baba went slightly ahead, crying "Friend-pets, bother us not!" over and over again. It was almost a chorus now. Most of the time Baba clicked it, but when he got tired Johnny took over for a while. They never ceased repeating the magical words. Once an antelope walked by their sides a few yards off, but he soon bounded away. Shortly afterward Johnny thought he saw a large black shadow moving in the deep brush. They walked steadily and found nothing but brush land. Then, not a hundred yards from them, a river shone through the deepening twilight. The shine of the water stopped them. They had proved they could control some of the animals, possibly even the leopards and rhinosaurs. But, if a river snake struck without warning as the monkeys had done, it would be the end of Johnny. While Johnny stood where he was, Baba went forward, chanting the cry of "Bother us not" as he went. When he returned he looked worried. "It is too dangerous to try to swim," he clicked. "In some places the branches of the trees on this side almost touch branches of the trees on the other side. If we keep on the path, maybe we can find a place where it would be safe to climb over." The path they were on turned and followed the river. They walked on for a few minutes. Baba stopped again, sniffing the air. "I don't like it," he clicked. "The leopards are close again." They moved forward cautiously, but when minutes passed and no attack came they walked with more confidence. The magic formula of clicks seemed to be working. Though nothing bothered them, they knew from rustling noises and from cries that animals were all about them. Nowhere could they find a place where the tree branches made a bridge across the river. Nowhere could they find a place of refuge. The trail began to lead away from the river toward a little hill that stood in black outline against the almost darkened sky. Big Venus fireflies had begun to come out, sparkling like so many blue stars. The two weary travelers followed the path, hoping it would lead back to the river. It ended completely at the base of the small rocky hill. So tired he almost wanted to cry, Johnny sat down in the middle of the path. Then he noticed a spot of deeper darkness among the rocks. He jumped to his feet. "Hey, Baba," he said, "it looks like a cave! Come on!" The two of them hurried forward. A nice comfortable cave was just what they were looking for! They were within a few yards of the cave, when they heard a crashing noise from the underbrush and the pad of soft footsteps. A leopardess leaped in front of them, cutting them off from the cave. The big cat growled low, and two cubs scuttled through the entrance. The leopardess sat back on her haunches in the mouth of the cave, her eyes two gold-green lights burning in the dark green of the late twilight. Slightly larger than an Earth lion, the Venus sabre-tooth leopard is coal black, marked with golden spots. Her two tusk-like fangs show why leopards are among the most deadly fighters of all the Venus animals. Baba began clicking again. Johnny stood stock still. The leopardess watched them. She looked as if she might spring at any moment. Then, with a ripple of her powerful shoulder muscles, she lay down in the mouth of the cave. "Let's go before she changes her mind and attacks," Johnny said. "No, wait!" Baba said. "You stay here." Slowly Baba walked up to the spot where the big cat was lying, clicking as he went. She appeared to pay no attention to him, but when he was right beside her, she stood up. She made a low rumbling in her throat that sounded strangely like a purr. When Baba paused, the leopardess made a little coughing sound. The two cubs, who were as large as collie dogs, came tumbling out of the cave, their tongues hanging out. They came up to Baba, cocking their heads. They rubbed themselves in a friendly way against the little bear. "Come on, Johnny," Baba clicked. "I think we have a home." His heart in his mouth, Johnny walked forward. "Friend-pet," he clicked firmly, "I am your friend." Repeating this, he walked straight up to the deadly beast. He reached out a trembling hand and patted the ugly fanged head. The creature stood rigid. But as he petted her, she relaxed and the purring noise began in the back of her throat. The big head moved around. Her mouth opened slightly and she licked his hand. She made a little coughing noise and the cubs came up to him. He petted them, too, and looked at Baba. "Come on," said the little bear, "let's see what the leopard's house is like." Together the two explored the inside of the cave with the help of Johnny's flashlight. It was surprisingly clean. The big cat had dragged in straw, which was arranged thickly over part of the floor. "It sure looks like it would make a good bed," Johnny said. He was so tired; so much had happened. Trader Harkness and the meat fruit, the climbing of New Plymouth Rock, the rhinosaur raid and Rick's betrayal, and the escape into the jungle. Johnny ate a few antelope berries to quench his thirst, but nothing more. He arranged a place for himself on the dried grass and curled up. He was almost asleep, when he heard the big cat come into that part of the cave. He opened his eyes to see the sabre-tooth leopard looming over him. For a second he was afraid. Then, just as a house cat will do, she pushed her paws back and forth into the straw, circled a few times, and lay down right by his head, pushing him aside. He rearranged his bed and lay his head against her soft flank. With his head pillowed against a sabre-tooth leopard, Johnny Watson slipped off to sleep. CHAPTER ELEVEN _The Friends are Separated_ Johnny was hot and sweaty. He was glad to see the cool dark cave ahead. It was like home to him by now. The mother leopard was lying in front of the cave, and the two cubs came running to greet them. "Hi, Pat. Hi, Mike," he called. They came up to be petted. "They seem happy to see us," Baba clicked as he bounced along. "And I'm glad to see them," Johnny said. "Golly, I'm hot." Baba and he had just been down the river trying to find a place where they might cross. Immediately after the long Venus night was over, they had gone exploring in hopes of finding a colony of wild marva nearby. But the only diamond-wood groves close to the cave were still too close to the settlement. The marva must have left them because of the danger. The two had gathered a good supply of nuts for Baba, but otherwise the trip had been useless. Though they were still afraid of the horned river snakes, there was no way of avoiding crossing the river. If they went downstream they would soon be in the rhinosaur marshes. Upstream the river curved back toward the colony. Johnny and Baba had spent the whole long night in the cave and Johnny had got to know the leopard family quite well. He had discovered they, too, had something like a language. It was made up of different kinds of growls. Each growl meant something, but there weren't many of them. The mother leopard could say things like "Come," or "Go" to her kittens. She had a different growl for each of them, though Johnny named them Pat and Mike. Throughout the time Baba was asleep Johnny had practiced these growls, until he could talk a little in the leopard language. He had also taught the little ones to like meat fruit roasted over the open fire he had had to light to keep warm. All three cats had been afraid of the fire when he had first lit it. They had soon learned it was harmless if they didn't step into it. They were very smart animals, but by no means as smart as Baba. Baba was just as clever as a person. All the rest of the animals now seemed friendly, too. Johnny thought he knew why. Not only the leopards, but all the animals could talk! They couldn't say much, but just enough to tell one another Johnny wouldn't hurt them. And all of them could understand the marva language. He and Baba talked about this, but they weren't yet ready to take a chance on river snakes. The snakes stayed deep in the water and struck before they could be seen. It didn't seem likely that they would have learned Johnny was a friend. Baba was going to go down to the river by himself. Perhaps he could find one of the horned snakes and bring it back with him. Then Johnny could make friends with it. If what Johnny thought was true, then the snake would tell the others and he and Baba could float safely across the river on a log they had found. After patting the mother leopard on the head, Johnny took off his pack and laid it in the mouth of the cave. "I think I'll go over to the waterfall and have a shower," he said. "That's not such a good idea," Baba said. "Stay here. I won't be gone long." "Oh, stop worrying, Grandfather!" Johnny laughed. He was stripping himself down to his shorts. The three leopards sat on their haunches watching him. They were fascinated by his clothes. The first time he had taken them off they had been almost afraid of him. "I'll take Mama Leopard along with me for a guard," Johnny said. "You tell her, Baba. Maybe I can growl better than you, but she still seems to do everything you say." Baba clicked directions to the leopard. She was to go along with Johnny and protect him. When Baba was through clicking, the mother leopard came over and licked Johnny, making a growling sound that meant she understood. Then with a wave of his paw, Baba bounced away toward the river. Johnny was happy to see him go. Baba, himself, had suggested that the trip be taken. It was the first time he had ever offered to leave Johnny for such a long time. Johnny loved the little bear, and it was fun in the jungle, but he couldn't help wishing he were home. The waterfall was not much of a waterfall. A little way from the leopard's cave was a small spring high up in the rocks. A tiny stream of water fell about ten feet making a great spray and quite a little noise. It made a wonderful shower. The mother leopard lay on the rocks below while Johnny climbed up to the waterfall. Johnny danced about as the cool water hit his hot dusty skin. It felt wonderful running all over him. Then he walked into a pool and splashed happily. Then Johnny began to sing. With him the little waterfall sang a tinkling, merry tune that blotted out even the chatter of the birds in the surrounding trees. It did not blot out a coughing roar that came from the mother leopard. Johnny knew that sound. It meant _come_! Johnny stopped singing and looked down. The leopardess was on her feet now, looking into the sky. Johnny looked too. A helicopter floated soundlessly overhead, its jets off. Johnny looked around for some place to hide. There was none. The mother leopard crouched. Her muscles rippled under her black and gold skin. In one mighty spring she was beside him. Before Johnny knew what was happening, her great jaws opened--and closed around him. The long sabre teeth barely touched his skin. With no more effort than if she were carrying a feather, she leaped through the air with Johnny in her mouth. When she landed Johnny's feet thumped painfully against a rock. Where she was holding him about the middle in her teeth, he was unharmed. Johnny heard the roar of gunfire as the helicopter's motors were switched on. Still carrying Johnny in her jaws, the mother leopard screamed in pain. Johnny was tumbled to the ground, half dazed. A very shaken Johnny watched the mother leopard run away a short distance, then turn and spring back toward him. A second later she was standing over Johnny, putting her body between him and the helicopter. She roared her defiance at the machine. Johnny marveled at her courage. She started to pick him up again. The helicopter was getting into a position where it could hit the big cat without hitting Johnny. In a few seconds the courageous animal would be dead. "Run, friend-pet!" he clicked loudly. "Run! They won't hurt me. Run!" She looked down at him and growled in a questioning way. Her muscles tensed, and, with a great spring, she was gone. The guns roared, but the leopard's last bound carried her safely into the brush. Before Johnny could get to his feet the 'copter was beside him. Two men in armor and headglobes jumped out. "Hurry," yelled the pilot from inside. "You just grazed the leopard." One man grabbed Johnny by the heels, the other by his shoulders. With one swing he was tossed heavily onto the floor of the 'copter. The two men jumped in after him. The armored door clanged closed. The motors roared and they were going straight up into the sky. Johnny lay quietly on the floor for some moments; he was still dazed by his fall--and by the sudden turn of events. "That leopard was crazy," one of the men was saying. "I never saw one come back like that, except for a cub!" Johnny looked up into the face of the speaker. It was a thin, narrow face with full red lips and small black eyes. Johnny didn't know him. "That was a narrow squeak you had," the hunter said to Johnny, in a high, nasal voice. "Two minutes later you'd have been leopard food. Are you hurt?" Johnny sat up slowly, moving his arms and legs. "Uh uh," he said. With a whine of the motors the 'copter went into a hover. It floated over the spot where they had picked up Johnny. "What in the name of all the moon devils were you doing out there like that--stark naked and no armor?" "Taking a bath." Johnny was too bewildered to make up an excuse. The man raised his black eyes to heaven and looked at his companion. "Crazy!" he muttered. "But, kid," he addressed Johnny, "what made--" "Skip it!" the pilot said, in a low hard voice. The black-eyed man stopped abruptly. Johnny decided the pilot must be the leader. The man turned around and looked at Johnny. He was a large man, slope-shouldered but powerful. His blond hair was slicked down against his head. Two long red scars cut across a white heavy-jawed face. His eyes were so pale they were almost white. "Where's the bear?" he snapped. Johnny was struck silent. They were after Baba! "Come on, kid," the low voice came again, "where's the bear?" "He ran away." Johnny blurted out the first thing he could think of. "I've had an awful time. We got lost in the jungle and he ran away, right at first. I lit fires to attract attention and keep off animals, and the rains put them out and my matches got wet. I've had an awful time, and...." "You ain't seen nothing of the bear?" the scar-faced pilot cut in. Johnny crossed his fingers carefully and looked the big man straight in the eyes. "Not since right at first!" The pale eyes bored into his. Johnny's eyes dropped down. "The kid's lying!" the big man said to the others, and turned back to Johnny. "O.K., kid, let's have it straight now!" But no matter how much they questioned him or how they threatened, Johnny insisted he did not know where Baba was. Finally Ed, the blond scar-faced leader, gave up. He turned to the others. "You guys search the ground," he commanded, "while I call in to the boss." He turned and dialed the radio telephone on the instrument board of the 'copter. "Hello," he said, "I want to speak to the boss." There was a pause. "Hello," he said again. "We got the kid--found him where Stevenson thought he saw the fire." Johnny heard a voice coming back over the instrument. He thought he recognized it, but he couldn't make out any words. "No," the pilot spoke into the instrument, "the kid says the bear ran away, but I think he's lying. We're going to search from the plane. Can't send anybody down because of the leopards. One had the kid when we found him." There was another pause. "No, not hurt. When we're finished I'll drop him at the colony." There was a long pause. Johnny caught the words, "if I know that bear," and then there was more he couldn't catch. "That's a smart idea," the scar-faced man said. "We'll do just what you said. O.K. Be seeing you!" The pilot turned back to the other two, who had binoculars trained down into the jungle. "See anything, Barney?" "Not a thing, Ed!" the black-eyed man replied. "You, Shorty?" The other man shook his head. "Not even a bird." For over an hour they searched. While they were searching, Ed, the pilot, put in another call and told someone else what had happened. He hinted that even if they didn't find the bear, there was still a way they might get their hands on him. Johnny sat with his fists clenched. He knew they would shoot if Baba showed himself. After an hour went by and the 'copter had gone over every foot of the surrounding territory, the men had to give up because they were running low on fuel. As they went higher up, Johnny peered out. The 'copter veered Venus east--away from the colony. At that moment Johnny's heart sank. The hunters weren't taking him home! Baba would have seen the 'copter come and go. The little bear would think anyone finding Johnny would take him back to the settlement. Johnny knew just what the little bear would do. He would go back to the settlement looking for Johnny! Johnny had succeeded in keeping those hunters from getting Baba; now the colonists would get him. Or would they? Suddenly Johnny knew whose voice that had been on the radio telephone. The voice was that of the trader, Willard Harkness! CHAPTER TWELVE _The Price of a Boy_ They were in the air over two hours, traveling at maximum speed, before they arrived at their destination. This turned out to be a small cabin, surrounded by the usual high wall, with a space inside the wall for a helicopter and a tank. It was a hunters' hideout entirely hidden from view by diamond-wood trees. The pilot had had to work his way through branches and then fly for a time between the trunks of the great trees before hovering in for a landing. A man was standing in the yard waiting for them when they landed. As soon as Ed shut off the 'copter's motor, the man who was waiting for them yelled, "No arrow-birds that I can see. Tell the kid to run for it." The man had been informed about him by the helicopter's radio. "O.K., kid, scoot!" Ed jabbed Johnny in the ribs. Johnny scooted. The lodge door slammed behind him and he opened the inner door. The large central room was surprisingly neat. The floor was bare but polished. Some hunting trophies were on the windowless walls. Chained on a perch in one corner of the room, a miserable little scarlet ape sat huddled up, with its chin upon its knees. When it saw Johnny it screamed and chattered. Johnny walked toward it, about to click a greeting. "Better watch out!" A red head was thrust from the door of another room. "Ed's monkey is meaner than he is." It was Rick Saunders. "Glad to see you safe!" The big redhaired man grinned easily, and waved. "Hullo," Johnny said. He didn't smile. If Rick were here, it meant only one thing. These were the same men who had stolen the colony's marva claws! He all but glared at Rick Saunders standing in the inner doorway. "You don't seem too happy about being rescued," Rick said with a laugh. "I wasn't rescued. I...." Johnny stopped. He knew he shouldn't have said that. Rick's eyebrows went up. "It seems I heard something about a leopard." "Well, I guess I was rescued--sorta," Johnny admitted lamely. "I guess you were!" Rick paused, looking at Johnny. "You sure don't sound very friendly." "I don't like thieves and traitors," Johnny said defiantly. "Wait a minute!" Rick began. At that moment the four hunters entered the room, cutting off the rest of Rick's sentence. The scarred-faced leader spoke to Rick. "You know you're not allowed in here. Get out!" His voice was low and threatening. Rick turned to go. "Hold it," called Barney, the narrow-faced hunter. "Carry this in to the kitchen." He dropped a haunch of antelope on the floor. His face set and calm, Rick walked slowly past Johnny and hoisted the meat to his shoulder. "Any other orders?" he asked quietly. "Yep!" Ed said. "Take the kid with you. Rustle him up clothes of some kind. Then you can put him to work helping you." "Come on, Johnny." Rick put his hand on Johnny's shoulder and started for the door. Johnny followed him, shrugging off the friendly hand. The kitchen was even neater than the main room. As soon as they entered the room, Rick tossed the haunch of antelope into the sink. He turned, faced Johnny, and grasped the boy's shoulders with his big freckled hands. He seemed angry. "What's this thieves-and-traitors business mean?" he demanded. "First you pretended to be on our side," Johnny answered, "and then you let the rhinosaurs get in so's those hunters could steal our marva claws." "So that's what you think," Rick said. He regarded Johnny gravely. "Does the rest of the colony think that, too?" Johnny nodded. "Take a good look at me, Johnny." Rick touched a cloth tied around his middle like an apron. "I'm cook and housekeeper here, not one of the gang. I wasn't pretending anything, and I didn't _let_ any rhinosaurs inside. I came with these outlaws because they had their tank guns leveled on me." "But why did they do that?" Johnny demanded. "Harkness' orders," Rick replied. "Remember his threat?" "I sure do!" Johnny said. His eyes grew wide. "I was right," he went on. "I _thought_ Mr. Harkness was the boss those hunters called." "He sure is the boss," Rick said. "He's given out word he'll pay for any information about you and Baba. Any information he gets he passes on to this bunch. The gang has to work for him so he'll market their stolen claws and arrange their passage to Earth. Why he's even offering to pay double for Baba just to prevent the colony from getting him." "Golly!" Johnny breathed. "He really must be sore at us." Johnny sat down on a kitchen stool. It was cold against his bare bottom. He looked up at Rick. "Gosh, I'm sorry, Rick. I mean about thinking you were--well you know." "That's all right, Johnny." Rick was smiling now. "I'll admit it did look bad. Let's forget it and get you into some clothes. We have a meal to fix." Johnny jumped up. With a friend beside him things didn't seem quite as bad. Helped by a pair of scissors, Rick soon had him into a pair of cut down trousers and a baggy shirt. As soon as the clothes were on, the two started preparing the meal. As they worked, Johnny questioned Rick about what had happened to him. Outside of beating him up once, the hunters hadn't treated him too badly. He was being saved for Trader Harkness. They made Rick stay in the kitchen and wouldn't let him into the main room except to clean it up, and then kept a gun on him. The gang kept him from escaping by a very simple means--they locked up the rhinosaur-hide armor in a closet. Ed kept the closet keys, as well as the keys to the tank and helicopter, fastened to his wrist. Rick had been watching carefully but had not seen one chance to escape. As Johnny served the meal to the outlaw hunters, he looked the room over carefully. When the men weren't looking, he clicked a greeting to the little scarlet ape. It immediately became quite excited. A plan for escape began to shape itself in Johnny's mind. He said nothing to Rick, however. After the outlaws had eaten, Johnny and Rick had their meal. Rick thought it strange, but Johnny couldn't bring himself to eat any of the antelope; he remembered all too well the tiny antelope leader he had held in his hand. When they were finished and had washed the dishes, Johnny was all too glad for a blanket thrown on the kitchen floor--the same kind of bed Rick had. Johnny tried to push away his fears for Baba, but it was a long time before he could get to sleep. It seemed only minutes later when he was rudely awakened by a rough blow on his shoulder. Actually it was ten hours later, as he could see by the clock above the stove. Johnny reared up to see Ed standing over him, a smile on his thin lips, his pale eyes jubilant. "Get up and get your clothes on," he ordered. "We're going places." Johnny jumped up and reached for the baggy clothes Rick had made him. "Come on in when you're ready and don't waste any time about it," Ed directed, and strode back into the other room. Johnny slipped on the pants and was soon stuffing in the shirt tails of the oversized shirt. Rick stood by the stove and watched, sympathy in his eyes. "Baba," he said slowly, "arrived at the colony an hour ago. I was listening at the door when the call came from Harkness. These guys are planning--" "Come on!" Ed stuck his head in through the door and cut Rick off. Numb with worry, Johnny followed Ed into the main room. "Better wrap him up in something," the outlaw called Barney said, his narrow face twisted in a strange grin. "We can't let the arrow-birds get him now." Johnny stood while they strapped man-sized armor on him and put a headglobe on his head. He followed Ed out of the door and into the helicopter. The outlaw leader seated Johnny beside him, switched on the motor, and they roared away. "Where we going?" Johnny asked. "You'll find out," Ed snapped. "Keep quiet till I tell you to talk!" They flew on for almost an hour. Then Ed set the helicopter controls on automatic hover and snapped the radio telephone on. He dialed a number. Johnny saw that the number was that of Colony Headquarters. "Hello." Ed made his voice high and nasal. "I have information concerning Johnny Watson. Let me speak to his father." The slick-haired blond man put his hand over the telephone mouthpiece. He grabbed Johnny by the collar and stared directly into his eyes. "Listen," he said, "when your father comes on, I want you to speak to him. Tell him you were rescued by us and we've treated you O.K. Understand?" Johnny nodded, his mouth dry. "I'll tell him what happened," Johnny said. He didn't understand why Ed was making such a fuss about it. "Hello. Hello. This is Frederick Watson." Johnny was thrilled by the sound of his father's voice over the telephone. "Hello, Mr. Watson," Ed said in the fake voice. "We've found your boy and here he is." Ed handed Johnny the telephone, his hand over the mouthpiece again. "Remember!" he said in a threatening voice. "Hello, dad!" Johnny said into the telephone. "I'm safe all right." "Thank God!" his father's voice replied. "I was rescued by these men and outside of making me wash dishes and sleep on the floor, they've treated me fine. I'm--" Ed took the telephone away from him in mid-sentence. "But where are you, Johnny?" Johnny could still hear his father's voice. "Right now," Ed said into the telephone, "Johnny's up in a 'copter. You needn't try to get a direction finder on us. Rescuing this boy cost us a lot and we gotta be sure you'll pay us for it." "I offered a reward." Mr. Watson's voice was anxious. "It ain't enough," Ed said. "We lost a tank and a 'copter getting him. He was surrounded by rhinosaurs. We have the boy. You've got a live marva. I figure it should be a trade. You bring the marva to the old tank road by the river, and we'll bring the boy. Bring one tank, driven by one man. That's all. Be there forty-eight hours from now. Do as I say and the boy will be delivered on schedule." "Hello, hello." Frederick Watson's voice was frantic. "I don't know if the colony will--" Ed hung up and snapped off the radio. "They will," he said. Johnny's spirits had never been so low. Everything he touched seemed to turn to disaster. The colony was all but ruined. In trying to protect Baba he had caused the marshberries to be destroyed and had given these outlaws a chance to steal the colony's marva claws. By running away with Baba he hadn't saved the little bear at all. The outlaws, Trader Harkness' outlaws, were going to get him. Johnny would not only lose Baba, but the colony, too, would lose its last chance for survival. CHAPTER THIRTEEN _Outwitting the Outlaws_ The little red monkey screamed and chattered its hate as Johnny and Ed stepped through the doorway of the cabin after their eventful flight. Johnny had noted that the cabin door was the only exit. As was usual on Venus, the exit was a double door. When the outer door was open, the inner one could not be opened. It was just like the school door. If Johnny could once get through the outer door and block it open, it would be a while before the men could break the lock on the inner door and get out. Getting out the first door would be the problem--but not too big a problem. The outlaws didn't think that he could go into the jungle without armor, so they did not watch him or the door too carefully. As soon as they were inside, Ed took off Johnny's oversized armor and locked it away. He then winked at the other men and sat Johnny down in front of him on a high stool. "You know who I am?" Ed asked him. "Sure," Johnny said. "You're Ed." The big man cuffed him so hard he fell from the stool. "Boy," he said, "you never saw me before." He frowned, making his scarred face as evil as he could. "When you go back to that colony, you're going to forget you ever saw us. Do you know why?" From the floor Johnny shook his head. "Because if you tell anybody our names or anything about us, you know what we're going to do?" Ed asked. Again Johnny shook his head. "We'll catch you and take you out into the jungle and tie you to a tree without any armor on, and leave you for the arrow-birds. You understand?" Johnny nodded his head. They thought they were scaring him. They talked a little while longer, describing things they might do to him if he told their names, and Johnny pretended to be afraid. "All right," Ed said after the lecture. "Get back to the kitchen." "Can I play with your monkey?" Johnny asked. "Play with that monkey!" Ed's pale eyebrows went up. "He'd chew an ear off you. I've been trying to tame him for a month--and he don't do anything but bite. You leave him alone." "He won't bite me," Johnny said. "I don't think he will." The monkey would be a big help in escaping, if only they'd let Johnny get close to him. "I'll just go get some sugar cubes from the kitchen." "Let him, Ed. It'll teach the brat a lesson," the narrow-faced Barney put in. "O.K." Ed said. "Get bit, if you want to." Johnny rushed through the open door into the kitchen. Rick was sitting at the table with a book beside him. "You got any candy, Rick?" Johnny asked. "Or maybe some sugar cubes?" "You better not fool with that monk, Johnny," Rick said. "He's plenty mean, like all the Venus creatures." "He won't hurt me," Johnny said. He saw a box of sugar cubes in the cupboard and grabbed it. "Monkeys just love sweets." "No." Rick leaned over and a big freckled hand closed around Johnny's small brown one. He took the box of sugar away. "I'm going to tell them you got scared. Only two things will happen if you try playing with that monk. You'll get bitten, and they'll get a big laugh." "Please let me, Rick," Johnny said. He paused a minute and whispered, "I've got an idea how I can get away." "What!" Rick exploded. He closed the door and went on in a whisper, "It's impossible. You haven't any armor. You don't have any weapons or a tank. Don't be silly." He paused, and looked at Johnny. "Well, how were you going to do it?" "Simple," said Johnny. "First I make friends with the monkey. Then I'll let him go and tell him to run around and jump on Ed and the rest. While they are chasing him, I'll open the inside door. I'll let him out first and dive through myself. I'll wedge open the outside door, and by the time they get their armor on and break the lock on the inside door, I'll be over the wall and gone." The words tumbled out of him. Rick shook his head. "Johnny, that week in the jungle has gone straight to your head. In the first place, how are you going to make friends with the monkey? Then how are you going to _tell_ him anything? And how are you going to get any armor?" "Rick," Johnny said, "I don't need any armor." "Oh, Johnny!" Rick exclaimed, exasperated. "They just won't bother me." Johnny took a deep breath. "I can talk to them, same as I can talk to the monkey!" "What!" "Now, listen, Rick," Johnny whispered earnestly, "I wasn't hurt when I came here, was I? I'd been in the jungle six Earth days without any armor." Rick was looking at him with a strange expression. "Do you remember," Johnny went on, "how I looked when you rescued me from the rhinosaur?" Rick nodded. "Did I have any armor on then?" Rick stared at Johnny for a few seconds. "By golly!" His mouth was slightly open in amazement. "You didn't have any armor on!" "I wasn't hurt, was I?" Rick shook his head slowly. "No," he said, "but what about that leopard and the rhinosaur?" "The leopard wasn't hurting me," Johnny said. "She was trying to get me away before the men got me. She was my friend. As for the rhinosaur--well, Baba and me hadn't learned for sure about them, yet." "But how can you talk to them?" Rick asked in wonder. Johnny knew he had no choice, he had to trust Rick completely. "It was Baba," Johnny said. Then, very quickly, he explained about Baba's clicks, and told Rick about his three secrets. "Jeb said something about those clicks one time," Rick said thoughtfully. "I never dreamed it could be true." "It _is_ true, though," Johnny insisted. Ed stuck his scarred face through the doorway. "Well, kid, getting cold feet about the monk?" "No, sir!" Johnny said. "Rick was just getting me some cube sugar." "Well, hurry it up." Ed went back out. "Johnny," Rick said, "you show me with that monk, and by the moons of Saturn, I'll come with you, armor or no armor!" Johnny was bewildered. This was something he hadn't counted on. He wanted to explain that there was a chance even he, alone, could not succeed without Baba. Just as Johnny started to speak, Ed appeared in the doorway again. "Well?" he said in his heavy voice. Johnny took the sugar cubes from Rick and followed Ed into the main room. As he always did, the monkey screamed and chattered at them as they entered. The little animal was chained to its perch. A spring catch too strong for its tiny fingers fastened the chain to its collar and kept it from getting away. The outlaws began to gather around. "You'll have to stay at the table, way over at the other end of the room," Johnny said to the men. "He's scared of you." He pointed to the table, which was as far as possible from the door leading outside. "All right, all right." The four men seated themselves where Johnny pointed, ready to watch the fun. Johnny walked slowly up to the tiny monkey. As he did so, its little red face twisted and it showed its razor-sharp fangs. It screamed at him. Then it leaped out, only to be jerked back cruelly as it came to the end of its chain. But it ran out as far as it could and clawed at Johnny, its eyes red. "Friend-pet, friend-pet," Johnny clicked very low in the back of his throat. The animal stopped screaming and cocked his head at him. It looked from one side to the other, as if looking for a marva behind Johnny. Johnny repeated the phrase again and again, holding the sugar out where the red monkey could see it and smell it. Johnny didn't have any idea how much the little animal could understand, but he went on clicking. "I'm your friend. We are going to get away from these men." He repeated this many times. Then he remembered that Rick was going to try, too. "You and I and the big man in the other room are going to escape." As Johnny talked, he moved forward. Soon he was well in range of the little monkey's nails. It jumped forward. Johnny put a sugar cube in its paws. With a gurgle of pleasure, the monkey swallowed the sugar and put out its paw for more. "Jump on my shoulder," Johnny clicked. The little creature regarded him silently. Then, with a graceful hop, it was on his shoulder. "I don't believe it," Ed's voice rumbled. As soon as the hunter outlaw spoke, the little monkey growled and bared his teeth at him. The man muttered something under his breath, angry that a small boy had done what he couldn't do. He started out toward them, and was quickly in range of the creature's teeth. "You'd better not," Johnny said. "He'll--" The monkey dived at Ed, his teeth slicing into the man's shoulder. The outlaw jumped back, cursing. Blood ran down his shirt. "I'm sorry, Ed," Johnny said. "Let me work with him just a little while, and maybe he'll make friends with you, too." In his anger the man had picked up a heavy stick to hit the monkey. The other men broke into laughter. Ed grunted something, and threw his stick at the men who were laughing. "Come on," he said, "let's play cards." Johnny turned back to the monkey. For almost half an hour Johnny talked to the monkey in the marva clicking language while the outlaws played cards across the room. He guessed the little animal could understand a little more than the mother leopard could. That wasn't too much, but it was enough. He made the creature understand that when he was released, he was to fly at the men. He wasn't to hurt them, but make them chase him until Johnny could get the door open. Then the monkey was to leap for the opening. The hardest job was getting the monkey to understand that he shouldn't harm Rick if the ex-bodyguard came with them. Johnny wasn't sure the monkey understood. With his back turned to the outlaws, Johnny undid the collar about the monkey's throat. Keeping the little animal out of their sight he walked toward the exit door. He picked up an old boot to use on the outer door. "Hey," Ed suddenly shouted, "where's the monk?" "After them," Johnny clicked. The monkey leaped at the oncoming Ed. He clawed his face, then leaped at the other men. He made great jumps by swinging from light fixtures by his long black tail. Ed wheeled and charged like a bull after the tiny screaming creature. "The kid let the crazy thing loose!" he shouted. "Catch it!" "Shoot him!" yelled Shorty, drawing his ato-tube pistol from its holster. Ed knocked it from his hand, and it went sliding along the floor. "Want to kill us, too, you fool?" In the excitement Johnny worked the latch on the exit door, and pressed the button that opened it. He saw Rick half way through the kitchen door. Rick reached down and grabbed up something from the floor. The monkey was jumping from head to head among the yelling outlaws. Not one of them noticed what Johnny was doing. The door was open. Johnny nodded his head toward Rick, who came at a dead run. When Rick was almost there, Johnny clicked as loud as he could, "Come, friend-pet! Come!" In one leap the little animal sailed across the room and landed on his shoulder. Johnny and Rick pushed through the door, slammed it behind them, and opened the outside door. Johnny paused a second and wedged the boot he had picked up into the outer door. The outside door could not close and the safety lock would keep the inner door closed. "Come on, Johnny," Rick shouted. "This way!" He rushed through the helicopter landing space toward the tank entrance. Rick pulled the switch that opened the duro-steel door. "Dive for the nearest tree trunk," Rick shouted. "They have gun mounts on the roof." Johnny ran after Rick, his short legs unable to keep up with the older man. The little monkey was riding on top of his head, shrieking and chattering. As soon as they reached the forest the monkey jumped into a tree. Johnny stopped dead. He needed that monkey. The little animal could tell other animals he and Rick were friendly. "Friend-pet monkey, friend-pet monkey," he clicked, "come with me." For an instant he was afraid the animal had not heard. Then, with a shock, he felt it drop down on his head. "Rick, Rick," he yelled, "stay with me." With relief he heard the big man coming back. "You gotta stay with me," Johnny panted. "Arrow-birds." Rick nodded, and ran along beside Johnny. They ran among the great pillars of the diamond-wood forest until Johnny thought his breath would come no more. His feet were heavy against the springing leaves, his legs began to twist with fatigue. When he was about to fall, Rick whisked him up in his arms. The little monkey screamed and jumped at Rick's head. "No, no!" Johnny clicked. The tiny creature jumped back on Johnny's head, but he had left red claw marks on Rick's face. Far in the distance they heard the noise of a tank motor starting. The diamond-wood trees were beginning to thin out. Soon they would be in the jungle of meat trees which always surrounded a grove of the giant trees. The sound of a helicopter motor starting up was added to the sound of the tank. The noise of the tank motor lessened. The outlaws had headed in the wrong direction. The helicopter was the great danger now. Hiding under a meat tree, with its heavy leaves, was their best chance. "We'd better get under something, Rick," Johnny said. His breath had returned. "Let me down." Rick nodded. His breath was coming in great gasps. A heavily leafed tree surrounded by brush was a few hundred yards ahead of them. Johnny pointed to it and Rick nodded. Johnny prayed that there were no arrow-birds feeding there. This close to the hunters' lodge there shouldn't be many animals--but arrow-birds were always on the watch. As they worked through the brush to get under the meat tree Johnny really missed Baba. The first branches were too high for either Johnny or Rick to reach. If Baba had been there they could have easily climbed up into the protection of the tree's leaves and branches. Luckily the brush was high and thick around it, screening them from view from the side. The tree itself screened off the sky. Once they had reached the trunk of the tree, they stood wordlessly for a while, breathing hard. "Any idea where we are, Rick?" Johnny asked in a whisper. Rick's big, bony face broke into a smile. He reached into a pocket. Out came a small map of the Venus continent. "Not for sure," he said. "But we can't be far from the lodge." He pointed to a mark on the map. "Once we see the lay of the land, we should be able to tell." Suddenly Rick froze stone still. Johnny looked up. An arrow-bird had flown into the tree. Since its head was not in position to strike, it was probably looking for a meat fruit. Just as Johnny saw it, its head turned toward them. Johnny clicked out a sharp command for it to leave them alone. As the little purple eyes sought them out, its head snapped into striking position. But as Johnny clicked on, it moved its head back to a friendlier position. Its little purple eyes stared directly at them. Rick regarded Johnny with wonder. "I don't know what that little bear taught you, but it sure is a miracle," he said. He then reached into his shirt. "I'm still glad I got this. Did you see Ed knock it out of Shorty's hand?" He pulled an ato-tube pistol out of the shirt. As soon as the gun came out, the red ape leaped from Johnny's head, screaming. The arrow-bird snapped its head into position to strike. "Drop it, Rick! Drop it!" Johnny yelled. Amazement swept over Rick's face. "But why--?" "Bother us not, friend-pet," Johnny clicked loudly. At the same time he knocked the ato-tube from Rick's hand. He was too late. The arrow-bird shot with a sickening smack into Rick's shoulder. Almost as quickly it withdrew its blood-stained beak and was hovering in the air for another strike. CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Captured!_ Rick stood rigid, his face twisting with pain, a hand clutching his upper arm. The greenish bird hovered in the air, its wings a blur of motion. "We are friends. We are friends. Bother us not, friend-pet!" Johnny clicked deep in his throat. The bird continued to hover, its little purple eyes darting back and forth from Johnny to the wounded Rick. Its bloody head stayed in arrow position, but it drifted farther away. Johnny remembered that when he had had an arrow-bird on his shoulder, the others had left him alone. He dreaded changing his command, but he did. "Come to your friend," he clicked firmly. The arrow-bird stared at him distrustfully, but came closer. The monkey dropped back on Johnny's head. With a sigh of relief, Johnny saw the arrow-bird's head snap out of attack position. He put out his hand and the arrow-bird lit on it. "Are you hurt bad, Rick?" he asked. The words made the arrow-bird flutter with alarm, but Johnny soothed it by petting it with his other hand. Rick shook his head. "Not too bad," he said through clenched teeth. "The thing seemed to dodge when you made that clicking noise." "I'm sorry, Rick," Johnny said. "You just shouldn't have shown that gun--you'll have to leave it behind. If they think you'd harm any of them, they'll kill you, just like that. The monkeys almost got me 'cause of a pocket knife." "I didn't know," Rick said. He looked at the bird on Johnny's shoulder. "Seems peaceful enough now." "You better let him sit on your shoulder, Rick." Johnny looked down at the arrow-bird and stroked it again. When it was quiet he placed it on Rick's shoulder. The man was nervous and the bird was worried, but they both did as they were told. They waited under the tree while the helicopter went back and forth above them. Johnny looked at Rick's wound. It didn't look too serious, but Johnny knew better than to count on that. The slightest arrow-bird wound could be deadly if not treated. Johnny had seen hunters brought into the colony sick from an untreated scratch. They should have brought an emergency kit, but the kits were only carried in special pockets of the armor. They let Rick's wound bleed to cleanse it as much as possible. Then Johnny bound the arm tightly and made a sling for it from a piece of Rick's shirt. Rick gave Johnny his wrist watch to wear, since his wrist was hidden by the sling. After that they waited. It seemed the helicopter would never go away. Once it hovered almost directly above them, but then went on. While they waited Johnny looked over the map. The outlaw hideout was not as far from the colony as he had feared. They had to start soon and make good time, but they just might be able to make it to the meeting place the outlaws had set before Johnny's father got there. There was a fighting chance if Rick didn't get too sick. Finally they heard the sound of the helicopter landing far in the distance. Taking direction from the map, they set out on their way. Rick's wound was less painful now, but Johnny kept his eye on his redhaired friend. They started out at a fast clip, following an animal track which led in the direction they wanted to go. In a few hours of steady marching they were a safe distance from the outlaw hideout. Johnny's idea was working out. Several flights of arrow-birds had passed them by with no more than a glance in their direction. One flight had hovered above them while the arrow-bird on Rick's shoulder twittered and shrieked to them. Then they had flown off at top speed. A troop of monkeys had also let them pass without doing them any harm. Hundreds of the small red apes had followed along beside them for some time. Johnny's monkey chattered to them from his perch on the boy's head. Then they, too, had swung off through the trees at top speed. Rick had been awed, for he had never seen Venus animals so close except when they were attacking. At first Rick's strides had been long and Johnny had had to run every few steps to keep up. Now Rick's steps were short and slow. He seemed to be getting weaker and weaker. They had stopped and cleaned his wound again at a spring and rebound it, but he was not doing well. The big redhaired man was pale under his freckles; his lips were set tight. Johnny kept close beside him as they moved forward. They had worked out a path to follow that skirted diamond-wood groves and avoided rivers. It was too easy to become lost in the dense forest, and Johnny was very unsure of what river snakes would do. Suddenly Rick stumbled. He stopped and balanced himself by leaning on Johnny's shoulder. He looked at Johnny with bloodshot eyes, sighed and crumpled up on the ground. The arrow-bird that had been sitting on his shoulder hovered in the air above him making little squeaking noises. He flew toward Johnny and then down an animal trail that led off toward a diamond-wood grove. As Johnny leaned over to look at Rick the monkey jumped from Johnny's head. Johnny stared down at Rick Saunders' face. His cheeks were flushed but the rest of his face was grey. The little monkey sniffed the wounded man and chattered something at Johnny. Then he, too, ran down the side trail. When Johnny paid no attention, he came up to Johnny and plucked his sleeve, chattering all the while. Johnny looked around. He thought the monkey was drawing his attention to some antelope berries growing down the path. Johnny clicked to the little red monkey to gather some. When the red monkey returned, clutching a cluster of the large berries in each tiny paw, Johnny took them and squeezed the clear red juice into Rick's mouth. The man coughed and turned his face away. But gradually his eyes opened. They were dull and feverish. His hand went to his shoulder and he winced. In the few hours that had passed, his arm and shoulder had already swollen a great deal. He raised his head. Johnny helped him to his feet, but when he staggered, Johnny helped him lie down again on a patch of grass by the antelope berry bush. "I can't go any farther, Johnny." Rick's voice was hoarse. "Those birds must have some kind of poison on their beaks. That wound feels like it's on fire." "It's not poison, Rick," Johnny explained. "They eat the meat fruit and little pieces stick to their beaks. The pieces get rotten and infect wounds bad." Johnny remembered that Rick was an Earthie and had been on Venus barely a year. "There's only one thing to do," Johnny went on. "I'll have to light a signal fire with lots of smoke. Somebody'll see us then." Rick shook his head slowly. "No, Johnny, it won't do. If those hunters come they'll get you again and they're likely to finish me off. You take the map and go on...." Rick's voice trailed away. He struggled to sit up. Johnny stepped forward, wondering what was wrong. The monkey leaped off his head and bounded into a tree. Slowly Rick raised his good arm and pointed directly behind Johnny. Johnny turned. Staring at him through a bush was a coal black sabre-toothed leopard, crouched to spring. "Friend-pet, go away!" Johnny clicked in the marva tongue. Oh, if Baba were only here! The monkey chattered from a tree. "Go away! Go away!" Johnny repeated. Then he saw a second leopard. A third. None of them was his friend, the mother leopard. These leopards stood almost a foot higher and were solid black. Their sabre fangs were a full foot long. These were deadly males, hunting in a pack. The one behind the bush gave a coughing growl. All three slinked slowly toward Johnny and Rick on silent feet, their mouths half open, their white teeth shining. "Go away, bother us not! Friend-pets, bother us not!" Johnny repeated. The leopards moved smoothly forward, their steel-like muscles rippling under the shining black fur. Frantically, Johnny turned to Rick, who was struggling to his feet. "They won't obey, Rick!" "Run, Johnny," Rick said. "Run for a tree!" Rick thrust the boy behind him, but Johnny would not leave his friend. Rick turned, pulling Johnny, and started to run. At the same moment a leopard sprang through the air, high over their heads. A split second later he was in front of them, barring their way, his gold eyes glistening, his fanged mouth giving forth a low growl. The growl meant, "Come." Johnny looked about. Not four steps away was another of the lion-sized cats. They were ringed around by the creatures. Johnny tried clicking again, but they paid no attention. "My arm, Johnny!" Rick groaned. He ran his hand over a forehead which was dripping sweat. Slowly his legs gave way and he fell in a heap beside Johnny. The leopards moved closer, their mouths wide. The one in front was getting so close that Johnny could feel its breath blowing against his bare arm. Then it moved too fast for Johnny to follow. Johnny felt the great jaws close around his middle, and he was hurled off his feet. Frantically he beat at the big head. The jaws tightened, gripping him painfully. As Johnny cried out in pain he saw the other two leopards leap upon Rick. A few seconds later Johnny was being carried down the path in the jaws of the monster cat. The jaws had tightened no more than was necessary to hold him firmly as the animal trotted along. From this strange position Johnny witnessed an even stranger sight. Behind the leopard carrying Johnny strode the two others. Side by side they walked, dividing Rick Saunders' weight between them. One had its jaws about Rick's arms and shoulders; the other held his hips and legs. They moved along easily, their heads held high so that his feet would not drag on the ground. Then Johnny saw that his arrow-bird friend was riding on the shoulder of one of the leopards that was carrying Rick. He heard a chattering noise, and knew that the little red monkey was close by. The leopards were taking them some place, but who could know where? In his odd position Johnny could not tell even the direction they were going. But soon they were in the patchwork shadow of a meat tree forest. Here the leopards had their lairs. But they did not stop. They went on and on. Johnny kept trying to watch the leopards which carried Rick. Once in a while he could catch a glimpse of them, Rick's head bobbing as they moved. He was still unconscious. Then Johnny heard a shout and a scuffling noise. The leopard carrying him turned around. Rick was conscious. His head was turning about wildly and he was yelling. His eyes lit on Johnny. "What's happening?" he all but screamed. "They're taking us somewhere," Johnny answered. "They haven't hurt me yet." Rick was kicking his feet and struggling, making it hard for the leopards to walk. Johnny could see their jaws tightening as Rick struggled. "You better not fight, Rick," Johnny said. "You can't get away and they'll just hurt you more. I'll tell them you won't fight if they'll hold you easier." He clicked the message to the big cats. His own leopard turned back up the trail, and he couldn't see what the other leopards did. A few seconds later he heard Rick's voice. "You were right, Johnny. When I eased up they eased up, too." Then he laughed in a strained way. "I wish they'd eat us right now and get it over with." "Maybe they won't." They said no more. They were coming to the edge of the meat tree grove. As was often the case, the last group of meat trees was beside a river. Beyond was a diamond-wood grove. The three animals plunged into the cool water, and soon were swimming, with Johnny's and Rick's heads held well above the water. On the opposite bank they dived into the shadow of the diamond-wood grove. As soon as they entered the grove Johnny was startled to see that there were several antelope walking beside them. Then, suddenly, the little red monkey he had rescued from Ed was squatting on the leopard's back. Johnny heard a swishing sound almost under his head. By twisting hard he could see the ground. There was a river snake crawling beside them. Its ugly horned head was right beneath him. It was the first time he had ever seen one. Then his heart leaped. He heard the clicking of the marva language. Johnny twisted his body against the leopard's teeth, trying to see where the clicking was coming from. The leopard growled, and Johnny lay still again. "Take the big killer to the healer," the voice clicked. "The little killer take to the council." The clicks were somehow different from Baba's, firmer and louder; but Johnny could understand them perfectly. Johnny caught sight of the two leopards carrying Rick. They were turning down another path. The river snake and the antelope took the same path. But Johnny's leopard went on forward. After a short time the leopard stopped and very carefully opened its jaws and eased Johnny to the ground. It turned and walked a few steps away. There it crouched. Johnny got slowly to his feet. The little red monkey jumped on his head. The arrow-bird perched on his shoulder. In a clearing among the diamond-wood trees Johnny stood in the center of a circle of jewel bears, their blue nails glowing in the half light. All but one or two were dark about the muzzle. They sat on their haunches, staring straight at Johnny. CHAPTER FIFTEEN _A City in the Trees_ Except for faint animal sounds in the distance, there was silence in the diamond-wood grove. More marva than any other person had ever seen surrounded Johnny. Most of them were dark muzzled and very old. From old Jeb's hunting tales Johnny knew that as a marva grows older the fur about its muzzle darkens. A jewel bear with a black muzzle was a rare thing. This was no ordinary group of marva, but a gathering of elders. They seemed neither friendly nor unfriendly. They seemed to be waiting patiently for Johnny to do something. "Hello," Johnny broke the silence, greeting them in their own clicking language. "I am very glad to see you." Once started, Johnny had so much to say the words fairly rushed from him. "Your leopards sure scared us. Maybe you can tell me how to get to some people quick. Before it knew we wouldn't hurt it, this arrow-bird wounded my friend and he's very sick. And Baba's got caught again, and some bad men are trying to get him. If you could help us get back to the colony, oh, I'd thank you! Baba's a marva, you know, just like you and he's my best friend. We tried to find you, but the outlaws captured me and Baba went home because I'm his friend-pet-brother and he thought I'd be there. Rick will die if you--" The torrent of words was cut short by a marva with a coal black muzzle. He stood up and raised both furry blue paws for silence. "It was well reported that the little killer can speak our language," he clicked, with a sound very like a human chuckle. "You speak well," he clicked to Johnny, "but you speak too much at once." A ripple of amusement passed over the faces of the jewel bears. Then they became stern once more. "You must try to tell a little at a time," the old marva continued. "But first, let me answer one of your questions, for I think you are full of questions. The red-furred killer has been sent to the healers. He will soon be treated. We heard of you and of the wound from our friend-pets. You need not worry, little killer. Our healers have had many wounds to deal with since your kind has been in the green lands." "You mean _you_ will fix up my friend?" Johnny asked. "You have doctors?" "Yes, little killer," the black muzzled one answered. "But he won't understand," Johnny said. "He wouldn't let any of you touch him--not unless I talk to him." "Follow the leopard, then. He will take you to the healers. Then return here." The black muzzled marva waved his paw and the leopard rose and trotted off. Johnny ran beside him. In another clearing Johnny paused in amazement. It was filled with many animals. He saw several rhinosaurs with great gaping ato-tube wounds. A leopard with a cut on its shoulder lay whimpering before a marva, who was squeezing the juice of some berries upon the cut. Fascinated, Johnny watched as the marva sewed up the cut--a fine piece of marva claw for his needle. The berry's juice must have killed the pain for the leopard stopped whimpering and lay very still. Then Johnny saw Rick. He was lying on his back, but his eyes were open. The two leopards were right beside him, their heavy paws holding him down. "Rick!" Johnny called, running up to him. "Get away from here," Rick yelled. "There's a horned snake right beside me. He'll kill us!" "No," Johnny answered. "If he'd wanted to, he could have done it long ago. Rick, we're safe! The leopards brought you here to get your wound fixed up." Then he clicked to the leopards, "Let him go. He won't run away." He turned back to Rick. "I just told the leopards you won't run away," he explained. "Just watch the marva over there." Unsteadily, Rick got to his feet. He quickly sat down again, overcome by weakness and amazement. He had caught sight of the marva healers at work. One was sewing up a rhinosaur. Another was splinting up the leg of an antelope. Rick shook his head. "I'm dreaming," he said. "I must be!" "Isn't it wonderful!" Johnny said. "They're going to fix your wound, too." The leopard beside him growled, in the way Johnny knew meant "come." "I gotta go now," Johnny said. "Goodbye, and don't worry. Let them do what they want to." Johnny and the leopard made their way among the sick animals. Johnny let out a cry of pleasure. There was his friend the leopardess. The ato-tube burn was not a bad one, and it had already been treated. She rose when she saw him. Though the big male leopard growled his disapproval, Johnny ran over and patted her and her cubs before he went on. "Is she a friend of yours?" Johnny was startled by the sudden appearance of the black muzzled marva who had spoken to him earlier. "Yes, old one," Johnny answered respectfully. "Come!" the marva addressed the leopardess. The two leopards, the cubs, Johnny and the marva walked off together. Soon Johnny was in the circle of marva again. This time he was over his surprise and he tried to tell his story as clearly as he could. He was beginning to get worried about the time that was passing, and he looked at Rick's watch again and again. There was always the chance that the outlaws would try to get Baba, even though they no longer had Johnny to give in return. But he told his story as best he could. In spite of his worry, he had to explain all about men on Venus. He even had to tell where men came from, since the jewel bears had never seen stars or planets in their sky. He told about overcrowded Earth and his father's desire to make a colony. He told about the hunters and Trader Harkness. He told about his trip into the jungle and how the outlaws had captured him, and, finally, of his escape with Rick into the jungle. The group of marva listened carefully. Sometimes they nodded their heads in approval of what he had done, and sometimes they seemed puzzled. But they seemed more friendly when he had finished. When at last he came to a halt, the old marva who was acting as spokesman for the group arose. "You say this young marva friend of yours is named Baba?" The old one used the word in the clicking language for Baba's name. "Yes." "We have heard of him," the black muzzled marva clicked, "though he was not of our grove. His mother and brother were killed. We have wondered why he was not killed too, since your people feel we are your enemies. Our observer on Council Rock has watched your people often, but has seen little we can understand. Tell us why Baba was not killed at first." "I already explained," Johnny said. "His teeth and claws were black. Now they are blue and, of course, he's worth a lot of money." "What is this money?" the black muzzled one asked. Johnny was surprised. The word Baba used for money must not be a real marva word. If only Baba was here to explain! Johnny tried the best he could to explain how money works. The marva shook its head in wonder at the strange ways of men. "But why do you want our claws and teeth?" the marva asked. "To make rings and plastic." But they understood neither the word "ring" nor the word "plastic." Johnny had to explain that plastic was the material that headglobes were made from. He explained also that rings and jewelry were used for decoration. "And that is why we are killed on sight?" asked the marva. "Yes, old one." It made Johnny sad for himself, for the marva, and for his people, to have to admit this. His answer caused a stir among the marva. "I have one more question," the old marva said. "Why did you come into the jungle with the marva, Baba?" "He would have died or been killed otherwise, and he was my brother, or like my brother. It was like the song he sang: "You help your friends And your friends help you. It is the law And will be the law as the trees stand. Between friend and friend there is no parting More than the fingers of a hand." "We know the song," the marva said, gently. "But didn't you think these--" the marva gestured at the leopards, "might kill you?" "Yes," Johnny said, "but I had to take the chance." They asked many more questions about men and their ways. Many were hard for Johnny to answer or even to understand, but he tried very hard to be as clear and truthful as possible. Finally they seemed satisfied, and there was again silence in the diamond-wood grove. With a nod to Johnny the black muzzled marva led the rest of the jewel bears away, and left Johnny and his animal friends alone. A short distance away the marva again formed a circle and clicked together quietly. Then they called over his friend, the leopardess, the red monkey and the arrow-bird. They appeared to be asking them questions. Johnny, left to himself, wondered what was happening. It was all very strange. Rick's wrist watch said too much time had passed already. The black muzzled marva returned to Johnny. "Come with me," he clicked, and walked toward one of the great trees. One of the younger jewel bears waited at the foot of the tree. "Grasp him by the shoulders," the black muzzled marva directed Johnny, "and hold tight." Johnny found he could ride easily on his back. The marva started up the tree at a breathtaking speed. The full grown marva climbed three times as fast as Baba could without anything on his back. Down below them the black muzzled marva followed with the slow dignity of age. Up and up they went, the full two hundred feet toward the sky. Johnny looked down at the sick animals and the healers. They looked very small now. Finally Johnny and the marva reached the branches. As they came up to the first huge branch, it appeared to move slowly away from the trunk of the tree, to reveal a large opening. The tip of the branch was fastened to a branch above. Two huge snakes the color of the branch were coiled about it. These snakes had pulled the branch from the opening so that the marva and Johnny could enter. Johnny could see that the branch had been hollowed out until it was fairly light. Once inside, Johnny's eyes were dazzled by light. The young marva started back down the tree. In a few moments the black muzzled marva was before Johnny again. He made a little bow. "Man child," he clicked, "welcome to the tree of Keetack, leader of the council of this grove. May you have long life." "Thank you." It was the only thing Johnny could think of to say. Before him was a beautiful room. There were finely woven grass mats upon the floor, and in places about the room piles of mats of soft blue and delicate pinks made places to sit. The room was flooded with light that came from directly over their heads. The walls were made of the living wood of the tree carved with many scenes of Venus and colored to make beautiful designs. Johnny looked up to see where the light came from. He gasped. Above them was a great cluster of marva teeth and claws, glowing with light. When Keetack, the leader of the council, moved forward, the light floated along the ceiling following him. Finally, Johnny realized what the light was. It was a cluster of the large Venus fireflies. Each clasped a marva claw in its tiny feet. As the insect glowed, the claw multiplied the light. In the middle of the ceiling was a hive where the fireflies lived. Johnny watched with wonder as the flies went back and forth from hive to light. Keetack noticed Johnny's interest. "As one becomes tired," he said, "another takes his place. We give them food and they give us light. Is it not a good system?" Suddenly Johnny understood. "And the rhinosaurs protect you from the sea beasts...." "And we help them when they are sick or hurt. We help take care of their marshberries and see that they have food. All living things are our friends but the killers of the sea." "Gee," said Johnny, "it's just perfect." The little bear appeared to laugh. "Hardly," he clicked. "We have our quarrels too, and many of our friends sometimes forget." "That's right," Johnny said. "The monkeys sure didn't trust those leopards until after we got here." "It is hard for many of them," Keetack went on. "I often wonder what the rhinosaurs will do when there is nothing left to fight. We are already beginning to make friends with the killers of the sea. Not long ago the arrow-birds were killers, and it was only in the lifetime of my great grandfather's great great grandfather's father that we made friends with the river snakes, so that they, too, do as we advise them to do." "You mean obey you?" Johnny asked. "In a way," Keetack answered, "most of the animals obey us." "But they don't obey your little ones!" Johnny was excited. "It's only when your blue teeth come in and your voice gets deep that other animals will obey you. Isn't that right?" "Yes," said Keetack. "We say a deep voice is a sign of the coming of wisdom." "Then that's why the arrow-birds obeyed Baba and me?" "Yes," Keetack nodded. "Now would you like to see the remainder of our tree?" "Please," Johnny answered politely. "It's a lot like the caves in New Plymouth Rock." "Indeed so," said the marva leader. "Those caves served as a yearly meeting place of the Council of All The Groves. No one tree was large enough for all to live in while we talked together. Before your people came to the green lands we had happy times there each year. Now we use the rock only for watching you." "I'm sorry," Johnny said. "Come now," Keetack clicked. "I will show you the tree." Johnny would have been terribly excited by the suggestion if it hadn't been for his fear that they were taking too much time. The whole upper part of the tree was honeycombed with rooms. Each level was connected by a winding passage as in the caverns of New Plymouth Rock. Each was lit in the same way. It was not Keetack's tree alone; several marva families lived there together. As they entered each level a marva would come forward and welcome Johnny. He was fascinated by the little ones, who grinned at him just as Baba did. The marva cubs always came in twos: peeking around from the back of the mothers were always two pairs of bright blue eyes. But one family was different. Johnny and Keetack entered that level to the sound of growling and tumbling and scratching. In the middle of the room a small bear bounced hard on the floor and up to the ceiling where it clung like a fly. Below it a coal black leopard cub growled in a way Johnny understood. It was a pleading growl saying "Come." As soon as the baby bear hanging on the ceiling saw Johnny and Keetack he dropped to the floor and stood with his arm around the black leopard cub. A mother marva came rushing from another room. "I'm sorry my cubs were so rude," she clicked, "but you know how much mischief one of ours and a friend-pet-brother can get into." "Of course," Keetack clicked. "This is the friend-pet-brother of one of ours, so he will understand." "Oh, yes!" Johnny said. Then he looked over at the two cubs. The little marva was still very small and had black claws. "He shows off just like Baba used to," Johnny exclaimed. Johnny remembered the trouble his mother had had with Baba's game of walking on the ceiling. With that they went on, but Johnny touched Keetack on the shoulder. Though the bear was old, he came no more than to Johnny's shoulder. "The leopard cub was that marva cub's friend-pet-brother--just as Baba is mine?" Johnny asked. For the first time the marva seemed to smile, opening his mouth wide as Baba did when he grinned. "We would say _you_ were _his_ friend-pet-brother," the black muzzled one clicked. "Perhaps it is better to say you are _friend-brothers_. It is not strange. Many of us have had companions of another race." "But why is this?" Johnny asked eagerly. "You have seen that our cubs always come in pairs. The pair is almost one until they are grown," Keetack explained. "If only one cub is born, or one of a pair dies, we give the lone cub a friend-pet, a cub of another race to grow up with him. They become brothers just as you and Baba did. Without this the lone cub would die. Cubs need the love of a brother as much as they need food. It is sometimes a very good thing, for in this way our friends of the plains and the groves are knitted to us with ties of very deep love." "Now I understand why Baba would never leave me," Johnny said. And then he went on earnestly, "And you should understand why I've got to get back to Baba in the colony. There may still be some way I can save him. But I don't have much more time." "I can make no promise yet to let you go," Keetack said. "Still there may be a way we can save your friend-brother and do something more besides." He would say no more. Soon they were back in Keetack's rooms. "You will wait here," Keetack said. Johnny seated himself on one of the piles of mats and waited. He didn't quite understand what was going on, but he wished Keetack would hurry. He looked at Rick's watch. It had been twelve hours since he had spoken to his father on Ed's radio telephone. He had only an Earth day and a half to get to the settlement if he were to keep Baba out of Ed's hands. A few minutes later Keetack reentered the room, surrounded by some of the furry bears who lived in his tree. "My friend," he clicked, "I have a gift from the people of my tree to your people--those whom you say are making a colony. It is a gift of friendship and a gift of peace. If the Council of the Grove decides to let you go back, I hope you can use these to pay for the life of your friend and brother, Baba." In his hand the marva held a small package wrapped with woven rushes. "Thank you," Johnny said, and took the package. "You may unwrap it." Johnny folded back the stiff material, and gasped. In his hand glowed a pile of marva claws--hundreds of them! CHAPTER SIXTEEN _The Thunder of Rhinosaur Hooves_ A worried Johnny was standing in the center of the clearing once more, surrounded by the little jewel bears. He now knew this was the grove council, a group of the wisest bears of the grove. Keetack's gift to Johnny had impressed them all. They knew it meant that Keetack trusted Johnny. Yet they were cautious. Johnny's knowledge of them could be very dangerous. "It is not right he should go," one of the marva was saying. His muzzle was still blue, and Johnny knew this meant he was younger than the rest. "The young killer will return to his people and tell of our ways and of our houses in the trees. Then the older killers will come with their death-spitting things and our lives will be gone. I think that we should hold him here. Otherwise we risk the lives of our people." Johnny put up his hand as if he were in school. The marva, Keetack, of the deep black muzzle, pointed at Johnny. "May I talk now?" Johnny asked. The marva nodded. "I won't tell anything you don't want me to," he promised earnestly. "With these claws I'm sure Baba can be saved, but I'm going to have to hurry. If the outlaws get him they will kill him sure. Don't you understand?" "We understand," the old marva answered. "But we must be sure of safety for us and our people. Your people are killers like the beasts of the sea. You even kill each other. You are a strange people. Still you risked your life for your friend Baba, just as Baba would risk his. Your friend with the red fur risked his life to help you. Do you really think that if your people knew all there is to know about us, they would not come with the fire spitting things?" Johnny was silent. He knew Ed would come. He knew Trader Harkness would, too. He swallowed, for lying to these little bears was something he just couldn't do. "For those claws some of my people would do anything," he clicked in a low voice. There was complete silence in the grove. The marva who was young and still blue furred about the muzzle stood again. Johnny wanted to cry. He had condemned Baba to death, but if he hadn't done so, maybe all the marva would be killed. He felt they, too, were his brothers. He broke into sobs and stood there with tears running down his cheeks. "We have heard our young friend," the blue-furred marva said. It was the first time he had not called Johnny a killer. "He gave us the truth because we have trusted him, and treated him with friendship. I was wrong. He is to be trusted. Let him go from here with his gifts. My tree, too, will send a gift. But let him promise to keep secret anything he thinks may be dangerous to us." The marva seated himself. "Oh, I promise," Johnny said solemnly. "Cross my heart and hope to die." "It is agreed among us then?" Keetack asked the group. The furry heads nodded their agreement. "Young friend, you may go. Your settlement is three groves away from us. You may have a rhinosaur to ride. It will take you home with time to spare. You go with a pledge of peace. We will send messages ahead and no animals will attack you. Nor will any of our friends attack any man unless he attacks first. You may tell your people we will give them more claws for such things as we would like from them. Every two years we marva get a new set of claws and teeth. The old ones have been saved from generation to generation to be used for lights and for tools. You may also tell the leaders of your people we would like to meet with them. Perhaps we can make a friendship that will endure!" Johnny had a busy hour ahead of him. First he ran to see Rick among the sick animals in the other part of the grove. There was no question of Rick's coming with him. He was still too sick from the arrow-bird's wound, but he was definitely on the mend. He was lying under a tree, petting the leopard cubs. Johnny told him what had happened, carefully omitting where the marva lived, and Rick became more and more interested. Finally Johnny showed him one of the packets of claws that he had been given. By now the packets had grown to over a dozen, and he had placed them in a bag made from his shirt. "Johnny," Rick said, "you've done a most wonderful thing! Those marva don't have to worry about being hunted any more. If people can get so many of those claws and teeth, no one will ever want to hunt for them again. You tell them that, for me." Johnny rushed to give the news to the marva. The first one he found was the young council member who had at first opposed letting him go. "It pays to trust one another," the marva said simply. Soon Johnny was ready. The leader of the council brought before him a huge rhinosaur, one of the biggest Johnny had ever seen. "Skorkin knows he must obey you," Keetack said. "He will do anything you ask, and will harm none of your people." "Hello, friend-pet," Johnny said. The rhinosaur turned and looked at him with his little blue-black eyes and grunted a greeting. Johnny noted it. It probably meant "hello." "Was that his speech?" Johnny asked. "Yes," Keetack answered. "They have more words than the other creatures of the green lands. Only the monkeys of all our friend-pets come near to being as smart as they. They are a people, too, of great courage." "I know," Johnny said. He remembered the rhinosaur charge at the colony. At the mention of the word "monkey," the little red ape whom Johnny had rescued from Ed began to chatter and jump up and down. "He likes you and wishes to go with you," Keetack said. "Do you want him to?" "Oh, yes," Johnny answered. The monkey leaped to his shoulder. Johnny suddenly had an idea. "Could the leopardess, her cubs, and the arrow-bird come too?" he asked. "That is, if they want to?" Keetack understood what was in Johnny's mind and nodded his approval. "It is a good idea," he clicked. "It would be a good way to prove to your people that the animals can be friendly." The leopardess was suddenly beside Johnny, rubbing up against him like a big cat. She looked up into his face and growled in the way that Johnny knew meant "come." Johnny looked at the wrist watch. "We do have to hurry." He threw the bagful of the precious claws over his shoulder, and stepped toward the rhinosaur. "How'm I going to get on?" he asked, with sudden surprise. A series of grunts came from the rhinosaur, that sounded something like laughter. Then it lay its horned snout upon the ground, and grunted again. "Climb on," Keetack said. Grasping one of the long snout horns, Johnny climbed aboard his strange mount. "Goodbye," he shouted. All around hundreds of the marva were hanging from their trees. They waved and he waved back. "Let's go!" he clicked to the rhinosaur. And so began the race through the jungle. The great rhinosaur moved forward with thundering speed, the leopardess and her cubs loping along beside them. When one of the cubs grew tired it leaped on to the rhinosaur's back, curled up beside Johnny and went peacefully to sleep. The arrow-bird perched on one of the beast's horns and the monkey beside it. They did not stop for rain or rivers. Everywhere the jungle seemed to have blossomed forth with animals, who waved and grunted, growled, clicked, or sang greetings to them as they went past. The broad back of the rhinosaur was a perfect place to travel, Johnny found. It swayed hardly as much as a helicopter and bounced much less than a tank. It was not long until Johnny had followed the leopard cub's example. He found a hollow in the big back, curled up and went to sleep, lulled by the steady swinging movement and the thunder of the rhinosaur's hooves. * * * * * Johnny woke with a start. The monkey was pulling on one of his ears; they had reached the settlement. Johnny glanced down at his watch. He had slept six hours. The rhinosaur had stopped right at the edge of the meat tree grove that bordered the settlement. Through the screen of trees Johnny could see the high grey walls. It was about half a mile to the gate. Johnny wiped the sleep out of his eyes and puzzled as to the best way of making his appearance. "Go that way," Johnny clicked, and pointed. "But stay where you can't be seen from the walls." At a slow trot, the rhinosaur carried them to a place directly in front of the gate to the settlement wall. Johnny saw that the gate had been repaired. Beside it was a steel door through which a single man could be admitted. "You wait here for me," he said to the animals. "Let me down, friend rhinosaur." He tied his bag of claws to the rhinosaur's horn and then walked down the huge head to the ground. The arrow-bird flew over and lit on his shoulder. It had not understood. "Wait," Johnny repeated. "Wait, I will come back." The rhinosaur wandered a few yards away and began to munch on some bushes. The leopard growled to her cubs and began to climb a meat tree in search of food. Johnny smiled. They were good friends to have. Johnny slipped through the bushes and trees until only one antelope berry bush was between him and the wall. The guard tower was directly in front of him. The men in the tower must have noticed the swaying of the bushes, for they were looking directly toward the spot where Johnny stood. Johnny slipped from behind the bush and stepped into full view. He smiled and waved jauntily to the guards. As casually as he could he started toward the door. Halfway there he began to skip for sheer joy. The guards were staring at him open-mouthed. Obviously he had no armor on. He had had to use his shirt to make the bag for the claws. The only clothes he wore was the baggy pair of shorts Rick had made him. The steel door at the base of the guard tower opened at his touch. He closed it carefully, opened the inner door and then climbed the stairs to the guard tower, instead of going straight into the colony. There, too, were double doors. "Hello," he said, as he entered. The three guards on duty were so surprised they couldn't speak for a second. One of them was Old Jeb. Before they recovered, Johnny went up to Jeb. "Would you call my father, Jeb, and tell him to come to the gate?" It was funny to watch their faces. "Johnny, you're safe!" Jeb suddenly exploded. He swept the boy into his arms and swung him about. He stopped, pushed the boy away from him, and tousled his hair. "I can't believe it, but you're safe!" "Sure am," Johnny said, with a grin. Then he became serious. "How is Baba? Is he all right?" "He's been kind of sad and upset, poor little feller," Jeb said. "But how in thunder did you get here? Last we heard you were being held for ransom. Your folks have been worried sick." "Oh, I got away from the outlaws and some friends brought me. Please call everybody in the colony, will you? Tell them to come to the gate. I have something important to show them. I've got to go back out to my friends now. 'Bye." He started toward the door. "Friends! What friends?" Jeb called. "You'll find out," Johnny said, with a laugh. "Hey, you can't go outside without armor," one of the other guards shouted. But Johnny had slipped out before he could be stopped. He took the stairs at a run, and was out of the heavy steel wall doors before the men could follow him. As he skipped across the open space back to the jungle, he turned his head, waved to the men in the tower, and smiled. "Come back here, you little devil!" Jeb shouted through the loudspeaker the guards used to guide tanks in. But Johnny shook his head and went back into the brush. Johnny waited for about ten minutes. All this time the loudspeaker in the tower was shouting for Johnny to come back in. Finally the voice changed. It was Johnny's father's voice. "Johnny," his father said over the speaker. "Come on in here! _Please!_ I'm here now. Johnny!" Johnny heard a tank starting up inside. He didn't want any tanks coming after him. "Come on, friends," he clicked to the animals. He climbed back up on the rhinosaur's back. The leopard came running up with her cubs. The arrow-bird and the monkey, taking no chances, followed behind them, leaped to its usual perch--the top of Johnny's head. "Let's go!" Johnny clicked to the rhinosaur. "Walk very slowly out toward the big black place." Johnny clicked to one of the cubs to jump up on the rhinosaur's back beside him. Johnny crawled to the broad head of the rhinosaur between two of its horns. The leopard cub sat on its haunches beside him. The mother leopard and the other cub ran alongside them. The rhinosaur's hooves made muffled thunder as he walked. A big grin on his face, and waving his hand, Johnny emerged from the jungle into full sight of his father, Jeb, and many others inside the guard tower. "Stop when we get a little way from the door," Johnny said to the rhinosaur. The big beast grunted its understanding. Johnny and his friends came to a halt close enough to the tower so that Johnny's voice could be heard. "Open the gate, please," Johnny shouted. "We want to come inside." He saw his father's startled face above him. "Hello, Dad. How's Mom? Did she worry too much?" "Hello, son." His father's voice was shocked. "Your mother is all right." He paused. "Where did you.... How did you...?" "You mean the animals?" Johnny asked, rather enjoying the effect he was making. "Oh, they're friends of mine. You can let us in. They won't hurt anybody. I'm bringing a present to pay for Baba and make up for all the harm we did. Look." He took a packet of the claws and opened it. He let a handful of the claws run out of one hand into the other in a shining blue waterfall. Through the microphone he could hear his father and the other men gasp. "Come in here quick," Frederick Watson's voice came back over the loudspeaker. "Open the gates, please," Johnny repeated. "But the rhinosaur! And the leopard!" "They're friends of mine. They brought me here. They won't hurt anybody. I promise." The big steel gate slowly opened. Riding on the back of one of the greatly feared rhinosaurs, Johnny entered the colony. It seemed that everyone in the colony had heard of Johnny's strange return. Pioneers--men, women and children, hunters and guards--were hurrying toward the big gate. At the sight of the rhinosaur, a woman screamed and the crowd ran, scattering in all directions. Captain Thompson, two other colonists and a hunter held their ground, their ato-tube pistols out. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Johnny shouted. Beneath him the rhinosaur trembled. "He won't hurt you. He's our friend." He stroked the arrow-bird on his shoulder. "Look! Even an arrow-bird!" Slowly the ato-tube pistols that had been leveled at them were lowered. Hesitantly, one or two of the people began to move back toward the little group. A woman came running toward Johnny. It was his mother. Tears were running down her face. Even she was finally stopped by the bewildering sight of her son surrounded by jungle animals. "Let me down," Johnny clicked to the rhinosaur. The big animal lowered his head. A cry went up from the people as the leopardess bounded after him. Johnny threw his arms about his mother. "Oh, Johnny, Johnny!" his mother said over and over, holding him tight against her armor. She stiffened as the mother leopard rubbed against them and the arrow-bird lit, for a moment, on her shoulder. "Mother, I want you to meet my friends," Johnny said. "This is Mona, the leopardess, and her two cubs, Pat and Mike. And this is Skimpy, the monkey. I haven't named my arrow-bird yet." Then he spoke to the animals. "This is my mother." Johnny's mother stood there a moment, too bewildered to speak. The leopardess licked her hand. Then Johnny led his mother to the rhinosaur. "This is my friend Skorkin, the rhinosaur. He gave me a ride all the way here. Isn't he beautiful?" Then he clicked to the rhinosaur, "This is my mother." The huge creature grunted. "Skorkin said 'hello,'" Johnny said. Her eyes wide with the strangeness of it all, Johnny's mother nodded a wordless greeting to the creature. Just then Johnny heard a sound he had been waiting for. It was the sound of a basketball dropped from a height. He looked up to see Baba bounding along as fast as he could come. Johnny was off at a dead run to meet him, leaving his mother and the other animals behind. The two of them met at top speed, and they met with such impact that both were tumbled to the ground in a heap of arms, legs, boy and bear. Both of them were laughing when they got to their feet. "Oh, Baba, you bad little bear!" Johnny said. "I thought I'd never see you again!" "And I!" Baba said. "You shouldn't have come back here!" Johnny said. "I'll have to punish you right now!" He grabbed Baba suddenly by the leg, whirled him around and around above his head and threw him as high as he could in the air. Throwing his arms around as if frightened to death, the little bear whimpered and clicked. But just before he hit the ground he made himself into a ball, and bounced higher than Johnny had thrown him. Then, on the third bounce, he landed lightly on Johnny's shoulder. Their delight was cut short by the sight of a fat bald man who glittered as he walked toward the crowd. For an instant Johnny was afraid. It was Trader Harkness. Then he remembered--the trader's days of power were over. "Mr. Harkness," he called, "I've got something to show you." "They said you had claws." The trader's little black eyes fixed their gaze on Johnny. "Come on, I'll show everybody." The crowd parted for Johnny and Baba and the trader. By this time almost all the colonists and visiting hunters were gathered around the rhinosaur and the leopards. A few bold souls were timidly petting the cubs. Probably of most interest was the arrow-bird. Tired from all its riding, it had put its head under its wing and gone fast asleep, perched on the rhinosaur's horn. Johnny took the bag he had made from the shirt down from where it hung beside the arrow-bird. He untied it, revealing the many packets made from woven rushes. Packet after packet, he spilled the claws out on to the shirt until there was a great pile of jewels glowing before the people. "Where did you get them?" Trader Harkness' voice rumbled. He was shocked and pale. "The marva themselves gave them to me for the colony," Johnny replied. "It's a sign that they and all the animals want to be our friends." The trader forced his eyes away from the pile of jewels and looked over his shoulder. Johnny was suddenly conscious of three hunters standing behind the trader. Ed and his gang! "I'll take those claws now," the trader said. The gang whipped out their ato-tubes and leveled them at Johnny and Baba. The crowd gasped and then fell silent. Johnny's father stepped up, but one of the hunters waved him back with his gun. Johnny saw he'd been wrong. There was plenty of fight left in the trader. He glanced around him; the animals had become very still, waiting his word. "Friends," Johnny clicked, "stay still. This man is a killer." Skorkin, the rhinosaur, snorted. The arrow-bird awoke and snapped its head into arrow position. The monkey bared its teeth, while Mona, the leopardess, crouched to spring, the muscles of her haunches trembling. Johnny saw the trader's eyes widen. The leopard was not three feet away from him. Thinking fast, Johnny stepped carefully over and put a hand on the leopard's shoulder. "I wouldn't move, Mr. Harkness," Johnny said, his voice quavering in spite of himself. "If you don't tell your gang to give their guns to Captain Thompson, I'll tell the animals to charge. Maybe Ed told you what I made the monkey do?" Johnny's heart raced. It was a bluff. He couldn't tell the animals to charge. He knew they might be killed. No amount of claws would be worth that. The trader's eyes were fixed on Mona. Then Skorkin snorted again, eager to fight. The trader turned brick red. "Do what the kid says," he said in a low, strangled voice. The ato-tube in Ed's hand wavered and then came down. There was a deep sigh of relief from the crowd. Grimly and quietly, Captain Thompson gathered up the guns. "All right, you men," he said, "there's a room ready for you at the stockade." The fight was really gone from the trader now. His shoulders slumped, his head down, he shuffled as he was led away. Johnny's father stepped forward and embraced him. "I don't understand how you did it, Johnny," he said. "I don't understand anything about it. But this is certainly a wonderful day!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN _Teachers Can't Play Hookey_ It was now an hour after the Earth rocket had blasted off on its way back to Earth. Johnny Watson lay on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands and looked down from the top of New Plymouth Rock. Beside him, twisted into the same position, was his friend Baba, his blue nails glowing in Venus' pearly light. Near the two friends, perched on a boulder, were two of the large Venus eagles, watching every move they made. How changed it all was down in the settlement! People were streaming back from the rocket field on foot and without armor. Beside the Jenkins family strode Mona, the leopardess, carrying a basket in her mouth. In the basket the Jenkins' baby slept. Mona just loved babies. Down in the marshberry fields three rhinosaurs peacefully browsed. There were so many berries available now in the sea marshes that no one had to worry about the few in the fields. The marva had left these three rhinosaurs to carry people wherever they might want to go. High in the sky was a faint dot. Baba nudged Johnny and pointed. "Here comes Keetack," he said in his clicking language. "We'll have to go down pretty soon." "I suppose so," Johnny said wearily. It had been fun for a while being the only person who understood the marva language. When Dad and the other colonists had gone into the jungle to talk with the council of all the marva groves, Johnny and Baba had been there too--the center of attention. When the men spoke, Baba told the marva what they meant. When the marva spoke, Johnny had to tell the men what the bears meant. It had been fun being so important. It had been fun being treated like heroes, but they were already tired of it. With their new freedom to travel, there was a whole continent to explore, and hundreds of new friends to make. Idly, Johnny watched the dot, that Baba said was Keetack, grow into a bird with a twenty-foot wing spread flying through the sky. In its claws was a small black-muzzled bouncing bear. Baba's eyes were magically good. The bird was a Venus eagle--the marva's airplane. Before men had come and made it dangerous for them, the marva had flown anywhere they wanted to go in the talons of these great birds. Johnny knew that the earliest hunters thought the eagles were preying upon the bears. It was just one more surprising thing about the little bears. Johnny remembered what Rick had said when he had arrived home, his wound all healed. He had really grown to respect the marva. "They have learned to live with other creatures, and have taught all their friends, as they call the animals, to live in peace together. The meat eaters have their meat trees so they don't need to attack other animals--it's amazing," Rick reported. Johnny remembered how Baba had preened himself when Rick had spoken that way, and he smiled. "Hey, Baba," Johnny said, "how soon do you think we could take a trip all around the groves? We could get Skorkin to carry us, and go visit everybody." "You will have to come stay with my people," Baba said. Only a few days before Baba had discovered a host of aunts, uncles and cousins in one of the outlying groves. Most important of all he had found his father. "I've lived with you for years and years. Now it should be your turn." "Oh, good," said Johnny. "We'll do it, soon as they'll let us go." "Look, Johnny," Baba pointed. "Look at the trader!" Below, the fat bald-headed little man, a pack on his back, was heading into the jungle. He waddled as he walked, but he moved straight along. "Where's he going?" Baba asked. "Dad says he's going to start a marshberry farm--if the marva will let him. But, gosh, it'll be a long time before anyone will help him." "He can always live on meat fruit and stuff," Baba said. "Nobody likes him, but they won't bother him if he leaves them alone." What had happened to the trader and to the outlaws was the strangest thing of all. The marva had not wanted them punished. They said they wanted to make friends, not enemies. The thousands of marva claws that had been given to the colony had made the claws quite cheap, so that Trader Harkness had become a poor man; he had been rich in hunting equipment and hunting lodges--now all these things were valueless. Surprisingly, he had refused to return to Earth. "Venus is my home," he had said flatly. "I'll get by." Johnny had to admire his courage, just as he had to admire some of the hunters who would not stay on Venus. These lean hard-bitten men were going further on into space. To Johnny's surprise Keetack admired the hunters, too. "They are fighters, like the rhinosaurs. Here there is nothing left to fight. They are people of much courage." Looking down on the trader, Johnny found he couldn't help feeling sorry for him. "Goodbye," he yelled, his voice echoing among the rocks. "Goodbye, Trader." The fat man looked up and waved back. Johnny thought he smiled. "He was a real pioneer," Johnny said. "Yes," Baba answered, "he'll be all right." Johnny jumped back suddenly from the edge of the rock and hid behind some bushes. "Here comes Mom, looking for us!" Baba quickly dived back out of sight too. Johnny peeked through the screening of bushes. His mother was riding toward the rock on Skorkin, the rhinosaur! This hideout was not very secret. Everybody on Venus knew about it. He stood up, and waved down to her. "I'm coming, Mother," he shouted. His mother nodded and the big rhinosaur turned back toward the settlement. In a few minutes Baba and Johnny would be back in school, sitting in front of a group of men and a group of marva. Baba would be teaching the marva how to understand the talk of people, while Johnny taught the men and women how to talk and understand the language of the marva. It was a hard job. "I guess we gotta go back!" Johnny mourned. "I guess so!" Baba agreed sadly. "There is only one trouble with being a teacher," said Johnny. "Teachers just can't play hookey." Then he grinned. "Say, I've got an idea!" "What?" asked Baba. "Mom hasn't been doing her homework. Let's give a test today!" Baba slapped his furry haunches, his blue teeth glowing. "Let's go!" Johnny clicked to the two eagles. He ran as hard as he could and leaped off the edge of the high cliff, hurtling down and down. Right after him, Baba jumped, too. There was the sound of great wings, and the two tremendous Venus eagles swept after them. One dived at Johnny, its claws spread. The long powerful claws hooked into Johnny's belt and whisked him through the air toward the settlement. The other grasped Baba by the shoulders. Together the two friends flew on. "That was fun!" said Johnny. His furry blue pal nodded his agreement. Facts About Venus An Afterword for Curious Boys and Girls (As well as Parents, Teachers and Librarians) "Daddy, is this what Venus is really like?" demanded Blake, my eleven-year-old son. He had just finished reading my manuscript. I have an idea that among my readers there may be other curious boys and girls who might ask the same question my son did. This was my answer: The job of a science fiction writer, I think, is to spin out tales about other times and strange planets, using known facts as beginning points, and without violating any known facts. In _Venus Boy_ I have tried to do this. I think I have created a picture of life on the surface of Venus that is possible, if just barely possible. In addition to being a story teller, I am a librarian, and librarians love to keep their facts straight. The fact about Venus is that nobody knows just what it is like on the surface of the planet. Since nobody knows, I could make it all up. Many facts _are_ known about Venus, however. Venus is the Sun's second planet. It is about twenty-five million miles closer to the Sun than our Earth. Astronomers have measured and "weighed" it. It is almost exactly the same size as Earth, but its weight (mass) is twenty per cent less. It turns very slowly on its axis, so that its day is much longer than an Earth day. Because of a layer of clouds that surrounds it, the surface cannot be seen even with the most powerful of telescopes. Thus, astronomers cannot tell just how fast or slow it turns. A Venus day may be as short as fourteen Earth days or as long as two hundred and twenty-five Earth days. If you noticed, you can see I have kept my picture of life on Venus true to these facts. I had the Venus day be fourteen Earth days long. Some of the animals and plants were a great deal larger than Earth animals and plants, a fact that would be expected on a planet with less gravity than that of Earth. Of course you might think that because of the clouds that surround Venus, the planet would be a terribly rainy place. That is not very probable. By using an instrument called a spectrograph, astronomers have learned that those heavy clouds are not clouds of water vapor. Indeed, they can find evidence for little or no water vapor on Venus. They can detect a great deal of carbon dioxide--but no oxygen. "But without oxygen, animals couldn't breathe!" I can hear a child who knows some science say. "Life would be impossible!" That could be true. Some scientists, in fact most of them, believe that life _is_ impossible on the surface of Venus. But remember, nobody knows what is under that heavy layer of clouds, and nobody knows just what those clouds are. One astronomer, Rupert Wildt, has advanced a theory about the Venusian clouds that, I think, would allow for the possibility of life on Venus. He theorized, on the evidence available to him, that, when Venus was young, carbon-dioxide and water, in the presence of ultra-violet light, may have combined to make clouds of one form of plastic! I think it possible that such clouds would be thick, spongy and permanent, and that they would join together, so that the inner atmosphere of Venus could not escape through them. According to his theory Venus could be like a Christmas present--all wrapped in shining plastic. This could account for the fact, too, that more than half the light falling on it from the sun is reflected, making it the brightest of all the planets or stars, a jewel of a planet. Under a loose layer of plastic, life could be possible on Venus. If plant life began under those clouds, then an oxygen atmosphere could develop. Plants take in carbon dioxide through their leaves and give out oxygen. Many scientists believe the Earth's atmosphere became rich with oxygen in this manner. Of course, none of that oxygen in Venus' atmosphere could get through the thick layer of spongy plastic clouds. The carbon dioxide that was trapped on the outside would not get through either. Scientists believe, too, that Venus may be too hot for life, or too cold. I think that the clouds and the carbon dioxide trapped outside of them would serve, on the one hand, to insulate Venus from the hot light of the nearby sun; and, on the other hand, to hold in its warmth during the long nights. As you can see, I have spun my story out of Mr. Wildt's idea of the plastic clouds of Venus. The rhinosaurs heavy armor, the arrow-bird's bills, the marva's plastic-strengthening jewel claws, all had their beginnings in the idea of a plastic planet. It allowed for the creation of some fairly interesting animals, I think. While I am on the subject of my animals, I should say a word about the possibility of animals cooperating the way I have had my Venus animals cooperate. That, I think, is perfectly possible. On Earth one can find examples of several creatures living so closely together that if one kind is killed off the others would all die. In many articles and books Mr. Ashley Montague has amassed much evidence that shows an instinct for cooperation is as primary as the instinct of self-preservation. If we grant the idea of a creature whose intelligence is directed entirely toward surviving by cooperation, then I think my cooperative animals are, at the very least, possible. Possible! That is what I hope my picture of life on Venus is. However, it must be remembered that it is only _just_ possible. Astronomers have envisioned Venus as a planet of terrible dust storms, with a temperature hot enough to boil water. They have spoken of it as a place of seas of formaldehyde, hot and terrible by day, and freezing cold at night. Their guesses are probably better than mine. But I must admit I like my guess a little better. I hope you have enjoyed it. 
10226	----	Proofreading Team. BEAUTIFUL JOE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY MARSHALL SAUNDERS Author of "My Spanish Sailor," "Charles and His Lamb," "Daisy," etc. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH OF YOUTH'S COMPANION 1903 TO GEORGE THORNDIKE ANGELL PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN HUMANE EDUCATION SOCIETY THE MASSACHUSETTS SOCIETY FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS, AND THE PARENT AMERICAN BAND OF MERCY 19 MILK ST., BOSTON THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR PREFACE Beautiful Joe is a real dog, and "Beautiful Joe" is his real name. He belonged during the first part of his life to a cruel master, who mutilated him in the manner described in the story. He was rescued from him, and is now living in a happy home with pleasant surroundings, and enjoys a wide local celebrity. The character of Laura is drawn from life, and to the smallest detail is truthfully depicted. The Morris family has its counterparts in real life, and nearly all of the incidents of the story are founded on fact.--THE AUTHOR. INTRODUCTION The wonderfully successful book, entitled "Black Beauty," came like a living voice out of the animal kingdom. But it spake for the horse, and made other books necessary; it led the way. After the ready welcome that it received, and the good it has accomplished and is doing, it followed naturally that some one should be inspired to write a book to interpret the life of a dog to the humane feeling of the world. Such a story we have in "Beautiful Joe." The story speaks not for the dog alone, but for the whole animal kingdom. Through it we enter the animal world, and are made to see as animals see, and to feel as animals feel. The sympathetic sight of the author, in this interpretation, is ethically the strong feature of the book. Such books as this is one of the needs of our progressive system of education. The day-school, the Sunday-school, and all libraries for the young, demand the influence that shall teach the reader how to live in sympathy with the animal world; how to understand the languages of the creatures that we have long been accustomed to call "dumb," and the sign language of the lower orders of these dependent beings. The church owes it to her mission to preach and to teach the enforcement of the "bird's nest commandment;" the principle recognized by Moses in the Hebrew world, and echoed by Cowper in English poetry, and Burns in the "Meadow Mouse," and by our own Longfellow in songs of many keys. Kindness to the animal kingdom is the first, or a first principle in the growth of true philanthropy. Young Lincoln once waded across a half-frozen river to rescue a dog, and stopped in a walk with a statesman to put back a bird that had fallen out of its nest. Such a heart was trained to be a leader of men, and to be crucified for a cause. The conscience that runs to the call of an animal in distress is girding itself with power to do manly work in the world. The story of "Beautiful Joe" awakens an intense interest, and sustains it through a series of vivid incidents and episodes, each of which is a lesson. The story merits the widest circulation, and the universal reading and response accorded to "Black Beauty." To circulate it is to do good; to help the human heart as well as the creatures of quick feelings and simple language. When, as one of the committee to examine the manuscripts offered for prizes to the Humane Society, I read the story, I felt that the writer had a higher motive than to compete for a prize; that the story was a stream of sympathy that flowed from the heart; that it was genuine; that it only needed a publisher who should be able to command a wide influence, to make its merits known, to give it a strong educational mission. I am pleased that the manuscript has found such a publisher, and am sure that the issue of the story will honor the Publication Society. In the development of the book, I believe that the humane cause has stood above any speculative thought or interest. The book comes because it is called for; the times demand it. I think that the publishers have a right to ask for a little unselfish service on the part of the public in helping to give it a circulation commensurate with its opportunity, need, and influence. HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. (Of the committee of readers of the prize stories offered to the Humane Society.) BOSTON, MASS., Dec., 1893. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. ONLY A CUR II. THE CRUEL MILKMAN III. MY KIND DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA IV. THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME V. MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY VI. THE FOX TERRIER BILLY VII. TRAINING A PUPPY VIII. A RUINED DOG IX. THE PARROT BELLA X. BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED XI. GOLDFISH AND CANARIES XII. MALTA THE CAT XIII. THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE XIV. HOW WE CAUGHT THE BURGLAR XV. OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE XVI. DINGLEY FARM XVII. MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES XVIII. MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY XIX. A BAND OF MERCY XX. STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS XXI. MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY XXII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE XXIII. TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS XXIV. THE RABBIT AND THE HEN XXV. A HAPPY HORSE XXVI. THE BOX OF MONEY XXVII. A NEGLECTED STABLE XXVIII. THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN XXIX. A TALK ABOUT SHEEP XXX. A JEALOUS OX XXXI. IN THE COW STABLE XXXII. OUR RETURN HOME XXXIII. PERFORMING ANIMALS XXXIV. A FIRE IN FAIRPORT XXXV. BILLY AND THE ITALIAN XXXVI. DANDY THE TRAMP XXXVII. THE END OF MY STORY BEAUTIFUL JOE CHAPTER I ONLY A CUR My name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size. I am not called Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty. Mr. Morris, the clergyman, in whose family I have lived for the last twelve years, says that he thinks I must be called Beautiful Joe for the same reason that his grandfather, down South, called a very ugly colored slave-lad Cupid, and his mother Venus. I do not know what he means by that, but when he says it people always look at me and smile. I know that I am not beautiful, and I know that I am not a thoroughbred. I am only a cur. When my mistress went every year to register me and pay my tax, and the man in the office asked what breed I was, she said part fox-terrier and part bull-terrier; but he always put me down a cur. I don't think she liked having him call me a cur; still, I have heard her say that she preferred curs, for they have more character than well-bred dogs. Her father said that she liked ugly dogs for the same reason that a nobleman at the court of a certain king did--namely, that no one else would. I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to write, the story of my life. I have seen my mistress laughing and crying over a little book that she says is a story of a horse's life, and sometimes she puts the book down close to my nose to let me see the pictures. I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better than any one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I write the story of a dog's life. She loves dumb animals, and it always grieves her to see them treated cruelly. I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were to rise up and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they could put a stop to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story. I am fond of boys and girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and women, I have seen few cruel children. I think the more stories there are written about dumb animals, the better it will be for us. In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come right on to the end. I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town in Maine called Fairport. The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The next thing I remember was being always hungry. I had a number of brothers and sisters--six in all--and my mother never had enough milk for us. She was always half starved herself, so she could not feed us properly. I am very unwilling to say much about my early life, I have lived so long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything, that it seems almost wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb beast. The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk cans in. I don't think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman. It makes me shudder now to think of him. His name was Jenkins, and I am glad to think that he is getting punished now for his cruelty to poor dumb animals and to human beings. If you think it is wrong that I am glad, you must remember that I am only a dog. The first notice that he took of me when I was a little puppy, just able to stagger about, was to give me a kick that sent me into a corner of the stable. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have seen him use his heavy whip to punish her till her body was covered with blood. When I got older I asked her why she did not run away. She said she did not wish to; but I soon found out that the reason she did not run away, was because she loved Jenkins. Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she would have laid down her life for him. Now that I am old, I know that there are more men in the world like Jenkins. They are not crazy, they are not drunkards; they simply seem to be possessed with a spirit of wickedness. There are well-to-do people, yes, and rich people, who will treat animals, and even little children, with such terrible cruelty, that one cannot even mention the things that they are guilty of. One reason for Jenkins' cruelty was his idleness. After he went his rounds in the morning with his milk cans, he had nothing to do till late in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had kept them neat, and groomed his horse, and cleaned the cows, and dug up the garden, it would have taken up all his time; but he never tidied the place at all, till his yard and stable got so littered up with things he threw down that he could not make his way about. His house and stable stood in the middle of a large field, and they were at some distance from the road. Passers-by could not see how untidy the place was. Occasionally, a man came to look at the premises, and see that they were in good order, but Jenkins always knew when to expect him, and had things cleaned up a little. I used to wish that some of the people that took milk from him would come and look at his cows. In the spring and summer he drove them out to pasture, but during the winter they stood all the time in the dirty, dark stable, where the chinks in the wall were so big that the snow swept through almost in drifts. The ground was always muddy and wet; there was only one small window on the north side, where the sun only shone in for a short time in the afternoon. They were very unhappy cows, but they stood patiently and never complained, though sometimes I know they must have nearly frozen in the bitter winds that blew through the stable on winter nights. They were lean and poor, and were never in good health. Besides being cold they were fed on very poor food. Jenkins used to come home nearly every afternoon with a great tub in the back of his cart that was full of what he called "peelings." It was kitchen stuff that he asked the cooks at the different houses where he delivered milk, to save for him. They threw rotten vegetables, fruit parings, and scraps from the table into a tub, and gave them to him at the end of a few days. A sour, nasty mess it always was, and not fit to give any creature. Sometimes, when he had not many "peelings," he would go to town and get a load of decayed vegetables, that grocers were glad to have him take off their hands. This food, together with poor hay, made the cows give very poor milk, and Jenkins used to put some white powder in it, to give it "body," as he said. Once a very sad thing happened about the milk, that no one knew about but Jenkins and his wife. She was a poor, unhappy creature, very frightened at her husband, and not daring to speak much to him. She was not a clean woman, and I never saw a worse-looking house than she kept. She used to do very queer things, that I know now no housekeeper should do. I have seen her catch up the broom to pound potatoes in the pot. She pounded with the handle, and the broom would fly up and down in the air, dropping dust into the pot where the potatoes were. Her pan of soft-mixed bread she often left uncovered in the kitchen, and sometimes the hens walked in and sat in it. The children used to play in mud puddles about the door. It was the youngest of them that sickened with some kind of fever early in the spring, before Jenkins began driving the cows out to pasture. The child was very ill, and Mrs. Jenkins wanted to send for a doctor, but her husband would not let her. They made a bed in the kitchen, close to the stove, and Mrs. Jenkins nursed the child as best she could. She did all her work near by, and I saw her several times wiping the child's face with the cloth that she used for washing her milk pans. Nobody knew outside the family that the little girl was ill. Jenkins had such a bad name, that none of the neighbors would visit them. By-and-by the child got well, and a week or two later Jenkins came home with quite a frightened face, and told his wife that the husband of one of his customers was very ill with typhoid fever. After a time the gentleman died, and the cook told Jenkins that the doctor wondered how he could have taken the fever, for there was not a case in town. There was a widow left with three orphans, and they never knew that they had to blame a dirty, careless milkman for taking a kind husband and father from them. * * * * * CHAPTER II THE CRUEL MILKMAN I have said that Jenkins spent most of his days in idleness. He had to start out very early in the morning, in order to supply his customers with milk for breakfast. Oh, how ugly he used to be, when he came into the stable on cold winter mornings, before the sun was up. He would hang his lantern on a hook, and get his milking stool, and if the cows did not step aside just to suit him, he would seize a broom or fork, and beat them cruelly. My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable, and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so that we could run out-doors as soon as he opened the stable door. He always aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge him. After he finished milking, he took the pails of milk up to the house for Mrs. Jenkins to strain and put in the cans, and he came back and harnessed his horse to the cart. His horse was called Toby, and a poor, miserable, broken-down creature he was. He was weak in the knees, and weak in the back, and weak all over, and Jenkins had to beat him all the time, to make him go. He had been a cab horse, and his mouth had been jerked, and twisted, and sawed at, till one would think there could be no feeling left in it; still I have seen him wince and curl up his lip when Jenkins thrust in the frosty bit on a winter's morning. Poor old Toby! I used to lie on my straw sometimes and wonder he did not cry out with pain. Cold and half starved he always was in the winter time, and often with raw sores on his body that Jenkins would try to hide by putting bits of cloth under the harness. But Toby never murmured, and he never tried to kick and bite, and he minded the least word from Jenkins, and if he swore at him. Toby would start back, or step up quickly, he was so anxious to please him. After Jenkins put him in the cart, and took in the cans, he set out on his rounds. My mother, whose name was Jess, always went with him. I used to ask her why she followed such a brute of a man, and she would hang her head, and say that sometimes she got a bone from the different houses they stopped at. But that was not the whole reason. She liked Jenkins so much, that she wanted to be with him. I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if Mrs. Jenkins had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something, for she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits of food that she threw to me. When Jenkins come home, I often coaxed mother to run about and see some of the neighbors' dogs with me. But she never would, and I would not leave her. So, from morning to night we had to sneak about, keeping out of Jenkins' way as much as we could, and yet trying to keep him in sight. He always sauntered about with a pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, growling first at his wife and children, and then at his dumb creatures. I have not told what became of my brothers and sisters. One rainy day, when we were eight weeks old, Jenkins, followed by two or three of his ragged, dirty children, came into the stable and looked at us. Then he began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been good-looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him anxiously, and fearing some danger to her puppies, ran and jumped in the middle of us, and looked pleadingly up at him. It only made him swear the more. He took one pup after another, and right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put an end to their lives. Some of them he seized by the legs and knocked against the stalls, till their brains were dashed out, others he killed with a fork. It was very terrible. My mother ran up and down the stable, screaming with pain, and I lay weak and trembling, and expecting every instant that my turn would come next. I don't know why he spared me. I was the only one left. His children cried, and he sent them out of the stable and went out himself. Mother picked up all the puppies and brought them to our nest in the straw and licked them, and tried to bring them back to life; but it was of no use; they were quite dead. We had them in our corner of the stable for some days, till Jenkins discovered them, and swearing horribly at us, he took his stable fork and threw them out in the yard, and put some earth over them. My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable, and though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. This was on account of the poor food she had been fed on. She could not run after Jenkins, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me gently, wagged her tail, and died. As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, Jenkins came into the stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There she lay, a little, gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death by him. Her mouth was half open, her eyes were staring. She would never again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh, how I hated her murderer! But I sat quietly, even when he went up and turned her over with his foot to see if she was really dead. I think he was a little sorry, for he turned scornfully toward me and said, "She was worth two of you; why didn't you go instead?" Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him a savage bite on the ankle. "Oho," he said, "so you are going to be a fighter, are you? I'll fix you for that." His face was red and furious. He seized me by the back of the neck and carried me out to the yard where a log lay on the ground. "Bill," he called to one of his children, "bring me the hatchet." He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body. I was now a year old and a full-sized dog. There was a quick, dreadful pain, and he had cut off my ear, not in the way they cut puppies' ears, but close to my head, so close that he cut off some of the skin beyond it. Then he cut off the other ear, and, turning me swiftly round, cut off my tail close to my body. Then he let me go and stood looking at me as I rolled on the ground and yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did not think that people passing by on the road might hear me. * * * * * CHAPTER III MY KIND DELIVERER AND MISS LAURA There was a young man going by on a bicycle. He heard my screams and springing off his bicycle, came hurrying up the path, and stood among us before Jenkins caught sight of him. In the midst of my pain, I heard him in say fiercely "What have you been doing to that dog?" "I've been cuttin' his ears for fightin', my young gentleman," said Jenkins. "There is no law to prevent that, is there?" "And there is no law to prevent my giving you a beating," said the young man, angrily. In a trice he had seized Jenkins by the throat, and was pounding him with all his might. Mrs. Jenkins came and stood at the house door, crying, but making no effort to help her husband. "Bring me a towel," the young man cried to her, after he had stretched Jenkins, bruised and frightened, on the ground. She snatched off her apron, and ran down with it, and the young man wrapped me in it, and taking me carefully in his arms, walked down the path to the gate. There were some little boys standing there, watching him, their mouths wide open with astonishment. "Sonny," he said to the largest of them, "if you will come behind and carry this dog, I will give you a quarter." The boy took me, and we set out. I was all smothered up in a cloth, and moaning with pain, but still I looked out occasionally to see which way we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a house on Washington Street. The young man leaned his bicycle up against the house, took a quarter from his pocket and put it in the boy's hand, and lifting me gently in his arms, went up a lane leading to the back of the house. There was a small stable there. He went into it, put me down on the floor and uncovered my body. Some boys were playing about the stable, and I heard them say, in horrified tones, "Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the matter with that dog?" "Hush," he said. "Don't make a fuss. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don't let your mother or Laura hear you." A few minutes later, the young man had bathed my bleeding ears and tail, and had rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had bandaged them firmly with strips of cotton. I felt much better and was able to look about me, I was in a small stable, that was evidently not used for a stable, but more for a play-room. There were various kinds of toys scattered about and a swing and bar, such as boys love to twist about on, in two different corners. In a box against the wall was a guinea pig, looking at me in an interested way. This guinea pig's name was Jeff, and he and I became good friends. A long-haired French rabbit was hopping about, and a tame white rat was perched on the shoulder of one of the boys, and kept his foothold there, no matter how suddenly the boy moved. There were so many boys, and the stable was so small, that I suppose he was afraid he would get stepped on if he went on the floor. He stared hard at me with his little, red eyes, and never even glanced at a queer-looking, gray cat that was watching me, too, from her bed in the back of the vacant horse stall. Out in the sunny yard, some pigeons were pecking at grain, and a spaniel lay asleep in a corner. I had never seen anything like this before, and my wonder at it almost drove the pain away. Mother and I always chased rats and birds, and once we killed a kitten. While I was puzzling over it, one of the boys cried out, "Here is Laura!" "Take that rag out of the way," said Mr. Harry, kicking aside the old apron I had been wrapped in, and that was stained with my blood. One of the boys stuffed it into a barrel, and then they all looked toward the house. A young girl, holding up one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, was coming up the walk that led from the house to the stable. I thought then that I never had seen such a beautiful girl, and I think so still. She was tall and slender, and had lovely brown eyes and brown hair, and a sweet smile, and just to look at her was enough to make one love her. I stood in the stable door, staring at her with all my might. "Why, what a funny dog," she said, and stopped short to looked at me. Up to this, I had not thought what a queer-looking sight I must be. Now I twisted round my head, saw the white bandage on my tail, and knowing I was not a fit spectacle for a pretty young lady like that, I slunk into a corner. "Poor doggie, have I hurt your feelings?" she said, and with a sweet smile at the boys, she passed by them and came up to the guinea pig's box, behind which I had taken refuge. "What is the matter with your head, good dog?" she said, curiously, as she stooped over me. "He has a cold in it," said one of the boys with a laugh; "so we put a nightcap on." She drew back, and turned very pale. "Cousin Harry, there are drops of blood on this cotton. Who has hurt this dog?" "Dear Laura," and the young man coming up, laid his hand on her shoulder, "he got hurt, and I have been bandaging him." "Who hurt him?" "I had rather not tell you." "But I wish to know." Her voice was as gentle as ever, but she spoke so decidedly that the young man was obliged to tell her everything. All the time he was speaking, she kept touching me gently with her fingers. When he had finished his account of rescuing me from Jenkins, she said, quietly: "You will have the man punished?" "What is the use? That won't stop him from being cruel." "It will put a check on his cruelty." "I don't think it would do any good," said the young man, doggedly, "Cousin Harry!" and the young girl stood up very straight and tall, her brown eyes flashing, and one hand pointing at me; "will you let that pass? That animal has been wronged, it looks to you to right it. The coward who has maimed it for life should be punished. A child has a voice to tell its wrong--a poor, dumb creature must suffer in silence; in bitter, bitter silence. And," eagerly, as the young man tried to interrupt her, "you are doing the man himself an injustice. If he is bad enough to ill-treat his dog, he will ill-treat his wife and children. If he is checked and punished now for his cruelty, he may reform. And even if his wicked heart is not changed, he will be obliged to treat them with outward kindness, through fear of punishment" The young man looked convinced, and almost as ashamed as if he had been the one to crop my ears. "What do you want me to do?" he said, slowly, and looking sheepishly at the boys who were staring open-mouthed at him and the young girl. The girl pulled a little watch from her belt. "I want you to report that man immediately. It is now five o'clock. I will go down to the police station with you, if you like." "Very well," he said, his face brightening, and together they went off to the house. * * * * * CHAPTER IV THE MORRIS BOYS ADD TO MY NAME The boys watched them out of sight, then one of them, whose name I afterward learned was Jack, and who came next to Miss Laura in age, gave a low whistle and said, "Doesn't the old lady come out strong when any one or anything gets abused? I'll never forget the day she found me setting Jim on that black cat of the Wilsons. She scolded me, and then she cried, till I didn't know where to look. Plague on it, how was I going to know he'd kill the old cat? I only wanted to drive it out of the yard. Come on, let's look at the dog." They all came and bent over me, as I lay on the floor in my corner. I wasn't much used to boys, and I didn't know how they would treat me. But I soon found by the way they handled me and talked to me, that they knew a good deal about dogs, and were accustomed to treat them kindly. It seemed very strange to have them pat me, and call me "good dog." No one had ever said that to me before to-day. "He's not much of a beauty, is he?" said one of the boys, whom they called Tom. "Not by a long shot," said Jack Morris, with a laugh. "Not any nearer the beauty mark than yourself, Tom." Tom flew at him, and they had a scuffle. The other boys paid no attention to them, but went on looking at me. One of them, a little boy with eyes like Miss Laura's, said, "What did Cousin Harry say the dog's name was?" "Joe," answered another boy. "The little chap that carried him home told him." "We might call him 'Ugly Joe' then," said a lad with a round, fat face, and laughing eyes. I wondered very much who this boy was, and, later on, I found out that he was another of Miss Laura's brothers, and his name was Ned. There seemed to be no end to the Morris boys. "I don't think Laura would like that," said Jack Morris, suddenly coming up behind him. He was very hot, and was breathing fast, but his manner was as cool as if he had never left the group about me. He had beaten Tom, who was sitting on a box, ruefully surveying a hole in his jacket. "You see," he went on, gaspingly, "if you call him 'Ugly Joe,' her ladyship will say that you are wounding the dear dog's feelings. 'Beautiful Joe,' would be more to her liking." A shout went up from the boys. I didn't wonder that they laughed. Plain-looking I naturally was; but I must have been hideous in those bandages. "'Beautiful Joe,' then let it be!" they cried. "Let us go and tell mother, and ask her to give us something for our beauty to eat." They all trooped out of the stable, and I was very sorry, for when they were with me, I did not mind so much the tingling in my ears, and the terrible pain in my back. They soon brought me some nice food, but I could not touch it; so they went away to their play, and I lay in the box they put me in, trembling with pain, and wishing that the pretty young lady was there, to stroke me with her gentle fingers. By-and-by it got dark. The boys finished their play, and went into the house, and I saw lights twinkling in the windows. I felt lonely and miserable in this strange place. I would not have gone back to Jenkins' for the world, still it was the only home I had known, and though I felt that I should be happy here, I had not yet gotten used to the change. Then the pain all through my body was dreadful. My head seemed to be on fire, and there were sharp, darting pains up and down my backbone. I did not dare to howl, lest I should make the big dog, Jim, angry. He was sleeping in a kennel, out in the yard. The stable was very quiet. Up in the loft above, some rabbits that I had heard running about had now gone to sleep. The guinea pig was nestling in the corner of his box, and the cat and the tame rat had scampered into the house long ago. At last I could bear the pain no longer, I sat up in my box and looked about me. I felt as if I was going to die, and, though I was very weak, there was something inside me that made me feel as if I wanted to crawl away somewhere out of sight. I slunk out into the yard, and along the stable wall, where there was a thick clump of raspberry bushes. I crept in among them and lay down in the damp earth. I tried to scratch off my bandages, but they were fastened on too firmly, and I could not do it. I thought about my poor mother, and wished she was here to lick my sore ears. Though she was so unhappy herself, she never wanted to see me suffer. If I had not disobeyed her, I would not now be suffering so much pain. She had told me again and again not to snap at Jenkins, for it made him worse. In the midst of my trouble I heard a soft voice calling, "Joe! Joe!" It was Miss Laura's voice, but I felt as if there were weights on my paws, and I could not go to her. "Joe! Joe!" she said, again. She was going up the walk to the stable, holding up a lighted lamp in her hand. She had on a white dress, and I watched her till she disappeared in the stable. She did not stay long in there. She came out and stood on the gravel. "Joe, Joe, Beautiful Joe, where are you? You are hiding somewhere, but I shall find you." Then she came right to the spot where I was. "Poor doggie," she said, stooping down and patting me. "Are you very miserable, and did you crawl away to die? I have had dogs to do that before, but I am not going to let you die, Joe." And she set her lamp on the ground, and took me in her arms. I was very thin then, not nearly so fat as I am now, still I was quite an armful for her. But she did not seem to find me heavy. She took me right into the house, through the back door, and down a long flight of steps, across a hall, and into a snug kitchen. "For the land sakes, Miss Laura," said a woman who was bending over a stove, "what have you got there?" "A poor sick dog, Mary," said Miss Laura, seating herself on a chair. "Will you please warm a little milk for him? And have you a box or a basket down here that he can lie in?" "I guess so," said the woman; "but he's awful dirty; you're not going to let him sleep in the house, are you?" "Only for to-night. He is very ill. A dreadful thing happened to him, Mary." And Miss Laura went on to tell her how my ears had been cut off. "Oh, that's the dog the boys were talking about," said the woman. "Poor creature, he's welcome to all I can do for him." She opened a closet door, and brought out a box, and folded a piece of blanket for me to lie on. Then she heated some milk in a saucepan, and poured it in a saucer, and watched me while Miss Laura went upstairs to get a little bottle of something that would make me sleep. They poured a few drops of this medicine into the milk and offered it to me. I lapped a little, but I could not finish it, even though Miss Laura coaxed me very gently to do so. She dipped her finger in the milk and held it out to me, and though I did not want it, I could not be ungrateful enough to refuse to lick her finger as often as she offered it to me. After the milk was gone, Mary lifted up my box, and carried me into the washroom that was off the kitchen. I soon fell sound asleep, and could not rouse myself through the night, even though I both smelled and heard some one coming near me several times. The next morning I found out that it was Miss Laura. Whenever there was a sick animal in the house, no matter if it was only the tame rat, she would get up two or three times in the night, to see if there was anything she could do to make it more comfortable. * * * * * CHAPTER V MY NEW HOME AND A SELFISH LADY I don't believe that a dog could have fallen into a happier home than I did. In a week, thanks to good nursing, good food, and kind words, I was almost well. Mr. Harry washed and dressed my sore ears and tail every day till he went home, and one day, he and the boys gave me a bath out in the stable. They carried out a tub of warm water and stood me in it. I had never been washed before in my life, and it felt very queer. Miss Laura stood by laughing and encouraging me not to mind the streams of water trickling all over me. I couldn't help wondering what Jenkins would have said if he could have seen me in that tub. That reminds me to say, that two days after I arrived at the Morrises', Jack, followed by all the other boys, came running into the stable. He had a newspaper in his hand, and with a great deal of laughing and joking, read this to me: "'Fairport Daily News', June 3d. In the police court this morning, James Jenkins, for cruelly torturing and mutilating a dog, fined ten dollars and costs." Then he said, "What do you think of that, Joe? Five dollars apiece for your ears and your tail thrown in. That's all they're worth in the eyes of the law. Jenkins has had his fun and you'll go through life worth about three-quarters of a dog. I'd lash rascals like that. Tie them up and flog them till they were scarred and mutilated a little bit themselves. Just wait till I'm president. But there's some more, old fellow. Listen: 'Our reporter visited the house of the above-mentioned Jenkins, and found a most deplorable state of affairs. The house, yard and stable were indescribably filthy. His horse bears the marks of ill-usage, and is in an emaciated condition. His cows are plastered up with mud and filth, and are covered with vermin. Where is our health inspector, that he does not exercise a more watchful supervision over establishments of this kind? To allow milk from an unclean place like this to be sold in the town, is endangering the health of its inhabitants. Upon inquiry, it was found that the man Jenkins bears a very bad character. Steps are being taken to have his wife and children removed from him.'" Jack threw the paper into my box, and he and the other boys gave three cheers for the 'Daily News' and then ran away. How glad I was! It did not matter so much for me, for I had escaped him, but now that it had been found out what a cruel man he was, there would be a restraint upon him, and poor Toby and the cows would have a happier time. I was going to tell about the Morris family. There were Mr. Morris, who was a clergyman and preached in a church in Fairport; Mrs. Morris, his wife; Miss Laura, who was the eldest of the family; then Jack, Ned, Carl, and Willie. I think one reason why they were such a good family was because Mrs. Morris was such a good woman. She loved her husband and children, and did everything she could to make them happy. Mr. Morris was a very busy man and rarely interfered in household affairs. Mrs. Morris was the one who said what was to be done and what was not to be done. Even then, when I was a young dog, I used to think that she was very wise. There was never any noise or confusion in the house, and though there was a great deal of work to be done, everything went on smoothly and pleasantly, and no one ever got angry and scolded as they did in the Jenkins family. Mrs. Morris was very particular about money matters. Whenever the boys came to her for money to get such things as candy and ice cream, expensive toys, and other things that boys often crave, she asked them why they wanted them. If it was for some selfish reason, she said, firmly: "No, my children; we are not rich people, and we must save our money for your education. I cannot buy you foolish things." If they asked her for money for books or something to make their pet animals more comfortable, or for their outdoor games, she gave it to them willingly. Her ideas about the bringing up of children I cannot explain as clearly as she can herself, so I will give part of a conversation that she had with a lady who was calling on her shortly after I came to Washington Street. I happened to be in the house at the time. Indeed, I used to spend the greater part of my time in the house. Jack one day looked at me, and exclaimed: "Why does that dog stalk about, first after one and then after another, looking at us with such solemn eyes?" I wished that I could speak to tell him that I had so long been used to seeing animals kicked about and trodden upon, that I could not get used to the change. It seemed too good to be true. I could scarcely believe that dumb animals had rights; but while it lasted, and human beings were so kind to me, I wanted to be with them all the time. Miss Laura understood. She drew my head up to her lap, and put her face down to me: "You like to be with us, don't you, Joe? Stay in the house as much as you like. Jack doesn't mind, though he speaks so sharply. When you get tired of us go out in the garden and have a romp with Jim." But I must return to the conversation I referred to. It was one fine June day, and Mrs. Morris was sewing in a rocking-chair by the window. I was beside her, sitting on a hassock, so that I could look out into the street. Dogs love variety and excitement, and like to see what is going on out-doors as well as human beings. A carriage drove up to the door, and a finely-dressed lady got out and came up the steps. Mrs. Morris seemed glad to see her, and called her Mrs. Montague. I was pleased with her, for she had some kind of perfume about her that I liked to smell. So I went and sat on the hearth rug quite near her. They had a little talk about things I did not understand and then the lady's eyes fell on me. She looked at me through a bit of glass that was hanging by a chain from her neck, and pulled away her beautiful dress lest I should touch it. I did not care any longer for the perfume, and went away and sat very straight and stiff at Mrs. Morris' feet. The lady's eyes still followed me. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris," she said; "but that is a very queer-looking dog you have there." "Yes," said Mrs. Morris, quietly; "he is not a handsome dog." "And he is a new one, isn't he?" said Mrs. Montague. "Yes." "And that makes--" "Two dogs, a cat, fifteen or twenty rabbits, a rat, about a dozen canaries, and two dozen goldfish, I don't know how many pigeons, a few bantams, a guinea pig, and--well, I don't think there is anything more." They both laughed, and Mrs. Montague said: "You have quite a menagerie. My father would never allow one of his children to keep a pet animal. He said it would make his girls rough and noisy to romp about the house with cats, and his boys would look like rowdies if they went about with dogs at their heels." "I have never found that it made my children more rough to play with their pets," said Mrs. Morris. "No, I should think not," said the lady, languidly. "Your boys are the most gentlemanly lads in Fairport, and as for Laura, she is a perfect little lady. I like so much to have them come and see Charlie. They wake him up, and yet don't make him naughty." "They enjoyed their last visit very much," said Mrs. Morris. "By the way, I have heard them talking about getting Charlie a dog." "Oh!" cried the lady, with a little shudder, "beg them not to. I cannot sanction that. I hate dogs." "Why do you hate them?" asked Mrs. Morris, gently. "They are such dirty things; they always smell and have vermin on them." "A dog," said Mrs. Morris, "is something like a child. If you want it clean and pleasant, you have got to keep it so. This dog's skin is as clean as yours or mine. Hold still, Joe," and she brushed the hair on my back the wrong way, and showed Mrs. Montague how pink and free from dust my skin was. Mrs. Montague looked at me more kindly, and even held out the tips of her fingers to me. I did not lick them. I only smelled them, and she drew her hand back again. "You have never been brought in contact with the lower creation as I have," said Mrs. Morris; "just let me tell you, in a few words, what a help dumb animals have been to me in the up-bringing of my children--my boys, especially. When I was a young married woman, going about the slums of New York with my husband, I used to come home and look at my two babies as they lay in their little cots, and say to him, 'What are we going to do to keep these children from selfishness--the curse of the world?' "'Get them to do something for somebody outside themselves,' he always said. And I have tried to act on that principle. Laura is naturally unselfish. With her tiny, baby fingers, she would take food from her own mouth and put it into Jack's, if we did not watch her. I have never had any trouble with her. But the boys were born selfish, tiresomely, disgustingly selfish. They were good boys in many ways. As they grew older, they were respectful, obedient, they were not untidy, and not particularly rough, but their one thought was for themselves--each one for himself, and they used to quarrel with each other in regard to their rights. While we were in New York, we had only a small, back yard. When we came here, I said, 'I am going to try an experiment.' We got this house because it had a large garden, and a stable that would do for the boys to play in. Then I got them together, and had a little serious talk. I said I was not pleased with the way in which they were living. They did nothing for any one but themselves from morning to night. If I asked them to do an errand for me, it was done unwillingly. Of course, I knew they had their school for a part of the day, but they had a good deal of leisure time when they might do something for some one else. I asked them if they thought they were going to make real, manly Christian boys at this rate, and they said no. Then I asked them what we should do about it. They all said, 'You tell us mother, and we'll do as you say.' I proposed a series of tasks. Each one to do something for somebody, outside and apart from himself, every day of his life. They all agreed to this, and told me to allot the tasks. If I could have afforded it, I would have gotten a horse and cow, and had them take charge of them; but I could not do that, so I invested in a pair of rabbits for Jack, a pair of canaries for Carl, pigeons for Ned, and bantams for Willie. I brought these creatures home, put them into their hands, and told them to provide for them. They were delighted with my choice, and it was very amusing to see them scurrying about to provide food and shelter for their pets and hear their consultations with other boys. The end of it all is, that I am perfectly satisfied with my experiment. My boys, in caring for these dumb creatures, have become unselfish and thoughtful. They had rather go to school without their own breakfast than have the inmates of the stable go hungry. They are getting a humane education, a heart education, added to the intellectual education of their schools. Then it keeps them at home. "I used to be worried with the lingering about street corners, the dawdling around with other boys, and the idle, often worse than idle, talk indulged in. Now they have something to do, they are men of business. They are always hammering and pounding at boxes and partitions out there in the stable, or cleaning up, and if they are sent out on an errand, they do it and come right home. I don't mean to say that we have deprived them of liberty. They have their days for base-ball, and foot-ball, and excursions to the woods, but they have so much to do at home, that they won't go away unless for a specific purpose." While Mrs. Morris was talking, her visitor leaned forward in her chair, and listened attentively. When she finished, Mrs. Montague said, quietly, "Thank you, I am glad that you told me this. I shall get Charlie a dog." "I am glad to hear you say that," replied Mrs. Morris. "It will be a good thing for your little boy. I should not wish my boys to be without a good, faithful dog. A child can learn many a lesson from a dog. This one," pointing to me, might be held up as an example to many a human being. He is patient, quiet, and obedient. My husband says that he reminds him of three words in the Bible--'through much tribulation.'" "Why does he say that?" asked Mrs. Montague, curiously. "Because he came to us from a very unhappy home." And Mrs. Morris went on to tell her friend what she knew of my early days. When she stopped, Mrs. Montague's face was shocked and pained. "How dreadful to think that there are such creatures as that man Jenkins in the world. And you say that he has a wife and children. Mrs. Morris, tell me plainly, are there many such unhappy homes in Fairport?" Mrs. Morris hesitated for a minute, then she said, earnestly: "My dear friend, if you could see all the wickedness, and cruelty, and vileness, that is practised in this little town of ours in one night, you could not rest in your bed." Mrs. Montague looked dazed. "I did not dream that it was as bad as that," she said. "Are we worse than other towns?" "No; not worse, but bad enough. Over and over again the saying is true, one-half the world does not know how the other half lives. How can all this misery touch you? You live in your lovely house out of the town. When you come in, you drive about, do your shopping, make calls, and go home again. You never visit the poorer streets. The people from them never come to you. You are rich, your people before you were rich, you live in a state of isolation." "But that is not right," said the lady in a wailing voice. "I have been thinking about this matter lately. I read a great deal in the papers about the misery of the lower classes, and I think we richer ones ought to do something to help them. Mrs. Morris, what can I do?" The tears came in Mrs. Morris' eyes. She looked at the little, frail lady, and said, simply "Dear Mrs. Montague, I think the root of the whole matter lies in this. The Lord made us all one family. We are all brothers and sisters. The lowest woman is your sister and my sister. The man lying in the gutter is our brother. What should we do to help these members of our common family, who are not as well off as we are? We should share our last crust with them. You and I, but for God's grace in placing us in different surroundings, might be in their places. I think it is wicked neglect, criminal neglect in us to ignore this fact." "It is, it is," said Mrs. Montague, in a despairing voice. "I can't help feeling it. Tell me something I can do to help some one." Mrs. Morris sank back in her chair, her face very sad, and yet with something like pleasure in her eyes as she looked at her caller. "Your washerwoman," she said, "has a drunken husband and a cripple boy. I have often seen her standing over her tub, washing your delicate muslins and laces, and dropping tears into the water." "I will never send her anything more--she shall not be troubled," said Mrs. Montague, hastily. Mrs. Morris could not help smiling. "I have not made myself clear. It is not the washing that troubles her; it is her husband who beats her, and her boy who worries her. If you and I take our work from her, she will have that much less money to depend upon, and will suffer in consequence. "She is a hard-working and capable woman, and makes a fair living. I would not advise you to give her money, for her husband would find it out, and take it from her. It is sympathy that she wants. If you could visit her occasionally, and show that you are interested in her, by talking or reading to her poor foolish boy or showing him a picture-book, you have no idea how grateful she would be to you, and how it would cheer her on her dreary way." "I will go to see her to-morrow," said Mrs. Montague. "Can you think of any one else I could visit?" "A great many," said Mrs. Morris; "but I don't think you had better undertake too much at once. I will give you the addresses of three or four poor families, where an occasional visit would do untold good. That is, it will do them good if you treat them as you do your richer friends. Don't give them too much money, or too many presents, till you find out what they need. Try to feel interested in them. Find out their ways of living, and what they are going to do with their children, and help them to get situations for them if you can. And be sure to remember that poverty does not always take away one's self-respect." "I will, I will," said Mrs. Montague, eagerly. "When can you give me these addresses?" Mrs. Morris smiled again, and, taking a piece of paper and a pencil from her work basket, wrote a few lines and handed them to Mrs. Montague. The lady got up to take her leave. "And in regard to the dog," said Mrs. Morris, following her to the door, "if you decide to allow Charlie to have one, you had better let him come in and have a talk with my boys about it. They seem to know all the dogs that are for sale in the town." "Thank you; I shall be most happy to do so. He shall have his dog. When can you have him?" "To-morrow, the next day, any day at all. It makes no difference to me. Let him spend an afternoon and evening with the boys, if you do not object." "It will give me much pleasure," and the little lady bowed and smiled, and after stooping down to pat me, tripped down the steps, and got into her carriage and drove away. Mrs. Morris stood looking after her with a beaming face, and I began to think that I should like Mrs. Montague, too, if I knew her long enough. Two days later I was quite sure I should, for I had a proof that she really liked me. When her little boy Charlie came to the house, he brought something for me done up in white paper. Mrs. Morris opened it, and there was a handsome, nickel-plated collar, with my name on it--Beautiful Joe.' Wasn't I pleased! They took off the little shabby leather strap that the boys had given me when I came, and fastened on my new collar, and then Mrs. Morris held me up to a glass to look at myself. I felt so happy. Up to this time I had felt a little ashamed of my cropped ears and docked tail, but now that I had a fine new collar I could hold up my head with any dog. "Dear old Joe," said Mrs. Morris, pressing my head tightly between her hands. "You did a good thing the other day in helping me to start that little woman out of her selfish way of living." I did not know about that, but I knew that I felt very grateful to Mrs. Montague for my new collar, and ever afterward, when I met her in the street, I stopped and looked at her. Sometimes she saw me and stopped her carriage to speak to me; but I always wagged my tail, or rather my body, for I had no tail to wag, whenever I saw her, whether she saw me or not. Her son got a beautiful Irish setter, called "Brisk." He had a silky coat and soft brown eyes, and his young master seemed very fond of him. * * * * * CHAPTER VI THE FOX TERRIER BILLY When I came to the Morrises, I knew nothing about the proper way of bringing up a puppy, I once heard of a little boy whose sister beat him so much that he said he was brought up by hand; so I think as Jenkins kicked me so much, I may say that I was brought up by foot. Shortly after my arrival in my new home, I had a chance of seeing how one should bring up a little puppy. One day I was sitting beside Miss Laura in the parlor, when the door opened and Jack came in. One of his hands was laid over the other, and he said to his sister, "Guess what I've got here." "A bird," she said, "No." "A rat." "No." "A mouse." "No--a pup." "Oh, Jack," she said, reprovingly; for she thought he was telling a story. He opened his hands and there lay the tiniest morsel of a fox terrier puppy that I ever saw. He was white, with black and tan markings. His body was pure white, his tail black, with a dash of tan; his ears black, and his face evenly marked with black and tan. We could not tell the color of his eyes, as they were not open. Later on, they turned out to be a pretty brown. His nose was pale pink, and when he got older, it became jet black. "Why, Jack!" exclaimed Miss Laura, "his eyes aren't open; why did you take him from his mother?" "She's dead," said Jack. "Poisoned--left her pups to run about the yard for a little exercise. Some brute had thrown over a piece of poisoned meat, and she ate it. Four of the pups died. This is the only one left. Mr. Robinson says his man doesn't understand raising pups without their mothers, and as he is going away, he wants us to have it, for we always had such luck in nursing sick animals." Mr. Robinson I knew was a friend of the Morrises, and a gentleman who was fond of fancy stock, and imported a great deal of it from England. If this puppy came from him, it was sure to be good one. Miss Laura took the tiny creature, and went upstairs very thoughtfully. I followed her, and watched her get a little basket and line it with cotton wool. She put the puppy in it and looked at him. Though it was midsummer, and the house seemed very warm to me, the little creature was shivering, and making a low murmuring noise. She pulled the wool all over him and put the window down, and set his basket in the sun, Then she went to the kitchen and got some warm milk. She dipped her finger in it, and offered it to the puppy, but he went nosing about it in a stupid way, and wouldn't touch it "Too young," Miss Laura said. She got a little piece of muslin put some bread in it, tied a string round it, and dipped it in the milk. When she put this to the puppy's mouth, he sucked it greedily. He acted as if he was starving, but Miss Laura only let him have a little. Every few hours for the rest of the day, she gave him some more milk, and I heard the boys say that for many nights she got up once or twice and heated milk over a lamp for him. One night the milk got cold before he took it, and he swelled up and became so ill that Miss Laura had to rouse her mother and get some hot water to plunge him in. That made him well again, and no one seemed to think it was a great deal of trouble to take for a creature that was nothing but a dog. He fully repaid them for all his care, for he turned out to be one of the prettiest and most lovable dogs that I ever saw. They called him Billy, and the two events of his early life were the opening of his eyes and the swallowing of his muslin rag. The rag did not seem to hurt him; but Miss Laura said that, as he had got so strong and so greedy, he must learn to eat like other dogs. He was very amusing when he was a puppy. He was full of tricks, and he crept about in a mischievous way when one did not know he was near. He was a very small puppy and used to climb inside Miss Laura's Jersey sleeve up to her shoulder when he was six weeks old. One day, when the whole family was in the parlor, Mr. Morris suddenly flung aside his newspaper, and began jumping up and down. Mrs. Morris was very much alarmed, and cried out, "My dear William, what is the matter?" "There's a rat up my leg," he said, shaking it violently. Just then little Billy fell out on the floor and lay on his back looking up at Mr. Morris with a surprised face. He had felt cold and thought it would be warm inside Mr. Morris' trouser's leg. However, Billy never did any real mischief, thanks to Miss Laura's training. She began to punish him just as soon as he began to tear and worry things. The first thing he attacked was Mr. Morris' felt hat. The wind blew it down the hall one day, and Billy came along and began to try it with his teeth. I dare say it felt good to them, for a puppy is very like a baby and loves something to bite. Miss Laura found him, and he rolled his eyes at her quite innocently, not knowing that he was doing wrong. She took the hat away, and pointing from it to him, said, "Bad Billy!" Then she gave him two or three slaps with a bootlace. She never struck a little dog with her hand or a stick. She said clubs were for big dogs and switches for little dogs, if one had to use them. The best way was to scold them, for a good dog feels a severe scolding as much as a whipping. Billy was very much ashamed of himself. Nothing would induce him even to look at a hat again. But he thought it was no harm to worry other things. He attacked one thing after another, the rugs on the floor, curtains, anything flying or fluttering, and Miss Laura patiently scolded him for each one, till at last it dawned upon him that he must not worry anything but a bone. Then he got to be a very good dog. There was one thing that Miss Laura was very particular about, and that was to have him fed regularly. We both got three meals a day. We were never allowed to go into the dining room, and while the family was at the table, we lay in the hall outside and watched what was going on. Dogs take a great interest in what any one gets to eat. It was quite exciting to see the Morrises passing each other different dishes, and to smell the nice, hot food. Billy often wished that he could get up on the table. He said that he would make things fly. When he was growing, he hardly ever got enough to eat. I used to tell him that he would kill himself if he could eat all he wanted to. As soon as meals were over, Billy and I scampered after Miss Laura to the kitchen. We each had our own plate for food. Mary the cook often laughed at Miss Laura, because she would not let her dogs "dish" together. Miss Laura said that if she did, the larger one would get more than his share, and the little one would starve. It was quite a sight to see Billy eat. He spread his legs apart to steady himself, and gobbled at his food like a duck. When he finished he always looked up for more, and Miss Laura would shake her head and say "No, Billy; better longing than loathing. I believe that a great many little dogs are killed by over feeding." I often heard the Morrises speak of the foolish way in which some people stuffed their pets with food, and either kill them by it or keep them in continual ill health. A case occurred in our neighborhood while Billy was a puppy. Some people, called Dobson, who lived only a few doors from the Morrises, had a fine bay mare and a little colt called Sam. They were very proud of this colt, and Mr. Dobson had promised it to his son James. One day Mr. Dobson asked Mr. Morris to come in and see the colt, and I went, too. I watched Mr. Morris while he examined it. It was a pretty little creature, and I did not wonder that they thought so much of it. "When Mr. Morris went home his wife asked him what he thought of it. "I think," he said, "that it won't live long." "Why, papa!" exclaimed Jack, who overheard the remark, "it is as fat as a seal." "It would have a better chance for its life if it were lean and scrawny," said Mr. Morris. "They are over-feeding it, and I told Mr. Dobson so, but he wasn't inclined to believe me." Now, Mr. Morris had been brought up in the country, and knew a great deal about animals, so I was inclined to think he was right. And sure enough, in a few days, we heard that the colt was dead. Poor James Dobson felt very badly. A number of the neighbors' boys went into see him, and there he stood gazing at the dead colt, and looking as if he wanted to cry. Jack was there and I was at his heels, and though he said nothing for a time, I knew he was angry with the Dobsons for sacrificing the colt's life. Presently he said, "You won't need to have that colt stuffed now he's dead, Dobson." "What do you mean? Why do you say that?" asked the boy, peevishly. "Because you stuffed him while he was alive," said Jack, saucily. Then we had to run for all we were worth, for the Dobson boy was after us, and as he was a big fellow he would have whipped Jack soundly. I must not forget to say that Billy was washed regularly--once a week with nice-smelling soap and once a month with strong-smelling, disagreeable, carbolic soap. He had his own towels and wash cloths, and after being rubbed and scrubbed, he was rolled in a blanket and put by the fire to dry. Miss Laura said that a little dog that has been petted and kept in the house, and has become tender, should never be washed and allowed to run about with a wet coat, unless the weather was very warm, for he would be sure to take cold. Jim and I were more hardy than Billy, and we took our baths in the sea. Every few days the boys took us down to the shore and we went in swimming with them. * * * * * CHAPTER VII TRAINING A PUPPY "Ned, dear," said Miss Laura one day, "I wish you would train Billy to follow and retrieve. He is four months old now, and I shall soon want to take him out in the street." "Very well, sister," said mischievous Ned; and catching up a stick, he said, "Come out into the garden, dogs." Though he was brandishing his stick very fiercely, I was not at all afraid of him; and as for Billy, he loved Ned. The Morris garden was really not a garden but a large piece of ground with the grass worn bare in many places, a few trees scattered about, and some raspberry and currant bushes along the fence. A lady who knew that Mr. Morris had not a large salary, said one day when she was looking out of the dining-room window, "My dear Mrs. Morris, why don't you have this garden dug up? You could raise your own vegetables. It would be so much cheaper than buying them." Mrs. Morris laughed in great amusement. "Think of the hens, and cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and, above all, the boys that I have. What sort of a garden would there be, and do you think it would be fair to take their playground from them?" The lady said, "No, she did not think it would be fair." I am sure I don't know what the boys would have done without this strip of ground. Many a frolic and game they had there. In the present case, Ned walked around and around it, with his stick on his shoulder, Billy and I strolling after him. Presently Billy made a dash aside to get a bone. Ned turned around and said firmly, "To heel!" Billy looked at him innocently, not knowing what he meant. "To heel!" exclaimed Ned again. Billy thought he wanted to play, and putting his head on his paws, he began to bark. Ned laughed; still he kept saying "To heel!" He would not say another word. He knew if he said "Come here," or "Follow," or "Go behind," it would confuse Billy. Finally, as Ned kept saying the words over and over, and pointing to me, it seemed to dawn upon Billy that he wanted him to follow him. So he came beside me, and together we followed Ned around the garden, again and again. Ned often looked behind with a pleased face, and I felt so proud to think I was doing well; but suddenly I got dreadfully confused when he turned around and said, "Hie out!" The Morrises all used the same words in training their dogs, and I had heard Miss Laura say this, but I had forgotten what it meant. "Good Joe," said Ned, turning around and patting me, "you have forgotten. I wonder where Jim is? He would help us." He put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle, and soon Jim came trotting up the lane from the street. He looked at us with his large, intelligent eyes, and wagged his tail slowly, as if to say, "Well, what do you want of me?" "Come and give me a hand at this training business, old Sobersides," said Ned, with a laugh. "It's too slow to do it alone. Now, young gentlemen, attention! To heel!" He began to march around the garden again, and Jim and I followed closely at his heels, while little Billy, seeing that he could not get us to play with him, came lagging behind. Soon Ned turned around and said, "Hie out!" Old Jim sprang ahead, and ran off in front as if he was after something. Now I remembered what "hie out" meant. We were to have a lovely race wherever we liked. Little Billy loved this. We ran and scampered hither and thither, and Ned watched us, laughing at our antics. After tea, he called us out in the garden again, and said he had something else to teach us. He turned up a tub on the wooden platform at the back door, and sat on it, and then called Jim to him. He took a small leather strap from his pocket. It had a nice, strong smell. We all licked it, and each dog wished to have it. "No, Joe and Billy," said Ned, holding us both by our collars; "you wait a minute. Here, Jim." Jim watched him very earnestly, and Ned threw the strap half-way across the garden, and said, "Fetch it." Jim never moved till he heard the words, "Fetch it." Then he ran swiftly, brought the strap, and dropped it in Ned's hand. Ned sent him after it two or three times, then he said to Jim, "Lie down," and turned to me. "Here, Joe; it is your turn." He threw the strap under the raspberry bushes, then looked at me and said, "Fetch it." I knew quite well what he meant, and ran joyfully after it. I soon found it by the strong smell, but the queerest thing happened when I got it in my mouth. I began to gnaw it and play with it, and when Ned called out, "Fetch it," I dropped it and ran toward him. I was not obstinate, but I was stupid. Ned pointed to the place where it was, and spread out his empty hands. That helped me, and I ran quickly and got it. He made me get it for him several times. Sometimes I could not find it, and sometimes I dropped it; but he never stirred. He sat still till I brought it to him. After a while he tried Billy, but it soon got dark, and we could not see, so he took Billy and went into the house. I stayed out with Jim for a while, and he asked me if I knew why Ned had thrown a strap for us, instead of a bone or something hard. Of course I did not know, so Jim told me it was on his account. He was a bird dog, and was never allowed to carry anything hard in his mouth, because it would make him hard-mouthed, and he would be apt to bite the birds when he was bringing them back to any person who was shooting with him. He said that he had been so carefully trained that he could even carry three eggs at a time in his mouth. I said to him, "Jim, how is it that you never go out shooting? I have always heard that you were a dog for that, and yet you never leave home." He hung his head a little, and said he did not wish to go, and then, for he was an honest dog, he gave me the true reason. * * * * * CHAPTER VIII A RUINED DOG "I was a sporting dog," he said, bitterly, "for the first three years of my life. I belonged to a man who keeps a livery stable here in Fairport, and he used to hire me out to shooting parties. "I was a favorite with all the gentlemen. I was crazy with delight when I saw the guns brought out, and would jump up and bite at them. I loved to chase birds and rabbits, and even now when the pigeons come near me, I tremble all over and have to turn away lest I should seize them. I used often to be in the woods from morning till night. I liked to have a hard search after a bird after it had been shot, and to be praised for bringing it out without biting or injuring it. "I never got lost, for I am one of those dogs that can always tell where human beings are. I did not smell them. I would be too far away for that, but if my master was standing in some place and I took a long round through the woods, I knew exactly where he was, and could make a short cut back to him without returning in my tracks. "But I must tell you about my trouble. One Saturday afternoon a party of young men came to get me. They had a dog with them, a cocker spaniel called Bob, but they wanted another. For some reason or other, my master was very unwilling to have me go. However, he at last consented, and they put me in the back of the wagon with Bob and the lunch baskets, and we drove off into the country. This Bob was a happy, merry-looking dog, and as we went along, he told me of the fine time we should have next day. The young men would shoot a little, then they would get out their baskets and have something to eat and drink, and would play cards and go to sleep under the trees, and we would be able to help ourselves to legs and wings of chickens, and anything we liked from the baskets. "I did not like this at all. I was used to working hard through the week, and I liked to spend my Sundays quietly at home. However, I said nothing. "That night we slept at a country hotel, and drove the next morning to the banks of a small lake where the young men were told there would be plenty of wild ducks. They were in no hurry to begin their sport. They sat down in the sun on some flat rocks at the water's edge, and said they would have something to drink before setting to work. They got out some of the bottles from the wagon, and began to take long drinks from them. Then they got quarrelsome and mischievous, and seemed to forget all about their shooting. "One of them proposed to have some fun with the dogs. They tied us both to a tree, and throwing a stick in the water, told us to get it. Of course we struggled and tried to get free, and chafed our necks with the rope. "After a time one of them began to swear at me, and say that he believed I was gun-shy. He staggered to the wagon and got out his fowling piece, and said he was going to try me. "He loaded it, went to a little distance, and was going to fire, when the young man who owned Bob said he wasn't going to have his dog's legs shot off, and coming up he unfastened him and took him away. You can imagine my feelings, as I stood there tied to the tree, with that stranger pointing his gun directly at me. He fired close to me a number of times--over my head and under my body. The earth was cut up all around me. I was terribly frightened, and howled and begged to be freed. "The other young men, who were sitting laughing at me, thought it such good fun that they got their guns, too. I never wish to spend such a terrible hour again. I was sure they would kill me. I dare say they would have done so, for they were all quite drunk by this time, if something had not happened. "Poor Bob, who was almost as frightened as I was, and who lay shivering under the wagon, was killed by a shot by his own master, whose hand was the most unsteady of all. He gave one loud howl, kicked convulsively, then turned over on his side and lay quite still. It sobered them all. They ran up to him, but he was quite dead. They sat for a while quite silent, then they threw the rest of the bottles into the lake, dug a shallow grave for Bob, and putting me in the wagon drove slowly back to town. They were not bad young men. I don't think they meant to hurt me, or to kill Bob. It was the nasty stuff in the bottles that took away their reason. "I was never the same dog again. I was quite deaf in my right ear, and though I strove against it, I was so terribly afraid of even the sight of a gun that I would run and hide myself whenever one was shown to me. My master was very angry with those young men, and it seemed as if he could not bear the sight of me. One day he took me very kindly and brought me here, and asked Mr. Morris if he did not want a good-natured dog to play with the children. "I have a happy home here and I love the Morris boys; but I often wish that I could keep from putting my tail between my legs and running home every time I hear the sound of a gun." "Never mind that, Jim," I said. "You should not fret over a thing for which you are not to blame. I am sure you must be glad for one reason that you have left your old life." "What is that?" he said. "On account of the birds. You know Miss Laura thinks it is wrong to kill the pretty creatures that fly about the woods." "So it is," he said, "unless one kills them at once. I have often felt angry with men for only-half killing a bird. I hated to pick up the little, warm body, and see the bright eye looking so reproachfully at me, and feel the flutter of life. We animals, or rather the most of us, kill mercifully. It is only human beings who butcher their prey, and seem, some of them, to rejoice in their agony. I used to be eager to kill birds and rabbits, but I did not want to keep them before me long after they were dead. I often stop in the street and look up at fine ladies' bonnets, and wonder how they can wear little dead birds in such dreadful positions. Some of them have their heads twisted under their wings and over their shoulders, and looking toward their tails, and their eyes are so horrible that I wish I could take those ladies into the woods and let them see how easy and pretty a live bird is, and how unlike the stuffed creatures they wear. Have you ever had a good run in the woods, Joe?" "No, never," I said. "Some day I will take you, and now it is late and I must go to bed. Are you going to sleep in the kennel with me, or in the stable?" "I think I will sleep with you, Jim. Dogs like company, you know, as well as human beings." I curled up in the straw beside him, and soon we were fast asleep. I have known a good many dogs, but I don't think I ever saw such a good one as Jim. He was gentle and kind, and so sensitive that a hard word hurt him more than a blow. He was a great pet with Mrs. Morris, and as he had been so well trained, he was able to make himself very useful to her. When she went shopping, he often carried a parcel in his mouth for her. He would never drop it nor leave it anywhere. One day, she dropped her purse without knowing it, and Jim picked it up, and brought it home in his mouth. She did not notice him, for he always walked behind her. When she got to her own door, she missed the purse, and turning around saw it in Jim's mouth. Another day, a lady gave Jack Morris a canary cage as a present for Carl. He was bringing it home, when one of the little seed boxes fell out. Jim picked it up and carried it a long way, before Jack discovered it. * * * * * CHAPTER IX THE PARROT BELLA I often used to hear the Morrises speak about vessels that ran between Fairport and a place called the West Indies, carrying cargoes of lumber and fish, and bringing home molasses, spices, fruit, and other things. On one of these vessels, called the "Mary Jane," was a cabin boy, who was a friend of the Morris boys, and often brought them presents. One day, after I had been with the Morrises for some months, this boy arrived at the house with a bunch of green bananas in one hand, and a parrot in the other. The boys were delighted with the parrot, and called their mother to see what a pretty bird she was. Mrs. Morris seemed very much touched by the boy's thoughtfulness in bringing a present such a long distance to her boys, and thanked him warmly. The cabin boy became very shy, and all he could say was, "Go way!" over and over again, in a very awkward manner. Mrs. Morris smiled, and left him with the boys. I think that she thought he would be more comfortable with them. Jack put me up on the table to look at the parrot. The boy held her by a string tied around one of her legs. She was a gray parrot with a few red feathers in her tail, and she had bright eyes, and a very knowing air. "The boy said he had been careful to buy a young one that could not speak, for he knew the Morris boys would not want one chattering foreign gibberish, nor yet one that would swear. He had kept her in his bunk in the ship, and had spent all his leisure time in teaching her to talk. Then he looked at her anxiously, and said, "Show off now, can't ye?" "I didn't know what he meant by all this, until afterward. I had never heard of such a thing as birds talking. I stood on the table staring hard at her, and she stared hard at me. I was just thinking that I would not like to have her sharp little beak fastened in my skin, when I heard some one say, "Beautiful Joe." The voice seemed to come from the room, but I knew all the voices there, and this was one I had never heard before, so I thought I must be mistaken, and it was some one in the hall. I struggled to get away from Jack to run and see who it was. But he held me fast, and laughed with all his might, I looked at the other boys and they were laughing, too. Presently, I heard again, "Beautiful Joe, Beautiful Joe." The sound was close by, and yet it did not come from the cabin boy, for he was all doubled up laughing, his face as red as a beet. "It's the parrot, Joe!" cried Ned. "Look at her, you gaby." I did look at her, and with her head on one side, and the sauciest air in the world, she was saying: "Beau-ti-ful Joe, Beau-ti-ful Joe!" I had never heard a bird talk before, and I felt so sheepish that I tried to get down and hide myself under the table. Then she began to laugh at me. "Ha, ha, ha, good dog--sic 'em, boy. Rats, rats! Beau-ti-ful Joe, Beau-ti-ful Joe," she cried, rattling off the words as fast as she could. I never felt so queer before in my life, and the boys were just roaring with delight at my puzzled face. Then the parrot began calling for Jim: "Where's Jim, where's good old Jim? Poor old dog. Give him a bone." The boys brought Jim in the parlor, and when he heard her funny, little, cracked voice calling him, he nearly went crazy: "Jimmy, Jimmy, James Augustus!" she said, which was Jim's long name. He made a dash out of the room, and the boys screamed so that Mr. Morris came down from his study to see what the noise meant. As soon as the parrot saw him, she would not utter another word. The boys told him though what she had been saying, and he seemed much amused to think that the cabin boy should have remembered so many sayings his boys made use of, and taught them to the parrot. "Clever Polly," he said, kindly; "good Polly." The cabin boy looked at him shyly, and Jack, who was a very sharp boy, said quickly, "Is not that what you call her, Henry?" "No," said the boy; "I call her Bell, short for Bellzebub." "I beg your pardon," said Jack, very politely. "Bell--short for Bellzebub," repeated the boy. "Ye see, I thought ye'd like a name from the Bible, bein' a minister's sons. I hadn't my Bible with me on this cruise, savin' yer presence, an' I couldn't think of any girls' names out of it, but Eve or Queen of Sheba, an' they didn't seem very fit, so I asked one of me mates, an' he says, for his part he guessed Bellzebub was as pretty a girl's name as any, so I guv her that. 'Twould 'a been better to let you name her, but ye see 'twouldn't 'a been handy not to call her somethin', where I was teachin' her every day." Jack turned away and walked to the window, his face a deep scarlet. I heard him mutter, "Beelzebub, prince of devils," so I suppose the cabin boy had given his bird a bad name. Mr. Morris looked kindly at the cabin boy. "Do you ever call the parrot by her whole name?" "No, sir," he replied; "I always give her Bell, but she calls herself Bella." "Bella," repeated Mr. Morris; "that is a very pretty name. If you keep her, boys, I think you had better stick to that." "Yes, father," they all said; and then Mr. Morris started to go back to his study. On the doorsill he paused to ask the cabin boy when his ship sailed. Finding that it was to be in a few days, he took out his pocket-book and wrote something in it. The next day he asked Jack to go to town with him, and when they came home, Jack said that his father had bought an oil-skin coat for Henry Smith, and a handsome Bible, in which they were all to write their names. After Mr. Morris left the room, the door opened and Miss Laura came in. She knew nothing about the parrot and was very much surprised to see it. Seating herself at the table, she held out her hands to it. She was so fond of pets of all kinds, that she never thought of being afraid of them. At the same time, she never laid her hand suddenly on any animal. She held out her fingers and talked gently, so that if it wished to come to her it could. She looked at the parrot as if she loved it, and the queer little thing walked right up and nestled its head against the lace in the front of her dress. "Pretty lady," she said, in a cracked whisper, "give Bella a kiss." The boys were so pleased with this and set up such a shout, that their mother came into the room and said they had better take the parrot out to the stable. Bella seem to enjoy the fun. "Come on, boys," she screamed, as Henry Smith lifted her on his finger. "Ha, ha, ha--come on, let's have some fun. Where's the guinea pig? Where's Davy, the rat? Where's pussy? Pussy, pussy, come here. Pussy, pussy, dear, pretty puss." Her voice was shrill and distinct, and very like the voice of an old woman who came to the house for rags and bones. I followed her out to the stable, and stayed there until she noticed me and screamed out, "Ha, Joe, Beautiful Joe! Where's your tail? Who cut your ears off?" I don't think it was kind in the cabin boy to teach her this, and I think she knew it teased me, for she said it over and over again, and laughed and chuckled with delight. I left her and did not see her till the next day, when the boys had got a fine, large cage for her. The place for her cage was by one of the hall windows; but everybody in the house got so fond of her that she was moved about from one room to another. She hated her cage, and used to put her head close to the bars and plead, "Let Bella out; Bella will be a good girl. Bella won't run away." After a time the Morrises did let her out, and she kept her word and never tried to get away. Jack put a little handle on her cage door so that she could open and shut it herself, and it was very amusing to hear her say in the morning, "Clear the track, children! Bella's going to take a walk," and see her turn the handle with her claw and come out into the room. She was a very clever bird, and I have never seen any creature but a human being that could reason as she did. She was so petted and talked to that she got to know a great many words, and on one occasion she saved the Morrises from being robbed. It was in the winter time. The family was having tea in the dining room at the back of the house, and Billy and I were lying in the hall watching what was going on. There was no one in the front of the house. The hall lamp was lighted, and the hall door closed, but not locked. Some sneak thieves, who had been doing a great deal of mischief in Fairport, crept up the steps and into the house, and, opening the door of the hall closet, laid their hands on the boys' winter overcoats. They thought no one saw them, but they were mistaken. Bella had been having a nap upstairs, and had not come down when the tea bell rang. Now she was hopping down on her way to the dining room, and hearing the slight noise below, stopped and looked through the railing. Any pet creature that lives in a nice family hates a dirty, shabby person. Bella knew that those beggar boys had no business in that closet. "Bad boys!" she screamed, angrily. "Get out--get out! Here, Joe, Joe, Beautiful Joe. Come quick. Billy, Billy, rats--Hie out, Jim, sic 'em boys. Where's the police. Call the police!" Billy and I sprang up and pushed open the door leading to the front hall. The thieves in a terrible fright were just rushing down the front steps. One of them got away, but the other fell, and I caught him by the coat, till Mr. Morris ran and put his hand on his shoulder. He was a young fellow about Jack's age, but not one-half so manly, and he was sniffling and scolding about "that pesky parrot." Mr. Morris made him come back into the house, and had a talk with him. He found out that he was a poor, ignorant lad, half starved by a drunken father. He and his brother stole clothes, and sent them to his sister in Boston, who sold them and returned part of the money. Mr. Morris asked him if he would not like to get his living in an honest way, and he said he had tried to, but no one would employ him. Mr. Morris told him to go home and take leave of his father and get his brother and bring him to Washington street the next day. He told him plainly that if he did not he would send a policeman after him. The boy begged Mr. Morris not to do that, and early the next morning he appeared with his brother. Mrs. Morris gave them a good breakfast and fitted them out with clothes, and they were sent off in the train to one of her brothers, who was a kind farmer in the country, and who had been telegraphed to that these boys were coming, and wished to be provided with situations where they would have a chance to make honest men of themselves. * * * * * CHAPTER X BILLY'S TRAINING CONTINUED When Billy was five months old, he had his first walk in the street. Miss Laura knew that he had been well trained, so she did not hesitate to take him into the town. She was not the kind of a young lady to go into the street with a dog that would not behave himself, and she was never willing to attract attention to herself by calling out orders to any of her pets. As soon as we got down the front steps, she said, quietly to Billy, "To heel." It was very hard for little, playful Billy to keep close to her, when he saw so many new and wonderful things about him. He had gotten acquainted with everything in the house and garden, but this outside world was full of things he wanted to look at and smell of, and he was fairly crazy to play with some of the pretty dogs he saw running about. But he did just as he was told. Soon we came to a shop, and Miss Laura went in to buy some ribbons. She said to me, "Stay out," but Billy she took in with her. I watched them through the glass door, and saw her go to a counter and sit down. Billy stood behind her till she said, "Lie down." Then he curled himself at her feet. He lay quietly, even when she left him and went to another counter. But he eyed her very anxiously till she came back and said, "Up," to him. Then he sprang up and followed her out to the street. She stood in the shop door, and looked lovingly down on us as we fawned on her. "Good dogs," she said, softly; "you shall have a present." We went behind her again, and she took us to a shop where we both lay beside the counter. When we heard her ask the clerk for solid rubber balls, we could scarcely keep still. We both knew what "ball" meant. Taking the parcel in her hand, she came out into the street. She did not do any more shopping, but turned her face toward the sea. She was going to give us a nice walk along the beach, although it was a dark, disagreeable, cloudy day, when most young ladies would have stayed in the house. The Morris children never minded the weather. Even in the pouring rain, the boys would put on rubber boots and coats and go out to play. Miss Laura walked along, the high wind blowing her cloak and dress about, and when we got past the houses, she had a little run with us. We jumped, and frisked, and barked, till we were tired; and then we walked quietly along. A little distance ahead of us were some boys throwing sticks in the water for two Newfoundland dogs. Suddenly a quarrel sprang up between the dogs. They were both powerful creatures, and fairly matched as regarded size. It was terrible to hear their fierce growling, and to see the way in which they tore at each other's throats. I looked at Miss Laura. If she had said a word, I would have run in and helped the dog that was getting the worst of it. But she told me to keep back, and ran on herself. The boys were throwing water on the dogs, and pulling their tails, and hurling stones at them, but they could not separate them. Their heads seemed locked together, and they went back and forth over the stones, the boys crowding around them, shouting, and beating, and kicking at them. "Stand back, boys," said Miss Laura; "I'll stop them." She pulled a little parcel from her purse, bent over the dogs, scattered a powder on their noses, and the next instant the dogs were yards apart, nearly sneezing their heads off. "I say, Missis, what did you do? What's that stuff? Whew, it's pepper!" the boys exclaimed. Miss Laura sat down on a flat rock, and looked at them with a very pale face. "Oh, boys," she said, "why did you make those dogs fight? It is so cruel. They were playing happily till you set them on each other. Just see how they have torn their handsome coats, and how the blood is dripping from them." "'Taint my fault," said one of the lads, sullenly. "Jim Jones there said his dog could lick my dog, and I said he couldn't--and he couldn't, neither. "Yes, he could," cried the other boy; "and if you say he couldn't, I'll smash your head." The two boys began sidling up to each other with clenched fists, and a third boy, who had a mischievous face, seized the paper that had had the pepper in it, and running up to them shook it in their faces. There was enough left to put all thoughts of fighting out of their heads. They began to cough, and choke, and splutter, and finally found themselves beside the dogs, where the four of them had a lively time. The other boys yelled with delight, and pointed their fingers at them, "A sneezing concert. Thank you, gentlemen. 'Angcore, angcore'!" Miss Laura laughed too, she could not help it, and even Billy and I curled up our lips. After a while they sobered down, and then finding that the boys hadn't a handkerchief between them, Miss Laura took her own soft one, and dipping it in a spring of fresh water near by, wiped the red eyes of the sneezers. Their ill humor had gone, and when she turned to leave them, and said, coaxingly, "You won't make those dogs fight any more, will you?" they said, "No, sirree, Bob." Miss Laura went slowly home, and ever afterward when she met any of those boys, they called her "Miss Pepper." When we got home we found Willie curled up by the window in the hall, reading a book. He was too fond of reading, and his mother often told him to put away his book and run about with the other boys. This afternoon Miss Laura laid her hand on his shoulder and said, "I was going to give the dogs a little game of ball, but I'm rather tired." "Gammon and spinach," he replied, shaking off her hand, "you're always tired." She sat down in a hall chair and looked at him. Then she began to tell him about the dog fight. He was much interested, and the book slipped to the floor. When she finished he said, "You're a daisy every day. Go now and rest yourself." Then snatching the balls from her, he called us and ran down to the basement. But he was not quick enough though to escape her arm. She caught him to her and kissed him repeatedly. He was the baby and pet of the family, and he loved her dearly, though he spoke impatiently to her oftener than either of the other boys. We had a grand game with Willie. Miss Laura had trained us to do all kinds of things with balls--jumping for them, playing hide-and-seek, and catching them. Billy could do more things than I could. One thing he did which I thought was very clever. He played ball by himself. He was so crazy about ball play that he could never get enough of it. Miss Laura played all she could with him, but she had to help her mother with the sewing and the housework, and do lessons with her father, for she was only seventeen years old, and had not left off studying. So Billy would take his ball and go off by himself. Sometimes he rolled it over the floor, and sometimes he threw it in the air and pushed it through the staircase railings to the hall below. He always listened till he heard it drop, then he ran down and brought it back and pushed it through again. He did this till he was tired, and then he brought the ball and laid it at Miss Laura's feet. We both had been taught a number of tricks. We could sneeze and cough, and be dead dogs, and say our prayers, and stand on our heads, and mount a ladder and say the alphabet,--this was the hardest of all, and it took Miss Laura a long time to teach us. We never began till a book was laid before us. Then we stared at it, and Miss Laura said, "Begin, Joe and Billy--say A." For A, we gave a little squeal. B was louder. C was louder still. We barked for some letters, and growled for others. We always turned a summersault for S. When we got to Z, we gave the book a push and had a frolic around the room. When any one came in, and Miss Laura had us show off any of our tricks, the remark always was, "What clever dogs. They are not like other dogs." That was a mistake. Billy and I were not any brighter than many a miserable cur that skulked about the streets of Fairport. It was kindness and patience that did it all. When I was with Jenkins he thought I was a very stupid dog. He would have laughed at the idea of any one teaching me anything. But I was only sullen and obstinate, because I was kicked about so much. If he had been kind to me, I would have done anything for him. I loved to wait on Miss Laura and Mrs. Morris, and they taught both Billy and me to make ourselves useful about the house. Mrs. Morris didn't like going up and down the three long staircases, and sometimes we just raced up and down, waiting on her. How often I have heard her go into the hall and say, "Please send me down a clean duster, Laura. Joe, you get it." I would run gayly up the steps, and then would come Billy's turn. "Billy, I have forgotten my keys. Go get them." After a time we began to know the names of different articles, and where they were kept, and could get them ourselves. On sweeping days we worked very hard, and enjoyed the fun. If Mrs. Morris was too far away to call to Mary for what she wanted, she wrote the name on a piece of paper, and told us to take it to her. Billy always took the letters from the postman, and carried the morning paper up to Mr. Morris's study, and I always put away the clean clothes. After they were mended, Mrs. Morris folded each article and gave it to me, mentioning the name of the owner, so that I could lay it on his bed. There was no need for her to tell me the names. I knew by the smell. All human beings have a strong smell to a dog, even though they mayn't notice it themselves. Mrs. Morris never knew how she bothered me by giving away Miss Laura's clothes to poor people. Once, I followed her track all through the town, and at last found it was only a pair of her boots on a ragged child in the gutter. I must say a word about Billy's tail before I close this chapter. It is the custom to cut the ends of fox terrier's tails, but leave their ears untouched. Billy came to Miss Laura so young that his tail had not been cut off, and she would not have it done. One day Mr. Robinson came in to see him, and he said, "You have made a fine-looking dog of him, but his appearance is ruined by the length of his tail." "Mr. Robinson," said Mrs. Morris, patting little Billy, who lay on her lap, "don't you think that this little dog has a beautifully proportioned body?" "Yes, I do," said the gentleman. "His points are all correct, save that one." "But," she said, "if our Creator made that beautiful little body, don't you think he is wise enough to know what length of tail would be in proportion to it?" Mr. Robinson would not answer her. He only laughed and said that he thought she and Miss Laura were both "cranks." * * * * * CHAPTER XI GOLDFISH AND CANARIES The Morris boys were all different. Jack was bright and clever, Ned was a wag, Willie was a book-worm, and Carl was a born trader. He was always exchanging toys and books with his schoolmates, and they never got the better of him in a bargain. He said that when he grew up he was going to be a merchant, and he had already begun to carry on a trade in canaries and goldfish. He was very fond of what he called "his yellow pets," yet he never kept a pair of birds or a goldfish, if he had a good offer for them. He slept alone in a large, sunny room at the top of the house. By his own request, it was barely furnished, and there he raised his canaries and kept his goldfish. He was not fond of having visitors coming to his room, because, he said, they frightened the canaries. After Mrs. Morris made his bed in the morning, the door was closed, and no one was supposed to go in till he came from school. Once Billy and I followed him upstairs without his knowing it, but as soon as he saw us he sent us down in a great hurry. One day Bella walked into his room to inspect the canaries. She was quite a spoiled bird by this time, and I heard Carl telling the family afterward that it was as good as a play to see Miss Bella strutting in with her breast stuck out, and her little, conceited air, and hear her say, shrilly, "Good morning, birds, good morning! How do you do, Carl? Glad to see you, boy." "Well, I'm not glad to see you," he said, decidedly, "and don't you ever come up here again. You'd frighten my canaries to death." And he sent her flying downstairs. How cross she was! She came shrieking to Miss Laura. "Bella loves birds. Bella wouldn't hurt birds. Carl's a bad boy." Miss Laura petted and soothed her, telling her to go find Davy, and he would play with her. Bella and the rat were great friends. It was very funny to see them going about the house together. From the very first she had liked him, and coaxed him into her cage, where he soon became quite at home,--so much so that he always slept there. About nine o'clock every evening, if he was not with her, she went all over the house, crying: "Davy! Davy! time to go to bed. Come sleep in Bella's cage." He was very fond of the nice sweet cakes she got to eat, but she never could get him to eat coffee grounds--the food she liked best. Miss Laura spoke to Carl about Bella, and told him he had hurt her feelings, so he petted her a little to make up for it. Then his mother told him that she thought he was making a mistake in keeping his canaries so much to themselves. They had become so timid, that when she went into the room they were uneasy till she left it. She told him that petted birds or animals are sociable and like company, unless they are kept by themselves, when they become shy. She advised him to let the other boys go into the room, and occasionally to bring some of his pretty singers downstairs, where all the family could enjoy seeing and hearing them, and where they would get used to other people besides himself. Carl looked thoughtful, and his mother went on to say that there was no one in the house, not even the cat, that would harm his birds. "You might even charge admission for a day or two," said Jack, gravely, "and introduce us to them, and make a little money." Carl was rather annoyed at this, but his mother calmed him by showing him a letter she had just gotten from one of her brothers, asking her to let one of her boys spend his Christmas holidays in the country with him. "I want you to go, Carl," she said. He was very much pleased, but looked sober when he thought of his pets. "Laura and I will take care of them," said his mother, "and start the new management of them." "Very well," said Carl, "I will go then; I've no young ones now, so you will not find them much trouble." I thought it was a great deal of trouble to take care of them. The first morning after Carl left, Billy, and Bella, and Davy, and I followed Miss Laura upstairs. She made us sit in a row by the door, lest we should startle the canaries. She had a great many things to do. First, the canaries had their baths. They had to get them at the same time every morning. Miss Laura filled the little white dishes with water and put them in the cages, and then came and sat on a stool by the door. Bella, and Billy, and Davy climbed into her lap, and I stood close by her. It was so funny to watch those canaries. They put their heads on one side and looked first at their little baths and then at us. They knew we were strangers. Finally, as we were all very quiet, they got into the water; and what a good time they had, fluttering their wings and splashing, and cleaning themselves so nicely. Then they got up on their perches and sat in the sun, shaking themselves and picking at their feathers. Miss Laura cleaned each cage, and gave each bird some mixed rape and canary seed. I heard Carl tell her before he left not to give them much hemp seed, for that was too fattening. He was very careful about their food. During the summer I had often seen him taking up nice green things to them: celery, chickweed, tender cabbage, peaches, apples, pears, bananas; and now at Christmas time, he had green stuff growing in pots on the window ledge. Besides that he gave them crumbs of coarse bread, crackers, lumps of sugar, cuttle-fish to peck at, and a number of other things. Miss Laura did everything just as he told her; but I think she talked to the birds more than he did. She was very particular about their drinking water, and washed out the little glass cups that held it most carefully. After the canaries were clean and comfortable, Miss Laura set their cages in the sun, and turned to the goldfish. They were in large glass globes on the window-seat. She took a long-handled tin cup, and dipped out the fish from one into a basin of water. Then she washed the globe thoroughly and put the fish back, and scattered wafers of fish food on the top. The fish came up and snapped at it, and acted as if they were glad to get it. She did each globe and then her work was over for one morning. She went away for a while, but every few hours through the day she ran up to Carl's room to see how the fish and canaries were getting on. If the room was too chilly she turned on more heat; but she did not keep it too warm, for that would make the birds tender. After a time the canaries got to know her, and hopped gayly around their cages, and chirped and sang whenever they saw her coming. Then she began to take some of them downstairs, and to let them out of their cages for an hour or two every day. They were very happy little creatures, and chased each other about the room, and flew on Miss Laura's head, and pecked saucily at her face as she sat sewing and watching them. They were not at all afraid of me nor of Billy, and it was quite a sight to see them hopping up to Bella, She looked so large beside them. One little bird became ill while Carl was away, and Miss Laura had to give it a great deal of attention. She gave it plenty of hemp seed to make it fat, and very often the yolk of a hard-boiled egg, and kept a nail in its drinking water, and gave it a few drops of alcohol in its bath every morning to keep it from taking cold. The moment the bird finished taking its bath, Miss Laura took the dish from the cage, for the alcohol made the water poisonous. Then vermin came on it, and she had to write to Carl to ask him what to do. He told her to hang a muslin bag full of sulphur over the swing, so that the bird would dust it down on her feathers. That cured the little thing, and when Carl came home, he found it quite well again. One day, just after he got back, Mrs. Montague drove up to the house with a canary cage carefully done up in a shawl. She said that a bad-tempered housemaid, in cleaning the cage that morning, had gotten angry with the bird and struck it, breaking its leg. She was very much annoyed with the girl for her cruelty, and had dismissed her, and now she wanted Carl to take her bird and nurse it, as she knew nothing about canaries. Carl had just come in from school. He threw down his books, took the shawl from the cage and looked in. The poor little canary was sitting in a corner. It eyes were half shut, one leg hung loose, and it was making faint chirps of distress. Carl was very much interested in it. He got Mrs. Montague to help him, and together they split matches, tore up strips of muslin, and bandaged the broken leg. He put the little bird back in the cage, and it seemed more comfortable "I think he will do now," he said to Mrs. Montague, "but hadn't you better leave him with me for a few days?" She gladly agreed to this and went away, after telling him that the bird's name was Dick. The next morning at the breakfast table, I heard Carl telling his mother that as soon as he woke up he sprang out of bed and went to see how his canary was. During the night, poor foolish Dick had picked off the splints from his leg, and now it was as bad as ever. "I shall have to perform a surgical operation," he said. I did not know what he meant, so I watched him when, after breakfast, he brought the bird down to his mother's room. She held it while he took a pair of sharp scissors, and cut its leg right off a little way above the broken place. Then he put some vaseline on the tiny stump, bound it up, and left Dick in his mother's care. All the morning, as she sat sewing, she watched him to see that he did not pick the bandage away. When Carl came home, Dick was so much better that he had managed to fly up on his perch, and was eating seeds quite gayly. "Poor Dick!" said Carl, "leg and a stump!" Dick imitated him in a few little chirps, "A leg and a stump!" "Why, he is saying it too," exclaimed Carl, and burst out laughing. Dick seemed cheerful enough, but it was very pitiful to see him dragging his poor little stump around the cage, and resting it against the perch to keep him from falling. When Mrs. Montague came the next day, she could not bear to look at him. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I cannot take that disfigured bird home." I could not help thinking how different she was from Miss Laura, who loved any creature all the more for having some blemish about it. "What shall I do?" said Mrs. Montague. "I miss my little bird so much. I shall have to get a new one. Carl, will you sell me one?" "I will _give_ you one, Mrs. Montague," said the boy, eagerly. "I would like to do so." Mrs. Morris looked pleased to hear Carl say this. She used to fear sometimes, that in his love for making money, he would become selfish. Mrs. Montague was very kind to the Morris family, and Carl seemed quite pleased to do her a favor. He took her up to his room, and let her choose the bird she liked best. She took a handsome, yellow one, called Barry. He was a good singer, and a great favorite of Carl's. The boy put him in the cage, wrapped it up well, for it was a cold, snowy day, and carried it out to Mrs. Montague's sleigh. She gave him a pleasant smile, and drove away, and Carl ran up the steps into the house. "It's all right, mother," he said, giving Mrs. Morris a hearty, boyish kiss, as she stood waiting for him. "I don't mind letting her have it." "But you expected to sell that one, didn't you?" she asked. "Mrs. Smith said maybe she'd take it when she came home from Boston, but I dare say she'd change her mind and get one there." "How much were you going to ask for him?" "Well, I wouldn't sell Barry for less than ten dollars, or rather, I wouldn't have sold him," and he ran out to the stable. Mrs. Morris sat on the hall chair, patting me as I rubbed against her, in rather an absentminded way. Then she got up and went into her husband's study, and told him what Carl had done. Mr. Morris seemed very pleased to hear about it, but when his wife asked him to do something to make up the loss to the boy, he said: "I had rather not do that. To encourage a child to do a kind action, and then to reward him for it, is not always a sound principle to go upon." But Carl did not go without his reward. That evening, Mrs. Montague's coachman brought a note to the house addressed to Mr. Carl Morris. He read it aloud to the family. MY DEAR CARL: I am charmed with my little bird, and he has whispered to me one of the secrets of your room. You want fifteen dollars very much to buy something for it. I am sure you won't be offended with an old friend for supplying you the means to get this something. ADA MONTAGUE. "Just the thing for my stationary tank for the goldfish," exclaimed Carl. "I've wanted it for a long time;--it isn't good to keep them in globes; but how in the world did she find out? I've never told any one." Mrs. Morris smiled, and said, "Barry must have told her," as she took the money from Carl to put away for him. Mrs. Montague got to be very fond of her new pet. She took care of him herself, and I have heard her tell Mrs. Morris most wonderful stories about him--stories so wonderful that I should say they were not true if I did not how intelligent dumb creatures get to be under kind treatment. She only kept him in his cage at night, and when she began looking for him at bedtime to put him there, he always hid himself. She would search a short time, and then sit down, and he always came out of his hiding-place, chirping in a saucy way to make her look at him. She said that he seemed to take delight in teasing her. Once when he was in the drawing-room with her, she was called away to speak to some one at the telephone. When she came back, she found that one of the servants had come into the room and left the door open leading to a veranda. The trees outside were full of yellow birds, and she was in despair, thinking that Barry had flown out with them. She looked out, but could not see him. Then, lest he had not left the room, she got a chair and carried it about, standing on it to examine the walls, and see if Barry was hidden among the pictures and bric-a-brac. But no Barry was there. She at last sank down, exhausted, on a sofa. She heard a wicked, little peep, and looking up, saw Barry sitting on one of the rounds of the chair that she had been carrying about to look for him. He had been there all the time. She was so glad to see him, that she never thought of scolding him. He was never allowed to fly about the dining room during meals, and the table maid drove him out before she set the table. It always annoyed him, and he perched on the staircase, watching the door through the railings. If it was left open for an instant, he flew in. One evening, before tea, he did this. There was a chocolate cake on the sideboard, and he liked the look of it so much that he began to peck at it. Mrs. Montague happened to come in, and drove him back to the hall. While she was having tea that evening, with her husband and little boy, Barry flew into the room again. Mrs. Montague told Charlie to send him out, but her husband said, "Wait, he is looking for something." He was on the sideboard, peering into every dish, and trying to look under the covers. "He is after the chocolate cake," exclaimed Mrs Montague. "Here, Charlie, put this on the staircase for him." She cut off a little scrap, and when Charlie took it to the hall, Barry flew after him, and ate it up. As for poor, little, lame Dick, Carl never sold him, and he became a family pet. His cage hung in the parlor, and from morning till night his cheerful voice was heard, chirping and singing as if he had not a trouble in the world. They took great care of him. He was never allowed to be too hot or too cold. Everybody gave him a cheerful word in passing his cage, and if his singing was too loud, they gave him a little mirror to look at himself in. He loved this mirror, and often stood before it for an hour at a time. * * * * * CHAPTER XII MALTA, THE CAT The first time I had a good look at the Morris cat, I thought she was the queerest-looking animal I had ever seen. She was dark gray--just the color of a mouse. Her eyes were a yellowish green, and for the first few days I was at the Morrises' they looked very unkindly at me. Then she got over her dislike and we became very good friends. She was a beautiful cat, and so gentle and affectionate that the whole family loved her. She was three years old, and she had come to Fairport in a vessel with some sailors, who had gotten her in a far-away place. Her name was Malta, and she was called a maltese cat. I have seen a great many cats, but I never saw one as kind as Malta. Once she had some little kittens and they all died. It almost broke her heart. She cried and cried about the house till it made one feel sad to hear her. Then she ran away to the woods. She came back with a little squirrel in her mouth, and putting it in her basket, she nursed it like a mother, till it grew old enough to run away from her. She was a very knowing cat, and always came when she was called. Miss Laura used to wear a little silver whistle that she blew when she wanted any of her pets. It was a shrill whistle, and we could hear it a long way from home. I have seen her standing at the back door whistling for Malta, and the pretty creature's head would appear somewhere--always high up, for she was a great climber, and she would come running along the top of the fence, saying, "Meow, meow," in a funny, short way. Miss Laura would pet her, or give her something to eat, or walk around the garden carrying her on her shoulder. Malta was a most affectionate cat, and if Miss Laura would not let her lick her face, she licked her hair with her little, rough tongue. Often Malta lay by the fire, licking my coat or little Billy's, to show her affection for us. Mary, the cook, was very fond of cats, and used to keep Malta in the kitchen as much as she could, but nothing would make her stay down there if there was any music going on upstairs. The Morris pets were all fond of music. As soon as Miss Laura sat down to the piano to sing or play, we came from all parts of the house. Malta cried to get upstairs, Davy scampered through the hall, and Bella hurried after him. If I was outdoors I ran in the house, and Jim got on a box and looked through the window. Davy's place was on Miss Laura's shoulder, his pink nose run in the curls at the back of her neck. I sat under the piano beside Malta and Bella, and we never stirred till the music was over; then we went quietly away. Malta was a beautiful cat--there was no doubt about it. While I was with Jenkins I thought cats were vermin, like rats, and I chased them every chance I got. Mrs, Jenkins had a cat, a gaunt, long-legged, yellow creature, that ran whenever we looked at it. Malta had been so kindly treated that she never ran from any one, except from strange dogs. She knew they would be likely to hurt her. If they came upon her suddenly, she faced them, and she was a pretty good fighter when she was put to it. I once saw her having a brush with a big mastiff that lived a few blocks from us, and giving him a good fright, which just served him right. I was shut up in the parlor. Some one had closed the door, and I could not get out. I was watching Malta from the window, as she daintily picked her way across the muddy street. She was such a soft, pretty, amiable-looking cat. She didn't look that way, though, when the mastiff rushed out of the alleyway at her. She sprang back and glared at him like a little, fierce tiger. Her tail was enormous. Her eyes were like balls of fire, and she was spitting and snarling, as if to say, "If you touch me, I'll tear you to pieces!" The dog, big as he was, did not dare attack her. He walked around and around, like a great clumsy elephant, and she turned her small body as he turned his, and kept up a dreadful hissing and spitting. Suddenly I saw a Spitz dog hurrying down the street. He was going to help the mastiff, and Malta would be badly hurt. I had barked and no one had come to let me out, so I sprang through the window. Just then there was a change. Malta had seen the second dog, and she knew she must get rid of the mastiff. With an agile bound she sprang on his back, dug her sharp claws in, till he put his tail between his legs and ran up the street, howling with pain. She rode a little way, then sprang off and ran up the lane to the stable. I was very angry and wanted to fight something, so I pitched into the Spitz dog. He was a snarly, cross-grained creature, no friend to Jim and me, and he would have been only too glad of a chance to help kill Malta. I gave him one of the worst beatings he ever had. I don't suppose it was quite right for me to do it, for Miss Laura says dogs should never fight; but he had worried Malta before, and he had no business to do it. She belonged to our family. Jim and I never worried 'his' cat. I had been longing to give him a shaking for some time, and now I felt for his throat through his thick hair, and dragged him all around the street. Then I let him go, and he was a civil dog ever afterward. Malta was very grateful, and licked a little place where the Spitz bit me. I did not get scolded for the broken window. Mary had seen me from the kitchen window, and told Mrs. Morris that I had gone to help Malta. Malta was a very wise cat. She knew quite well that she must not harm the parrot nor the canaries, and she never tried to catch them, even though she was left alone in the room with them. I have seen her lying in the sun, blinking sleepily, and listening with great pleasure to Dick's singing. Miss Laura even taught her not to hunt the birds outside. For a long time she had tried to get it into Malta's head that it was cruel to catch the little sparrows that came about the door, and just after I came, she succeeded in doing so, Malta was so fond of Miss Laura, that whenever she caught a bird, she came and laid it at her feet. Miss Laura always picked up the little, dead creature, pitied it and stroked it, and scolded Malta till she crept into a corner. Then Miss Laura put the bird on a limb of a tree, and Malta watched her attentively from her corner. One day Miss Laura stood at the window, looking out into the garden. Malta was lying on the platform, staring at the sparrows that were picking up crumbs from the ground. She trembled, and half rose every few minutes, as if to go after them. Then she lay down again. She was trying very hard not to creep on them. Presently a neighbor's cat came stealing along the fence, keeping one eye on Malta and the other on the sparrows. Malta was so angry! She sprang up and chased her away, and then came back to the platform, where she lay down again and waited for the sparrows to come back. For a long time she stayed there, and never once tried to catch them. Miss Laura was so pleased. She went to the door, and said, softly, "Come here, Malta." The cat put up her tail, and, meowing gently, came into the house. Miss Laura took her up in her arms, and going down to the kitchen, asked Mary to give her a saucer of her very sweetest milk for the best cat in the United States of America. Malta got great praise for this, and I never knew of her catching a bird afterward. She was well fed in the house, and had no need to hurt such harmless creatures. She was very fond of her home, and never went far away, as Jim and I did. Once, when Willie was going to spend a few weeks with a little friend who lived fifty miles from Fairport, he took it into his head that Malta should go with him. His mother told him that cats did not like to go away from home; but he said he would be good to her, and begged so hard to take her, that at last his mother consented. He had been a few days in this place, when he wrote home to say that Malta had run away. She had seemed very unhappy, and though he had kept her with him all the time, she had acted as if she wanted to get away. When the letter was read to Mr. Morris, he said, "Malta is on her way home. Cats have a wonderful cleverness in finding their way to their own dwelling. She will be very tired. Let us go out and meet her." Willie had gone to this place in a coach. Mr. Morris got a buggy and took Miss Laura and me with him, and we started out. We went slowly along the road. Every little while Miss Laura blew her whistle, and called, "Malta, Malta," and I barked as loudly as I could. Mr. Morris drove for several hours, then we stopped at a house, had dinner, and then set out again. We were going through a thick wood, where there was a pretty straight road, when I saw a small, dark creature away ahead, trotting toward us. It was Malta. I gave a joyful bark, but she did not know me, and plunged into the wood. I ran in after her, barking and yelping, and Miss Laura blew her whistle as loudly as she could. Soon there was a little gray head peeping at us from the bushes, and Malta bounded out, gave me a look of surprise and then leaped into the buggy on Miss Laura's lap. What a happy cat she was! She purred with delight, and licked Miss Laura's gloves over and over again. Then she ate the food they had brought, and went sound asleep. She was very thin, and for several days after getting home she slept the most of the time. Malta did not like dogs, but she was very good to cats. One day, when there was no one about and the garden was very quiet, I saw her go stealing into the stable, and come out again, followed by a sore-eyed, starved-looking cat, that had been deserted by some people that lived in the next street. She led this cat up to her catnip bed, and watched her kindly, while she rolled and rubbed herself in it. Then Malta had a roll in it herself, and they both went back to the stable. Catnip is a favorite plant with cats, and Miss Laura always kept some of it growing for Malta. For a long time this sick cat had a home in the stable. Malta carried her food every day, and after a time Miss Laura found out about her, and did what she could to make her well. In time she got to be a strong, sturdy-looking cat, and Miss Laura got a home for her with an invalid lady. It was nothing new for the Morrises to feed deserted cats. Some summers, Mrs. Morris said that she had a dozen to take care of. Careless and cruel people would go away for the summer, shutting up their houses, and making no provision for the poor cats that had been allowed to sit snugly by the fire all winter. At last, Mrs. Morris got into the habit of putting a little notice in the Fairport paper, asking people who were going away for the summer to provide for their cats during their absence. * * * * * CHAPTER XIII THE BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTURE The first winter I was at the Morrises', I had an adventure. It was a week before Christmas, and we were having cold, frosty weather. Not much snow had fallen, but there was plenty of skating, and the boys were off every day with their skates on a little lake near Fairport. Jim and I often went with them, and we had great fun scampering over the ice after them, and slipping at every step. On this Saturday night we had just gotten home. It was quite dark outside, and there was a cold wind blowing, so when we came in the front door, and saw the red light from the big hall stove and the blazing fire in the parlor they looked very cheerful. I was quite sorry for Jim that he had to go out to his kennel. However, he said he didn't mind. The boys got a plate of nice, warm meat for him and a bowl of milk, and carried them out, and afterward he went to sleep. Jim's kennel was a very snug one. Being a spaniel, he was not a very large dog, but his kennel was as roomy as if he was a great Dane. He told me that Mr. Morris and the boys made it, and he liked it very much, because it was large enough for him to get up in the night and stretch himself, when he got tired of lying in one position. It was raised a little from the ground, and it had a thick layer of straw over the floor. Above was a broad shelf, wide enough for him to lie on, and covered with an old catskin sleigh robe. Jim always slept here in cold weather, because it was farther away from the ground. To return to this December evening. I can remember yet how hungry I was. I could scarcely lie still till Miss Laura finished her tea. Mrs. Morris, knowing that her boys would be very hungry, had Mary broil some beefsteak and roast some potatoes for them; and didn't they smell good! They ate all the steak and potatoes. It didn't matter to me, for I wouldn't have gotten any if they had been left. Mrs. Morris could not afford to give to the dogs good meat that she had gotten for her children, so she used to get the butcher to send her liver, and bones, and tough meat, and Mary cooked them, and made soup and broth, and mixed porridge with them for us. We never got meat three times a day. Miss Laura said it was all very well to feed hunting dogs on meat, but dogs that are kept about a house get ill if they are fed too well. So we had meat only once a day, and bread and milk, porridge, or dog biscuits, for our other meals. I made a dreadful noise when I was eating. Ever since Jenkins cut my ears off, I had had trouble in breathing. The flaps had kept the wind and dust from the inside of my ears. Now that they were gone my head was stuffed up all the time. The cold weather made me worse, and sometimes I had such trouble to get my breath that it seemed as if I would choke. If I had opened my mouth, and breathed through it, as I have seen some people doing, I would have been more comfortable, but dogs always like to breathe through their noses. "You have taken more cold," said Miss Laura, this night, as she put my plate of food on the floor for me. "Finish your meat, and then come and sit by the fire with me. What! do you want more?" I gave a little bark, so she filled my plate for the second time. Miss Laura never allowed any one to meddle with us when we were eating. One day she found Willie teasing me by snatching at a bone that I was gnawing. "Willie," she said, "what would you do if you were just sitting down to the table feeling very hungry, and just as you began to eat your meat and potatoes, I would come along and snatch the plate from you?" "I don't know what I'd _do_" he said, laughingly; "but I'd _want_ to wallop you." "Well," she said, "I'm afraid that Joe will 'wallop' you some day if you worry him about his food, for even a gentle dog will sometimes snap at any one who disturbs him at his meals; so you had better not try his patience too far." Willie never teased me after that, and I was very glad, for two or three times I had been tempted to snarl at him. After I finished my tea, I followed Miss Laura upstairs. She took up a book and sat down in a low chair, and I lay down on the hearth rug beside her. "Do you know, Joe," she said with a smile, "why you scratch with your paws when you lie down, as if to make yourself a hollow bed, and turn around a great many times before you lie down?" Of course I did not know, so I only stared at her. "Years and years ago," she went on, gazing down at me, "there weren't any dogs living in people's houses, as you are, Joe. They were all wild creatures running about the woods. They always scratched among the leaves to make a comfortable bed for themselves, and the habit has come down to you, Joe, for you are descended from them." This sounded very interesting, and I think she was going to tell me some more about my wild forefathers, but just then the rest of the family came in. I always thought that this was the snuggest time of the day--when the family all sat around the fire--Mrs. Morris sewing, the boys reading or studying, and Mr. Morris with his head buried in a newspaper, and Billy and I on the floor at their feet. This evening I was feeling very drowsy, and had almost dropped asleep, when Ned gave me a push with his foot. He was a great tease, and he delighted in getting me to make a simpleton of myself. I tried to keep my eyes on the fire, but I could not, and just had to turn and look at him. He was holding his book up between himself and his mother, and was opening his mouth as wide as he could and throwing back his head, pretending to howl. For the life of me I could not help giving a loud howl. Mrs. Morris looked up and said, "Bad Joe, keep still." The boys were all laughing behind their books, for they knew what Ned was doing. Presently he started off again, and I was just beginning another howl that might have made Mrs. Morris send me out of the room, when the door opened, and a young girl called Bessie Drury came in. She had a cap on and a shawl thrown over her shoulders, and she had just run across the street from her father's house. "Oh, Mrs. Morris," she said, "will you let Laura come over and stay with me to-night? Mamma has just gotten a telegram from Bangor, saying that her aunt, Mrs. Cole, is very ill, and she wants to see her, and papa is going to take her there by to-night's train, and she is afraid I will be lonely if I don't have Laura." "Can you not come and spend the night here?" said Mrs. Morris. "No, thank you; I think mamma would rather have me stay in our house." "Very well," said Mrs. Morris, "I think Laura would like to go." "Yes, indeed," said Miss Laura, smiling at her friend. "I will come over in half an hour." "Thank you, so much," said Miss Bessie. And she hurried away. After she left, Mr. Morris looked up from his paper. "There will be some one in the house besides those two girls?" "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Morris; "Mrs. Drury has her old nurse, who has been with her for twenty years, and there are two maids besides, and Donald, the coachman, who sleeps over the stable. So they are well protected." "Very good," said Mr. Morris. And he went back to his paper. Of course dumb animals do not understand all that they hear spoken of; but I think human beings would be astonished if they knew how much we can gather from their looks and voices. I knew that Mr. Morris did not quite like the idea of having his daughter go to the Drury's when the master and mistress of the house were away, so I made up my mind that I would go with her. When she came down stairs with her little satchel on her arm, I got up and stood beside her. "Dear, old Joe," she said, "you must not come." I pushed myself out the door beside her after she had kissed her mother and father and the boys. "Go back, Joe," she said, firmly. I had to step back then, but I cried and whined, and she looked at me in astonishment. "I will be back in the morning, Joe," she said, gently; "don't squeal in that way," Then she shut the door and went out. I felt dreadfully. I walked up and down the floor and ran to the window, and howled without having to look at Ned. Mrs. Morris peered over her glasses at me in utter surprise. "Boys," she said, "did you ever see Joe act in that way before?" "No, mother," they all said. Mr. Morris was looking at me very intently. He had always taken more notice of me than any other creature about the house, and I was very fond of him. Now I ran up and put my paws on his knees. "Mother," he said, turning to his wife, "let the dog go." "Very well," she said, in a puzzled way. "Jack, just run over with him, and tell Mrs. Drury how he is acting, and that I will be very much obliged if she will let him stay all night with Laura." Jack sprang up, seized his cap, and raced down the front steps, across the street, through the gate, and up the gravelled walk, where the little stones were all hard and fast in the frost. The Drurys lived in a large, white house, with trees all around it, and a garden at the back. They were rich people and had a great deal of company. Through the summer I had often seen carriages at the door, and ladies and gentlemen in light clothes walking over the lawn, and sometimes I smelled nice things they were having to eat They did not keep any dogs, nor pets of any kind, so Jim and I never had an excuse to call there. Jack and I were soon at the front door, and he rang the bell and gave me in charge of the maid who opened it. The girl listened to his message for Mrs. Drury, then she walked upstairs, smiling and looking at me over her shoulder. There was a trunk in the upper hall, and an elderly woman was putting things in it. A lady stood watching her, and when she saw me, she gave a little scream, "Oh, nurse! look at that horrid dog! Where did he come from? Put him out, Susan." I stood quite still, and the girl who had brought me upstairs, gave her Jack's message. "Certainly, certainly," said the lady, when the maid finished speaking. "If he is one of the Morris dogs, he is sure to be a well-behaved one. Tell the little boy to thank his mamma for letting Laura come over, and say that we will keep the dog with pleasure. Now, nurse, we must hurry; the cab will be here in five minutes." I walked softly into a front room, and there I found my dear Miss Laura. Miss Bessie was with her, and they were cramming things into a portmanteau. They both ran out to find out how I came there, and just then a gentleman came hurriedly upstairs, and said the cab had come. There was a scene of great confusion and hurry, but in a few minutes it was all over. The cab had rolled away, and the house was quiet. "Nurse, you must be tired, you had better go to bed," said Miss Bessie, turning to the elderly woman, as we all stood in the hall. "Susan, will you bring some supper to the dining-room, for Miss Morris and me? What will you have, Laura?" "What are you going to have?" asked Miss Laura, with a smile. "Hot chocolate and tea biscuits." "Then I will have the same." "Bring some cake too, Susan," said Miss Bessie, "and something for the dog. I dare say he would like some of that turkey that was left from dinner." If I had had any ears I would have pricked them up at this, for I was very fond of fowl, and I never got any at the Morrises', unless it might be a stray bone or two. What fun we had over our supper! The two girls sat at the big dining table, and sipped their chocolate, and laughed and talked, and I had the skeleton of a whole turkey on a newspaper that Susan spread on the carpet. I was very careful not to drag it about, and Miss Bessie laughed at me till the tears came in her eyes. "That dog is a gentleman," she said; "see how he holds bones on the paper with his paws, and strips the meat off with his teeth. Oh, Joe, Joe, you are a funny dog! And you are having a funny supper. I have heard of quail on toast, but I never heard of turkey on newspaper." "Hadn't we better go to bed?" said Miss Laura, when the hall clock struck eleven. "Yes, I suppose we had," said Miss Bessie. "Where is this animal to sleep?" "I don't know," said Miss Laura; "he sleeps in the stable at home, or in the kennel with Jim." "Suppose Susan makes him a nice bed by the kitchen stove?" said Miss Bessie. Susan made the bed, but I was not willing to sleep in it. I barked so loudly when they shut me up alone, that they had to let me go upstairs with them. Miss Laura was almost angry with me, but I could not help it. I had come over there to protect her, and I wasn't going to leave her, if I could help it. Miss Bessie had a handsomely furnished room, with a soft carpet on the floor, and pretty curtains at the windows. There were two single beds in it, and the two girls dragged them close together, so that they could talk after they got in bed. Before Miss Bessie put out the light, she told Miss Laura not to be alarmed if she heard any one walking about in the night, for the nurse was sleeping across the hall from them, and she would probably come in once or twice to see if they were sleeping comfortably. The two girls talked for a long time, and then they fell asleep. Just before Miss Laura dropped off, she forgave me, and put down her hand for me to lick as I lay on a fur rug close by her bed. I was very tired, and I had a very soft and pleasant bed, so I soon fell into a heavy sleep. But I waked up at the slightest noise. Once Miss Laura turned in bed, and another time Miss Bessie laughed in her sleep, and again, there were queer crackling noises in the frosty limbs of the trees outside, that made me start up quickly out of my sleep. There was a big clock in the hall, and every time it struck I waked up. Once, just after it had struck some hour, I jumped up out of a sound nap. I had been dreaming about my early home. Jenkins was after me with a whip, and my limbs were quivering and trembling as if I had been trying to get away from him. I sprang up and shook myself. Then I took a turn around the room. The two girls were breathing gently; I could scarcely hear them. I walked to the door and looked out into the hall. There was a dim light burning there. The door of the nurse's room stood open. I went quietly to it and looked in. She was breathing heavily and muttering in her sleep. I went back to my rug and tried to go to sleep, but I could not. Such an uneasy feeling was upon me that I had to keep walking about. I went out into the hall again and stood at the head of the staircase. I thought I would take a walk through the lower hall, and then go to bed again. The Drurys' carpets were all like velvet, and my paws did not make a rattling on them as they did on the oil cloth at the Morrises'. I crept down the stairs like a cat, and walked along the lower hall, smelling under all the doors, listening as I went. There was no night light burning down here, and it was quite dark, but if there had been any strange person about I would have smelled him. I was surprised when I got near the farther end of the hall, to see a tiny gleam of light shine for an instant from under the dining-room door. Then it went away again. The dining-room was the place to eat. Surely none of the people in the house would be there after the supper we had. I went and sniffed under the door. There was a smell there; a strong smell like beggars and poor people. It smelled like Jenkins. It _was_ Jenkins. * * * * * CHAPTER XIV HOW WE CAUGHT THE BURGLAR What was the wretch doing in the house with my dear Miss Laura? I thought I would go crazy. I scratched at the door, and barked and yelped. I sprang up on it, and though I was quite a heavy dog by this time, I felt as light as a feather. It seemed to me that I would go mad if I could not get that door open. Every few seconds I stopped and put my head down to the doorsill to listen. There was a rushing about inside the room, and a chair fell over, and some one seemed to be getting out of the window. This made me worse than ever. I did not stop to think that I was only a medium-sized dog, and that Jenkins would probably kill me, if he got his hands on me. I was so furious that I thought only of getting hold of him. In the midst of the noise that I made, there was a screaming and a rushing to and fro upstairs. I ran up and down the hall, and half-way up the steps and back again. I did not want Miss Laura to come down, but how was I to make her understand? There she was, in her white gown, leaning over the railing, and holding back her long hair, her face a picture of surprise and alarm. "The dog has gone mad," screamed Miss Bessie. "Nurse, pour a pitcher of water on him." The nurse was more sensible. She ran downstairs, her night-cap flying, and a blanket that she had seized from her bed, trailing behind her. "There are thieves in the house," she shouted at the top of her voice, "and the dog has found it out." She did not go near the dining-room door, but threw open the front one, crying, "Policeman! Policeman! help, help, thieves, murder!" Such a screaming as that old woman made! She was worse than I was. I dashed by her, out through the hall door, and away down to the gate, where I heard some one running. I gave a few loud yelps to call Jim, and leaped the gate as the man before me had done. There was something savage in me that night. I think it must have been the smell of Jenkins. I felt as if I could tear him to pieces. I have never felt so wicked since. I was hunting him, as he had hunted me and my mother, and the thought gave me pleasure. Old Jim soon caught up with me, and I gave him a push with my nose, to let him know I was glad he had come. We rushed swiftly on, and at the corner caught up with the miserable man who was running away from us. I gave an angry growl, and jumping up, bit at his leg. He turned around, and though it was not a very bright night, there was light enough for me to see the ugly face of my old master. He seemed so angry to think that Jim and I dared to snap at him. He caught up a handful of stones, and with some bad words threw them at us. Just then, away in front of us, was a queer whistle, and then another one like it behind us. Jenkins made a strange noise in his throat, and started to run down a side street, away from the direction of the two whistles. I was afraid that he was going to get away, and though I could not hold him, I kept springing up on him, and once I tripped him up. Oh, how furious he was! He kicked me against the side of a wall, and gave me two or three hard blows with a stick that he caught up, and kept throwing stones at me. I would not give up, though I could scarcely see him for the blood that was running over my eyes. Old Jim got so angry whenever Jenkins touched me, that he ran up behind and nipped his calves, to make him turn on him. Soon Jenkins came to a high wall, where he stopped, and with a hurried look behind, began to climb over it. The wall was too high for me to jump. He was going to escape. What shall I do? I barked as loudly as I could for some one to come, and then sprang up and held him by the leg as he was getting over. I had such a grip, that I went over the wall with him, and left Jim on the other side. Jenkins fell on his face in the earth. Then he got up, and with a look of deadly hatred on his face, pounced upon me. If help had not come, I think he would have dashed out my brains against the wall, as he dashed out my poor little brothers' against the horse's stall. But just then there was a running sound. Two men came down the street and sprang upon the wall, just where Jim was leaping up and down and barking in distress. I saw at once by their uniform and the clubs in their hands, that they were policemen. In one short instant they had hold of Jenkins. He gave up then, but he stood snarling at me like an ugly dog. "If it hadn't been for that cur, I'd never a been caught. Why----," and he staggered back and uttered a bad word, "it's me own dog." "More shame to you," said one of the policemen, sternly; "what have you been up to at this time of night, to have your own dog and a quiet minister's spaniel dog a chasing you through the street?" Jenkins began to swear and would not tell them anything. There was a house in the garden, and just at this minute some one opened a window and called out: "Hallo, there, what are you doing?" "We're catching a thief, sir," said one of the policemen, "leastwise I think that's what he's been up to. Could you throw us down a bit of rope? We've no handcuffs here, and one of us has to go to the lock-up and the other to Washington street, where there's a woman yelling blue murder; and hurry up, please, sir." The gentleman threw down a rope, and in two minutes Jenkins' wrists were tied together, and he was walked through the gate, saying bad words as fast as he could to the policeman who was leading him. "Good dogs," said the other policeman to Jim and me. Then he ran up the street and we followed him. As we hurried along Washington street, and came near our house, we saw lights gleaming through the darkness, and heard people running to and fro. The nurse's shrieking had alarmed the neighborhood. The Morris boys were all out in the street only half clad and shivering with cold, and the Drurys' coachman, with no hat on, and his hair sticking up all over his head, was running about with a lantern. The neighbors' houses were all lighted up, and a good many people were hanging out of their windows and opening their doors, and calling to each other to know what all this noise meant. When the policeman appeared with Jim and me at his heels, quite a crowd gathered around him to hear his part of the story. Jim and I dropped on the ground panting as hard as we could, and with little streams of water running from our tongues. We were both pretty well used up. Jim's back was bleeding in several places from the stones that Jenkins had thrown at him, and I was a mass of bruises. Presently we were discovered, and then what a fuss was made over us. "Brave dogs! noble dogs!" everybody said, and patted and praised us. We were very proud and happy, and stood up and wagged our tails, at least Jim did, and I wagged what I could. Then they found what a state we were in. Mrs. Morris cried, and catching me up in her arms, ran in the house with me, and Jack followed with old Jim. We all went into the parlor. There was a good fire there, and Miss Laura and Miss Bessie were sitting over it. They sprang up when they saw us, and right there in the parlor washed our wounds, and made us lie down by the fire. "You saved our silver, brave Joe," said Miss Bessie; "just wait till my papa and mamma come home, and see what they will say. Well, Jack, what is the latest?" as the Morris boys came trooping into the room. "The policeman has been questioning your nurse, and examining the dining-room, and has gone down to the station to make his report, and do you know what he has found out?" said Jack, excitedly. "No--what?" asked Miss Bessie. "Why that villain was going to burn your house." Miss Bessie gave a little shriek. "Why, what do you mean?" "Well," said Jack, "they think by what they discovered, that he planned to pack his bag with silver, and carry it off; but just before he did so he would pour oil around the room, and set fire to it, so people would not find out that he had been robbing you." "Why we might have all been burned to death," said Miss Bessie. "He couldn't burn the dining-room without setting fire to the rest of the house." "Certainly not," said Jack, that shows what a villain he is." "Do they know this for certain, Jack?" asked Miss Laura. "Well, they suppose so; they found some bottles of oil along with the bag he had for the silver." "How horrible! You darling old Joe, perhaps you saved our lives," and pretty Miss Bessie kissed my ugly, swollen head. I could do nothing but lick her little hand, but always after that I thought a great deal of her. It is now some years since all this happened, and I might as well tell the end of it. The next day the Drurys came home, and everything was found out about Jenkins. The night they left Fairport he had been hanging about the station. He knew just who were left in the house, for he had once supplied them with milk, and knew all about their family. He had no customers at this time, for after Mr. Harry rescued me, and that piece came out in the paper about him, he found that no one would take milk from him. His wife died, and some kind people put his children in an asylum, and he was obliged to sell Toby and the cows. Instead of learning a lesson from all this, and leading a better life, he kept sinking lower. He was, therefore, ready for any kind of mischief that turned up, and when he saw the Drurys going away in the train, he thought he would steal a bag of silver from their sideboard, then set fire to the house, and run away and hide the silver. After a time he would take it to some city and sell it. He was made to confess all this. Then for his wickedness he was sent to prison for ten years, and I hope he will get to be a better man there, and be one after he comes out. I was sore and stiff for a long time, and one day Mrs. Drury came over to see me. She did not love dogs as the Morrises did. She tried to, but she could not. Dogs can see fun in things as well as people can, and I buried my muzzle in the hearth-rug, so that she would not see how I was curling up my lip and smiling at her. "You--are--a--good--dog," she said, slowly. "You are"--then she stopped, and could not think of anything else to say to me. I got up and stood in front of her, for a well-bred dog should not lie down when a lady speaks to him. I wagged my body a little, and I would gladly have said something to help her out of her difficulty, but I couldn't. If she had stroked me it might have helped her; but she didn't want to touch me, and I knew she didn't want me to touch her, so I just stood looking at her. "Mrs. Morris," she said, turning from me with a puzzled face, "I don't like animals, and I can't pretend to, for they always find me out; but can't you let that dog know that I shall feel eternally grateful to him for saving not only our property--for that is a trifle--but my darling daughter from fright and annoyance, and a possible injury or loss of life?" "I think he understands," said Mrs. Morris. "He is a very wise dog." And smiling in great amusement, she called me to her and put my paws on her lap. "Look at that lady, Joe. She is pleased with you for driving Jenkins away from her house. You remember Jenkins?" I barked angrily and limped to the window. "How intelligent he is," said Mrs. Drury. "My husband has sent to New York for a watchdog, and he says that from this on our house shall never be without one. Now I must go. Your dog is happy, Mrs. Morris, and I can do nothing for him, except to say that I shall never forget him, and I wish he would come over occasionally to see us. Perhaps when we get our dog he will. I shall tell my cook whenever she sees him to give him something to eat. This is a souvenir for Laura of that dreadful night. I feel under a deep obligation to you, so I am sure you will allow her to accept it." Then she gave Mrs. Morris a little box and went away. When Miss Laura came in, she opened the box, and found in it a handsome diamond ring. On the inside of it was engraved: "Laura, in memory of December 20th, 18--. From her grateful friend, Bessie." The diamond was worth hundreds of dollars, and Mrs. Morris told Miss Laura that she had rather she would not wear it then, while she was a young girl. It was not suitable for her, and she knew Mrs. Drury did not expect her to do so. She wished to give her a valuable present, and this would always be worth a great deal of money. * * * * * CHAPTER XV OUR JOURNEY TO RIVERDALE Every other summer, the Morris children were sent to some place in the country, so that they could have a change of air, and see what country life was like. As there were so many of them they usually went different ways. The summer after I came to them, Jack and Carl went to an uncle in Vermont, Miss Laura went to another in New Hampshire, and Ned and Willie went to visit a maiden aunt who lived in the White Mountains. Mr. and Mrs. Morris stayed at home. Fairport was a lovely place in summer, and many people came there to visit. The children took some of their pets with them, and the others they left at home for their mother to take care of. She never allowed them to take a pet animal anywhere, unless she knew it would be perfectly welcome. "Don't let your pets be a worry to other people," she often said to them, "or they will dislike them and you too." Miss Laura went away earlier than the others, for she had run down through the spring, and was pale and thin. One day, early in June, we set out. I say "we," for after my adventure with Jenkins, Miss Laura said that I should never be parted from her. If any one invited her to come and see them and didn't want me, she would stay at home. The whole family went to the station to see us off. They put a chain on my collar and took me to the baggage office and got two tickets for me. One was tied to my collar and the other Miss Laura put in her purse. Then I was put in a baggage car and chained in a corner. I heard Mr. Morris say that as we were only going a short distance, it was not worth while to get an express ticket for me. There was a dreadful noise and bustle at the station. Whistles were blowing and people were rushing up and down the platform. Some men were tumbling baggage so fast into the car where I was, that I was afraid some of it would fall on me. For a few minutes Miss Laura stood by the door and looked in, but soon the men had piled up so many boxes and trunks that she could not see me. Then she went away. Mr. Morris asked one of the men to see that I did not get hurt, and I heard some money rattle. Then he went away too. It was the beginning of June and the weather had suddenly become very hot. We had a long, cold spring, and not being used to the heat, it seemed very hard to bear. Before the train started, the doors of the baggage car were closed, and it became quite dark inside. The darkness, and the heat, and the close smell, and the noise, as we went rushing along, made me feel sick and frightened. I did not dare to lie down, but sat up trembling and wishing that we might soon come to Riverdale Station. But we did not get there for some time, and I was to have a great fright. I was thinking of all the stories that I knew of animals traveling. In February, the Drurys' Newfoundland watch-dog, Pluto, had arrived from New York, and he told Jim and me that he had a miserable journey. A gentleman friend of Mr. Drury's had brought him from New York. He saw him chained up in his car, and he went into his Pullman, first tipping the baggage-master handsomely to look after him. Pluto said that the baggage-master had a very red nose, and he was always getting drinks for himself when they stopped at a station, but he never once gave him a drink or anything to eat, from the time they left New York till they got to Fairport. When the train stopped there, and Pluto's chain was unfastened, he sprang out on the platform and nearly knocked Mr. Drury down. He saw some snow that had sifted through the station roof and he was so thirsty that he began to lick it up. When the snow was all gone, he jumped up and licked the frost on the windows. Mr. Drury's friend was so angry. He found the baggage-master, and said to him: "What did you mean, by coming into my car every few hours, to tell me that the dog was fed, and watered, and comfortable? I shall report you." He went into the office at the station, and complained of the man, and was told that he was a drinking man, and was going to be dismissed. I was not afraid of suffering like Pluto, because it was only going to take us a few hours to get to Riverdale. I found that we always went slowly before we came in to a station, and one time when we began to slacken speed I thought that surely we must be at our journey's end. However, it was not Riverdale. The car gave a kind of jump, then there was a crashing sound ahead, and we stopped. I heard men shouting and running up and down, and I wondered what had happened. It was all dark and still in the car, and nobody came in, but the noise kept up outside, and I knew something had gone wrong with the train. Perhaps Miss Laura had got hurt. Something must have happened to her or she would come to me. I barked and pulled at my chain till my neck was sore, but for a long, long time I was there alone. The men running about outside must have heard me. If ever I hear a man in trouble and crying for help I go to him and see what he wants. After such a long time that it seemed to me it must be the middle of the night, the door at the end of the car opened, and a man looked in. "This is all through baggage for New York, miss," I heard him say; "they wouldn't put your dog in here." "Yes, they did--I am sure this is the car," I heard in the voice I knew so well; "and won't you get him out, please? He must be terribly frightened." The man stooped down and unfastened my chain, grumbling to himself because I had not been put in another car. "Some folks tumble a dog round as if he was a junk of coal," he said, patting me kindly. I was nearly wild with delight to get with Miss Laura again, but I had barked so much, and pressed my neck so hard with my collar that my voice was all gone. I fawned on her, and wagged myself about, and opened and shut my mouth, but no sound came out of it. It made Miss Laura nervous. She tried to laugh and cry at the same time, and then bit her lip hard, and said: "Oh, Joe, don't." "He's lost his bark, hasn't he?" said the man, looking at me curiously. "It is a wicked thing to confine an animal in a dark and closed car," said Miss Laura, trying to see her way down the steps through her tears. The man put out his hand and helped her. "He's not suffered much, miss," he said; "don't you distress yourself. Now if you'd been a brakeman on a Chicago train, as I was a few years ago, and seen the animals run in for the stock yards, you might talk about cruelty. Cars that ought to hold a certain number of pigs, or sheep, or cattle, jammed full with twice as many, and half of 'em thrown out choked and smothered to death. I've seen a man running up and down, raging and swearing because the railway people hadn't let him get in to tend to his pigs on the road." Miss Laura turned and looked at the man with a very white face. "Is it like that now?" she asked. "No, no," he said, hastily. "It's better now. They've got new regulations about taking care of the stock; but mind you, miss, the cruelty to animals isn't all done on the railways. There's a great lot of dumb creatures suffering all round everywhere, and if they could speak, 'twould be a hard showing for some other people besides the railway men." He lifted his cap and hurried down the platform, and Miss Laura, her face very much troubled, picked her way among the bits of coal and wood scattered about the platform, and went into the waiting room of the little station. She took me up to the filter and let some water run in her hand, and gave it to me to lap. Then she sat down and I leaned my head against her knees, and she stroked my throat gently. There were some people sitting about the room, and, from their talk, I found out what had taken place. There had been a freight train on a side track at this station, waiting for us to get by. The switchman had carelessly left the switch open after this train went by, and when we came along afterward, our train, instead of running in by the platform, went crashing into the freight train. If we had been going fast, great damage might have been done. As it was, our engine was smashed so badly that it could not take us on; the passengers were frightened; and we were having a tedious time waiting for another engine to come and take us to Riverdale. After the accident, the trainmen were so busy that Miss Laura could get no one to release me. While I sat by her, I noticed an old gentleman staring at us. He was such a queer-looking old gentleman. He looked like a poodle. He had bright brown eyes, and a pointed face, and a shock of white hair that he shook every few minutes. He sat with his hands clasped on the top of his cane, and he scarcely took his eyes from Miss Laura's face. Suddenly he jumped up and came and sat down beside her. "An ugly dog, that," he said, pointing to me. Most young ladies would have resented this, but Miss Laura only looked amused. "He seems beautiful to me," she said, gently. "H'm, because he's your dog," said the old man, darting a sharp look at me. "What's the matter with him?" "This is his first journey by rail, and he's a little frightened." "No wonder. The Lord only knows the suffering of animals in transportation," said the old gentleman. "My dear young lady, if you could see what I have seen, you'd never eat another bit of meat all the days of your life." Miss Laura wrinkled her forehead. "I know--I have heard," she faltered. "It must be terrible." "Terrible--it's awful," said the gentleman. "Think of the cattle on the western plains. Choked with thirst in summer, and starved and frozen in winter. Dehorned and goaded on to trains and steamers. Tossed about and wounded and suffering on voyages. Many of them dying and being thrown into the sea. Others landed sick and frightened. Some of them slaughtered on docks and wharves to keep them from dropping dead in their tracks. What kind of food does their flesh make? It's rank poison. Three of my family have died of cancer. I am a vegetarian." The strange old gentleman darted from his seat, and began to pace up and down the room. I was very glad he had gone, for Miss Laura hated to hear of cruelty of any kind, and her tears were dropping thick and fast on my brown coat. The gentleman had spoken very loudly, and every one in the room had listened to what he said. Among them, was a very young man, with a cold, handsome face. He looked as if he was annoyed that the older man should have made Miss Laura cry. "Don't you think, sir," he said, as the old gentleman passed near him in walking up and down the floor, "that there is a great deal of mock sentiment about this business of taking care of the dumb creation? They were made for us. They've got to suffer and be killed to supply our wants. The cattle and sheep, and other animals would over-run the earth, if we didn't kill them." "Granted," said the old man, stopping right in front of him. "Granted, young man, if you take out that word suffer. The Lord made the sheep, and the cattle, and the pigs. They are his creatures just as much as we are. We can kill them, but we've no right to make them suffer." "But we can't help it, sir." "Yes, we can, my young man. It's a possible thing to raise healthy stock, treat it kindly, kill it mercifully, eat it decently. When men do that I, for one, will cease to be a vegetarian. You're only a boy. You haven't traveled as I have. I've been from one end of this country to the other. Up north, down south, and out west, I've seen sights that made me shudder, and I tell you the Lord will punish this great American nation if it doesn't change its treatment of the dumb animals committed to its care." The young man looked thoughtful, and did not reply. A very sweet faced old lady sitting near him answered the old gentleman. I don't think I have ever seen such a fine-looking old lady as she was. Her hair was snowy white, and her face was deeply wrinkled, yet she was tall and stately, and her expression was as pleasing as my dear Miss Laura's. "I do not think we are a wicked nation," she said, softly. "We are a younger nation than many of the nations of the earth, and I think that many of our sins arise from ignorance and thoughtlessness." "Yes, madame, yes, madame," said the fiery old gentleman, staring hard at her. "I agree with you there." She smiled very pleasantly at him and went on. "I, too, have been a traveler, and I have talked to a great many wise and good people on the subject of the cruel treatment of animals, and I find that many of them have never thought about it. They, themselves, never knowingly ill-treat a dumb creature, and when they are told stories of inhuman conduct, they say in surprise, 'Why, these things surely can't exist!' You see they have never been brought in contact with them. As soon as they learn about them, they begin to agitate and say, 'We must have this thing stopped. Where is the remedy?'" "And what is it, what is it, madame, in your opinion?" said the old gentleman, pawing the floor with impatience. "Just the remedy that I would propose for the great evil of intemperance," said the old lady, smiling at him. "Legislation and education. Legislation for the old and hardened, and education for the young and tender. I would tell the schoolboys and schoolgirls that alcohol will destroy the framework of their beautiful bodies, and that cruelty to any of God's living creatures will blight and destroy their innocent young souls." The young man spoke again. "Don't you think," he said, "that you temperance and humane people lay too much stress upon the education of our youth in all lofty and noble sentiments? The human heart will always be wicked. Your Bible tells you that, doesn't it? You can't educate all the badness out of children." "We don't expect to do that," said the old lady, turning her pleasant face toward him; "but even if the human heart is desperately wicked, shouldn't that make us much more eager to try to educate, to ennoble, and restrain? However, as far as my experience goes, and I have lived in this wicked world for seventy-five years, I find that the human heart, though wicked and cruel, as you say, has yet some soft and tender spots, and the impressions made upon it in youth are never, never effaced. Do you not remember better than anything else, standing at your mother's knee--the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your forehead?" By this time our engine had arrived. A whistle was blowing, and nearly every one was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among the first. Miss Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and I was standing by, wishing that I could help her. The old lady and the young man were the only other people in the room, and we could not help hearing what they said. "Yes, I do," he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red. "She is dead now--I have no mother." "Poor boy!" and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder. They were standing up, and she was taller than he was. "May God bless you. I know you have a kind heart. I have four stalwart boys, and you remind me of the youngest. If you are ever in Washington come to see me." She gave him some name, and he lifted his hat and looked as if he was astonished to find out who she was. Then he, too, went away, and she turned to Miss Laura. "Shall I help you, my dear?" "If you please," said my young mistress. "I can't fasten this strap." In a few seconds the bundle was done up, and we were joyfully hastening to the train. It was only a few miles to Riverdale, so the conductor let me stay in the car with Miss Laura. She spread her coat out on the seat in front of her, and I sat on it and looked out of the car window as we sped along through a lovely country, all green and fresh in the June sunlight. How light and pleasant this car was--so different from the baggage car. What frightens an animal most of all things, is not to see where it is going, not to know what is going to happen to it. I think that they are very like human beings in this respect. The lady had taken a seat beside Miss Laura, and as we went along, she too looked out of the window and said in a low voice: "What is so rare as a day in June, Then, if ever, come perfect days." "That is very true," said Miss Laura; "how sad that the autumn must come, and the cold winter." "No, my dear, not sad. It is but a preparation for another summer." "Yes, I suppose it is," said Miss Laura. Then she continued a little shyly, as her companion leaned over to stroke my cropped ears "You seem very fond of animals." "I am, my dear. I have four horses, two cows, a tame squirrel, three dogs, and a cat." "You should be a happy woman," said Miss Laura, with a smile. "I think I am. I must not forget my horned toad, Diego, that I got in California. I keep him in the green-house, and he is very happy catching flies and holding his horny head to be scratched whenever any one comes near." "I don't see how any one can be unkind to animals," said Miss Laura, thoughtfully. "Nor I, my dear child. It has always caused me intense pain to witness the torture of dumb animals. Nearly seventy years ago, when I was a little girl walking the streets of Boston, I would tremble and grow faint at the cruelty of drivers to over-loaded horses. I was timid and did not dare speak to them. Very often, I ran home and flung myself in my mother's arms with a burst of tears, and asked her if nothing could be done to help the poor animals. With mistaken, motherly kindness, she tried to put the subject out of my thoughts. I was carefully guarded from seeing or hearing of any instances of cruelty. But the animals went on suffering just the same, and when I became a woman, I saw my cowardice. I agitated the matter among my friends, and told them that our whole dumb creation was groaning together in pain, and would continue to groan, unless merciful human beings were willing to help them. I was able to assist in the formation of several societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, and they have done good service. Good service not only to the horses and cows, but to the nobler animal, man. I believe that in saying to a cruel man, 'You shall not overwork, torture, mutilate, nor kill your animal, or neglect to provide it with proper food and shelter,' we are making him a little nearer the kingdom of heaven than he was before. For 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' If he sows seeds of unkindness and cruelty to man and beast, no one knows what the blackness of the harvest will be. His poor horse, quivering under a blow, is not the worst sufferer. Oh, if people would only understand that their unkind deeds will recoil upon their own heads with tenfold force--but, my dear child, I am fancying that I am addressing a drawing-room meeting--and here we are at your station. Good-bye; keep your happy face and gentle ways. I hope that we may meet again some day." She pressed Miss Laura's hand, gave me a farewell pat, and the next minute we were outside on the platform, and she was smiling through the window at us. * * * * * CHAPTER XVI DINGLEY FARM "My dear niece," and a stout, middle-aged woman, with a red, lively face, threw both her arms around Miss Laura, "How glad I am to see you, and this is the dog. Good Joe, I have a bone waiting for you. Here is Uncle John." A tall, good-looking man stepped up and put out a big hand, in which my mistress' little fingers were quite swallowed up. "I am glad to see you, Laura. Well, Joe, how d'ye do, old boy? I've heard about you." It made me feel very welcome to have them both notice me, and I was so glad to be out of the train that I frisked for joy around their feet as we went to the wagon. It was a big double one, with an awning over it to shelter it from the sun's rays, and the horses were drawn up in the shade of a spreading tree. They were two powerful black horses, and as they had no blinders on, they could see us coming. Their faces lighted up and they moved their ears and pawed the ground, and whinnied when Mr. Wood went up to them. They tried to rub their heads against him, and I saw plainly that they loved him. "Steady there, Cleve and Pacer," he said; "now back, back up." By this time, Mrs. Wood, Miss Laura and I were in the wagon. Then Mr. Wood jumped in, took up the reins, and off we went. How the two black horses did spin along! I sat on the seat beside Mr. Wood, and sniffed in the delicious air, and the lovely smell of flowers and grass. How glad I was to be in the country! What long races I should have in the green fields. I wished that I had another dog to run with me, and wondered very much whether Mr. Wood kept one. I knew I should soon find out, for whenever Miss Laura went to a place she wanted to know what animals there were about. We drove a little more than a mile along a country road where there were scattered houses. Miss Laura answered questions about her family, and asked questions about Mr. Harry, who was away at college and hadn't got home. I don't think I have said before that Mr. Harry was Mrs. Wood's son. She was a widow with one son when she married Mr. Wood, so that Mr. Harry, though the Morrises called him cousin, was not really their cousin. I was very glad to hear them say that he was soon coming home, for I had never forgotten that but for him I should never have known Miss Laura and gotten into my pleasant home. By-and-by, I heard Miss Laura say: "Uncle John, have you a dog?" "Yes, Laura," he said; "I have one to-day, but I sha'n't have one to-morrow." "Oh, uncle, what do you mean?" she asked. "Well, Laura," he replied, "you know animals are pretty much like people. There are some good ones and some bad ones. Now, this dog is a snarling, cross-grained, cantankerous beast, and when I heard Joe was coming, I said: 'Now we'll have a good dog about the place, and here's an end to the bad one.' So I tied Bruno up, and to-morrow I shall shoot him. Something's got to be done, or he'll be biting some one." "Uncle," said Miss Laura, "people don't always die when they are bitten by dogs, do they?" "No, certainly not," replied Mr. Wood. "In my humble opinion there's a great lot of nonsense talked about the poison of a dog's bite and people dying of hydrophobia. Ever since I was born I've had dogs snap at me and stick their teeth in my flesh; and I've never had a symptom of hydrophobia, and never intend to have. I believe half the people that are bitten by dogs frighten themselves into thinking they are fatally poisoned. I was reading the other day about the policemen in a big city in England that have to catch stray dogs, and dogs supposed to be mad, and all kinds of dogs, and they get bitten over and over again, and never think anything about it. But let a lady or a gentleman walking along the street have a dog bite them, and they worry themselves till their blood is in a fever, and they have to hurry across to France to get Pasteur to cure them. They imagine they've got hydrophobia, and they've got it because they imagine it. I believe if I fixed my attention on that right thumb of mine, and thought I had a sore there, and picked at it and worried it, in a short time a sore would come, and I'd be off to the doctor to have it cured. At the same time dogs have no business to bite, and I don't recommend any one to get bitten." "But, uncle," said Miss Laura, "isn't there such a thing as hydrophobia?" "Oh, yes; I dare say there is. I believe that a careful examination of the records of death reported in Boston from hydrophobia for the space of thirty-two years, shows that two people actually died from it. Dogs are like all other animals. They're liable to sickness, and they've got to be watched. I think my horses would go mad if I starved them, or over-fed them, or over-worked them, or let them stand in laziness, or kept them dirty, or didn't give them water enough. They'd get some disease, anyway. If a person owns an animal, let him take care of it, and it's all right. If it shows signs of sickness, shut it up and watch it. If the sickness is incurable, kill it. Here's a sure way to prevent hydrophobia. Kill off all ownerless and vicious dogs. If you can't do that, have plenty of water where they can get at it. A dog that has all the water he wants, will never go mad. This dog of mine has not one single thing the matter with him but pure ugliness. Yet, if I let him loose, and he ran through the village with his tongue out, I'll warrant you there'd be a cry of 'mad dog!' However, I'm going to kill him. I've no use for a bad dog. Have plenty of animals, I say, and treat them kindly, but if there's a vicious one among them, put it out of the way, for it is a constant danger to man and beast. It's queer how ugly some people are about their dogs. They'll keep them no matter how they worry other people, and even when they're snatching the bread out of their neighbors' mouths. But I say that is not the fault of the four-legged dog. A human dog is the worst of all. There's a band of sheep-killing dogs here in Riverdale, that their owners can't, or won't, keep out of mischief. Meek-looking fellows some of them are. The owners go to bed at night, and the dogs pretend to go, too; but when the house is quiet and the family asleep, off goes Rover or Fido to worry poor, defenseless creatures that can't defend themselves. Their taste for sheep's blood is like the taste for liquor in men, and the dogs will travel as far to get their fun, as the men will travel for theirs. They've got it in them, and you can't get it out. "Mr. Windham cured his dog," said Mrs. Wood. Mr. Wood burst into a hearty laugh. "So he did, so he did. I must tell Laura about that. Windham is a neighbor of ours, and last summer I kept telling him that his collie was worrying my Shropshires. He wouldn't believe me, but I knew I was right, and one night when Harry was home, he lay in wait for the dog and lassoed him. I tied him up and sent for Windham. You should have seen his face, and the dog's face. He said two words, 'You scoundrel!' and the dog cowered at his feet as if he had been shot. He was a fine dog, but he'd got corrupted by evil companions. Then Windham asked me where my sheep were. I told him in the pasture. He asked me if I still had my old ram Bolton. I said yes, and then he wanted eight or ten feet of rope. I gave it to him, and wondered what on earth he was going to do with it. He tied one end of it to the dog's collar, and holding the other in his hand, set out for the pasture. He asked us to go with him, and when he got there, he told Harry he'd like to see him catch Bolton. There wasn't any need to catch him, he'd come to us like a dog. Harry whistled, and when Bolton came up, Windham fastened the rope's end to his horns, and let him go. The ram was frightened and ran, dragging the dog with him. We let them out of the pasture into an open field, and for a few minutes there was such a racing and chasing over that field as I never saw before. Harry leaned up against the bars and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks, Then Bolton got mad, and began to make battle with the dog, pitching into him with his horns. We soon stopped that, for the spirit had all gone out of Dash. Windham unfastened the rope, and told him to get home, and if ever I saw a dog run, that one did. Mrs. Windham set great store by him, and her husband didn't want to kill him. But he said Dash had got to give up his sheep-killing, if he wanted to live. That cured him. He's never worried a sheep from that day to this, and if you offer him a bit of sheep's wool now, he tucks his tail between his legs, and runs for home. Now, I must stop my talk, for we're in sight of the farm. Yonder's our boundary line, and there's the house. You'll see a difference in the trees since you were here before." We had come to a turn in the road where the ground sloped gently upward. We turned in at the gate, and drove between rows of trees up to a long, low, red house, with a veranda all round it. There was a wide lawn in front, and away on our right were the farm buildings. They too, were painted red, and there were some trees by them that Mr. Wood called his windbreak, because they kept the snow from drifting in the winter time. I thought it was a beautiful place. Miss Laura had been here before, but not for some years, so she, too, was looking about quite eagerly. "Welcome to Dingley Farm, Joe," said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly laugh, as she watched me jump from the carriage seat to the ground. "Come in, and I'll introduce you to pussy." "Aunt Hattie, why is the farm called Dingley Farm?" said Miss Laura, as we went into the house. "It ought to be Wood Farm." "Dingley is made out of 'dingle,' Laura. You know that pretty hollow back of the pasture? It is what they call a 'dingle.' So this farm was called Dingle Farm till the people around about got saying 'Dingley' instead. I suppose they found it easier. Why, here is Lolo coming to see Joe." Walking along the wide hall that ran through the house was a large tortoise-shell cat. She had a prettily marked face, and she was waving her large tail like a flag, and mewing kindly to greet her mistress. But when she saw me what a face she made. She flew on the hall table, and putting up her back till it almost lifted her feet from the ground, began to spit at me and bristle with rage. "Poor Lolo," said Mrs. Wood, going up to her. "Joe is a good dog, and not like Bruno. He won't hurt you." I wagged myself about a little, and looked kindly at her, but she did nothing but say bad words to me. It was weeks and weeks before I made friends with that cat. She was a young thing, and had known only one dog, and he was a bad one, so she supposed all dogs were like him. There was a number of rooms opening off the hall, and one of them was the dining room where they had tea. I lay on a rug outside the door and watched them. There was a small table spread with a white cloth, and it had pretty dishes and glassware on it, and a good many different kinds of things to eat. A little French girl, called Adele, kept coming and going from the kitchen to give them hot cakes, and fried eggs, and hot coffee. As soon as they finished their tea, Mrs. Wood gave me one of the best meals that I ever had in my life. * * * * * CHAPTER XVII MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES The morning after we arrived in Riverdale I was up very early and walking around the house. I slept in the woodshed, and could run outdoors whenever I liked. The woodshed was at the back of the house, and near it was the tool shed. Then there was a carriage house, and a plank walk leading to the barnyard. I ran up this walk, and looked into the first building I came to. It was the horse stable. A door stood open, and the morning sun was glancing in. There were several horses there, some with their heads toward me, and some with their tails. I saw that instead of being tied up, there were gates outside their stalls, and they could stand in any way they liked. There was a man moving about at the other end of the stable, and long before he saw me, I knew that it was Mr. Wood. What a nice, clean stable he had! There was always a foul smell coming out of Jenkins's stable, but here the air seemed as pure inside as outside. There was a number of little gratings in the wall to let in the fresh air, and they were so placed that drafts would not blow on the horses. Mr. Wood was going from one horse to another, giving them hay, and talking to them in a cheerful voice. At last he spied me, and cried out, "The top of the morning to you, Joe! You are up early. Don't come too near the horses, good dog," as I walked in beside him; "they might think you are another Bruno, and give you a sly bite or kick. I should have shot him long ago. 'Tis hard to make a good dog suffer for a bad one, but that's the way of the world. Well, old fellow, what do you think of my horse stable? Pretty fair, isn't it?" And Mr. Wood went on talking to me as he fed and groomed his horses, till I soon found out that his chief pride was in them. I like to have human beings talk to me. Mr. Morris often reads his sermons to me, and Miss Laura tells me secrets that I don't think she would tell to any one else. I watched Mr. Wood carefully, while he groomed a huge, gray cart-horse, that he called Dutchman. He took a brush in his right hand, and a curry-comb in his left, and he curried and brushed every part of the horse's skin, and afterward wiped him with a cloth. "A good grooming is equal to two quarts of oats, Joe," he said to me. Then he stooped down and examined the horse's hoofs. "Your shoes are too heavy, Dutchman," he said; "but that pig-headed blacksmith thinks he knows more about horses than I do. 'Don't cut the sole nor the frog,' I say to him. 'Don't pare the hoof so much, and don't rasp it; and fit your shoe to the foot, and not the foot to the shoe,' and he looks as if he wanted to say, 'Mind your own business.' We'll not go to him again. ''Tis hard to teach an old dog new tricks.' I got you to work for me, not to wear out your strength in lifting about his weighty shoes." Mr. Wood stopped talking for a few minutes, and whistled a tune. Then he began again. "I've made a study of horses, Joe. Over forty years I've studied them, and it's my opinion that the average horse knows more than the average man that drives him. When I think of the stupid fools that are goading patient horses about, beating them and misunderstanding them, and thinking they are only clods of earth with a little life in them, I'd like to take their horses out of the shafts and harness them in, and I'd trot them off at a pace, and slash them, and jerk them, till I guess they'd come out with a little less patience than the animal does. "Look at this Dutchman--see the size of him. You'd think he hadn't any more nerves than a bit of granite. Yet he's got a skin as sensitive as a girl's. See how he quivers if I run the curry-comb too harshly over him. The idiot I got him from didn't know what was the matter with him. He'd bought him for a reliable horse, and there he was, kicking and stamping whenever the boy went near him. 'Your boy's got too heavy a hand, Deacon Jones,' said I, when he described the horse's actions to me. 'You may depend upon it, a four-legged creature, unlike a two-legged one, has a reason for everything he does.' 'But he's only a draught horse,' said Deacon Jones. 'Draught horse or no draught horse,' said I, 'you're describing a horse with a tender skin to me, and I don't care if he's as big as an elephant.' Well, the old man grumbled and said he didn't want any thoroughbred airs in his stable, so I bought you, didn't I, Dutchman?" and Mr. Wood stroked him kindly and went to the next stall. In each stall was a small tank of water with a sliding cover, and I found out afterward that these covers were put on when a horse came in too heated to have a drink. At any other time, he could drink all he liked. Mr. Wood believed in having plenty of pure water for all his animals and they all had their own place to get a drink. Even I had a little bowl of water in the woodshed, though I could easily have run up to the barnyard when I wanted a drink. As soon as I came, Mrs. Wood asked Adele to keep it there for me and when I looked up gratefully at her, she said: "Every animal should have its own feeding place and its own sleeping place, Joe; that is only fair." The next horses Mr. Wood groomed were the black ones, Cleve and Pacer. Pacer had something wrong with his mouth, and Mr. Wood turned back his lips and examined it carefully. This he was able to do, for there were large windows in the stable and it was as light as Mr. Wood's house was. "No dark corners here, eh Joe!" said Mr. Wood, as he came out of the stall and passed me to get a bottle from a shelf. "When this stable was built, I said no dirt holes for careless men here. I want the sun to shine in the corners, and I don't want my horses to smell bad smells, for they hate them, and I don't want them starting when they go into the light of day, just because they've been kept in a black hole of a stable, and I've never had a sick horse yet." He poured something from a bottle into a saucer and went back to Pacer with it. I followed him and stood outside. Mr. Wood seemed to be washing a sore in the horse's mouth. Pacer winced a little, and Mr. Wood said: "Steady, steady, my beauty; 'twill soon be over." The horse fixed his intelligent eyes on his master and looked as if he knew that he was trying to do him good. "Just look at these lips, Joe," said Mr. Wood; "delicate and fine like our own, and yet there are brutes that will jerk them as if they were made of iron. I wish the Lord would give horses voices just for one week. I tell you they'd scare some of us. Now, Pacer, that's over. I'm not going to dose you much, for I don't believe in it. If a horse has got a serious trouble, get a good horse doctor, say I. If it's a simple thing, try a simple remedy. There's been many a good horse drugged and dosed to death. Well, Scamp, my beauty, how are you, this morning?" In the stall next to Pacer, was a small, jet-black mare, with a lean head, slender legs, and a curious restless manner. She was a regular greyhound of a horse, no spare flesh, yet wiry and able to do a great deal of work. She was a wicked looking little thing, so I thought I had better keep at a safe distance from her heels. Mr. Wood petted her a great deal and I saw that she was his favorite. "Saucebox," he exclaimed, when she pretended to bite him, "you know if you bite me, I'll bite back again. I think I've conquered you," he said, proudly, as he stroked her glossy neck; "but what a dance you led me. Do you remember how I bought you for a mere song, because you had a bad habit of turning around like a flash in front of anything that frightened you, and bolting off the other way? And how did I cure you, my beauty? Beat you and make you stubborn? Not I. I let you go round and round; I turned you and twisted you, the oftener the better for me, till at last I got it into your pretty head that turning and twisting was addling your brains, and you had better let me be master. "You've minded me from that day, haven't you? Horse, or man, or dog aren't much good till they learn to obey, and I've thrown you down and I'll do it again if you bite me, so take care." Scamp tossed her pretty head, and took little pieces of Mr. Wood's shirt sleeve in her mouth, keeping her cunning brown eye on him as if to see how far she could go. But she did not bite him. I think she loved him, for when he left her she whinnied shrilly, and he had to go back and stroke and caress her. After that I often used to watch her as she went about the farm. She always seemed to be tugging and striving at her load, and trying to step out fast and do a great deal of work. Mr. Wood was usually driving her. The men didn't like her, and couldn't manage her. She had not been properly broken in. After Mr. Wood finished his work he went and stood in the doorway. There were six horses altogether: Dutchman, Cleve, Pacer, Scamp, a bay mare called Ruby, and a young horse belonging to Mr. Harry, whose name was Fleetfoot. "What do you think of them all?" said Mr. Wood, looking down at me. "A pretty fine-looking lot of horses, aren't they? Not a thoroughbred there, but worth as much to me as if each had pedigree as long as this plank walk. There's a lot of humbug about this pedigree business in horses. Mine have their manes and tails anyway, and the proper use of their eyes, which is more liberty than some thoroughbreds get. "I'd like to see the man that would persuade me to put blinders or check-reins or any other instrument of torture on my horses. Don't the simpletons know that blinders are the cause of--well, I wouldn't like to say how many of our accidents, Joe, for fear you'd think me extravagant and the check-rein drags up a horse's head out of its fine natural curve and presses sinews, bones, and joints together, till the horse is well-nigh mad. Ah, Joe, this is a cruel world for man or beast. You're a standing token of that, with your missing ears and tail. And now I've got to go and be cruel, and shoot that dog. He must be disposed of before anyone else is astir. How I hate to take life." He sauntered down the walk to the tool shed, went in and soon came out leading a large, brown dog by a chain. This was Bruno. He was snapping and snarling and biting at his chain as he went along, though Mr. Wood led him very kindly, and when he saw me he acted as if he could have torn me to pieces. After Mr. Wood took him behind the barn, he came back and got his gun. I ran away so that I would not hear the sound of it, for I could not help feeling sorry for Bruno. Miss Laura's room was on one side of the house, and in the second story. There was a little balcony outside it, and when I got near I saw that she was standing out on it wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was streaming over her shoulders, and she was looking down into the garden where there were a great many white and yellow flowers in bloom. I barked, and she looked at me. "Dear old Joe, I will get dressed and come down." She hurried into her room, and I lay on the veranda till I heard her step. Then I jumped up. She unlocked the front door, and we went for a walk down the lane to the road until we heard the breakfast bell. As soon as we heard it we ran back to the house, and Miss Laura had such an appetite for her breakfast that her aunt said the country had done her good already. * * * * * CHAPTER XVIII MRS. WOOD'S POULTRY After breakfast, Mrs. Wood put on a large apron, and going into the kitchen, said: "Have you any scraps for the hens, Adele? Be sure and not give me anything salty." The French girl gave her a dish of food, then Mrs. Wood asked Miss Laura to go and see her chickens, and away we went to the poultry house. On the way we saw Mr. Wood. He was sitting on the step of the tool shed cleaning his gun. "Is the dog dead?" asked Miss Laura. "Yes," he said. She sighed and said: "Poor creature, I am sorry he had to be killed. Uncle, what is the most merciful way to kill a dog? Sometimes, when they get old, they should be put out of the way." "You can shoot them," he said, "or you can poison them. I shot Bruno through his head into his neck. There's a right place to aim at. It's a little one side of the top of the skull. If you'll remind me I'll show you a circular I have in the house. It tells the proper way to kill animals: The American Humane Education Society in Boston puts it out, and it's a merciful thing. "You don't know anything about the slaughtering of animals, Laura, and it's well you don't. There's an awful amount of cruelty practised, and practised by some people that think themselves pretty good. I wouldn't have my lambs killed the way my father had his for a kingdom. I'll never forget the first one I saw butchered. I wouldn't feel worse at a hanging now. And that white ox, Hattie--you remember my telling you about him. He had to be killed, and father sent for the butcher, I was only a lad, and I was all of a shudder to have the life of the creature I had known taken from him. The butcher, stupid clown, gave him eight blows before he struck the right place. The ox bellowed, and turned his great black eyes on my father, and I fell in a faint." Miss Laura turned away, and Mrs. Wood followed her, saying: "If ever you want to kill a cat, Laura, give it cyanide of potassium. I killed a poor old sick cat for Mrs. Windham the other day. We put half a teaspoonful of pure cyanide of potassium in a long-handled wooden spoon, and dropped it on the cat's tongue, as near the throat as we could. Poor pussy--she died in a few seconds. Do you know, I was reading such a funny thing the other day about giving cats medicine. They hate it, and one can scarcely force it into their mouths on account of their sharp teeth. The way is, to smear it on their sides, and they lick it off. A good idea, isn't it? Here we are at the hen house, or rather one of the hen houses." "Don't you keep your hens all together?" asked Miss Laura. "Only in the winter time," said Mrs. Wood. "I divide my flock in the spring. Part of them stay here and part go to the orchard to live in little movable houses that we put about in different places. I feed each flock morning and evening at their own little house. They know they'll get no food even if they come to my house, so they stay at home. And they know they'll get no food between times, so all day long they pick and scratch in the orchard, and destroy so many bugs and insects that it more than pays for the trouble of keeping them there." "Doesn't this flock want to mix up with the other?" asked Miss Laura, as she stepped into the little wooden house. "No; they seem to understand. I keep my eye on them for a while at first, and they soon find out that they're not to fly either over the garden fence or the orchard fence. They roam over the farm and pick up what they can get. There's a good deal of sense in hens, if one manages them properly. I love them because they are such good mothers." We were in the little wooden house by this time, and I looked around it with surprise. It was better than some of the poor people's houses in Fairport. The walls were white and clean, so were the little ladders that led up to different kinds of roosts, where the fowls sat at night. Some roosts were thin and round, and some were broad and flat. Mrs. Wood said that the broad ones were for a heavy fowl called the Brahma. Every part of the little house was almost as light as it was out doors, on account of the large windows. Miss Laura spoke of it. "Why, auntie, I never saw such a light hen house." Mrs. Wood was diving into a partly shut-in place, where it was not so light, and where the nests were. She straightened herself up, her face redder than ever, and looked at the windows with a pleased smile. "Yes, there's not a hen house in New Hampshire with such big windows. Whenever I look at them, I think of my mother's hens, and wish that they could have had a place like this. They would have thought themselves in a hen's paradise. When I was a girl we didn't know that hens loved light and heat, and all winter they used to sit in a dark hencoop, and the cold was so bad that their combs would freeze stiff, and the tops of them would drop off. We never thought about it. If we'd had any sense, we might have watched them on a fine day go and sit on the compost heap and sun themselves, and then have concluded that if they liked light and heat outside, they'd like it inside. Poor biddies, they were so cold that they wouldn't lay us any eggs in winter." "You take a great interest in your poultry, don't you auntie?" said Miss Laura. "Yes, indeed, and well I may. I'll show you my brown Leghorn, Jenny, that lay eggs enough in a year to pay for the newspapers I take to keep myself posted in poultry matters. I buy all my own clothes with my hen money, and lately I've started a bank account, for I want to save up enough to start a few stands of bees. Even if I didn't want to be kind to my hens, it would pay me to be so for sake of the profit they yield. Of course they're quite a lot of trouble. Sometimes they get vermin on them, and I have to grease them and dust carbolic acid on them, and try some of my numerous cures. Then I must keep ashes and dust wallows for them and be very particular about my eggs when hens are sitting, and see that the hens come off regularly for food and exercise. Oh, there are a hundred things I have to think of, but I always say to any one that thinks of raising poultry: 'If you are going into the business for the purpose of making money, it pays to take care of them.'" "There's one thing I notice," said Miss Laura, "and that is that your drinking fountains must be a great deal better than the shallow pans that I have seen some people give their hens water in." "Dirty things they are," said Mrs. Wood; "I wouldn't use one of them. I don't think there is anything worse for hens than drinking dirty water. My hens must have as clean water as I drink myself, and in winter I heat it for them. If it's poured boiling into the fountains in the morning, it keeps warm till night. Speaking of shallow drinking dishes, I wouldn't use them, even before I ever heard of a drinking fountain. John made me something that we read about. He used to take a powder keg and bore a little hole in the side, about an inch from the top, then fill it with water, and cover with a pan a little larger round than the keg. Then he turned the keg upside down, without taking away the pan. The water ran into the pan only as far as the hole in the keg, and it would have to be used before more would flow in. Now let us go and see my beautiful, bronze turkeys. They don't need any houses, for they roost in the trees the year round." We found the flock of turkeys, and Miss Laura admired their changeable colors very much. Some of them were very large, and I did not like them, for the gobblers ran at me, and made a dreadful noise in their throats. Afterward, Mrs. Wood showed us some ducks that she had shut up in a yard. She said that she was feeding them on vegetable food, to give their flesh a pure flavor, and by-and-by she would send them to market and get a high price for them. Every place she took us to was as clean as possible. "No one can be successful in raising poultry in large numbers," she said, "unless they keep their quarters clean and comfortable." As yet we had seen no hens, except a few on the nests, and Miss Laura said, "Where are they? I should like to see them." "They are coming," said Mrs. Wood. "It is just their breakfast time, and they are as punctual as clockwork. They go off early in the morning, to scratch about a little for themselves first." As she spoke she stepped off the plank walk, and looked off towards, the fields. Miss Laura burst out laughing. Away beyond the barns the hens were coming. Seeing Mrs. Wood standing there, they thought they were late, and began to run and fly, jumping over each other's backs, and stretching out their necks, in a state of great excitement. Some of their legs seemed sticking straight out behind. It was very funny to see them. They were a fine-looking lot of poultry, mostly white, with glossy feathers and bright eyes. They greedily ate the food scattered to them, and Mrs. Wood said, "They think I've changed their breakfast time, and to-morrow they'll come a good bit earlier. And yet some people say hens have no sense." * * * * * CHAPTER XIX A BAND OF MERCY A few evenings after we came to Dingley Farm, Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura were sitting out on the veranda, and I was lying at their feet. "Auntie," said Miss Laura, "What do those letters mean on that silver pin that you wear with that piece of ribbon?" "You know what the white ribbon means, don't you?" asked Mrs. Wood. "Yes; that you are a temperance woman, doesn't it?" "It does; and the star pin means that I am a member of a Band of Mercy. Do you know what a Band of Mercy is?" "No," said Miss Laura. "How strange! I should think that you would have several in Fairport. A cripple boy, the son of a Boston artist, started this one here. It has done a great deal of good. There is a meeting to-morrow, and I will take you to it if you like." It was on Monday that Mrs. Wood had this talk with Miss Laura, and the next afternoon, after all the work was done, they got ready to go to the village. "May Joe go?" asked Miss Laura. "Certainly," said Mrs. Wood; "he is such a good dog that he won't be any trouble." I was very glad to hear this, and trotted along by them down the lane to the road. The lane was a very cool and pleasant place. There were tall trees growing on each side, and under them, among the grass, pretty wild flowers were peeping out to look at us as we went by. Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura talked all the way about the Band of Mercy. Miss Laura was much interested, and said that she would like to start one in Fairport. "It is a very simple thing," said Mrs. Wood. "All you have to do is to write the pledge at the top of a piece of paper: 'I will try to be kind to all harmless living creatures, and try to protect them from cruel usage,' and get thirty people to sign it. That makes a band. "I have formed two or three bands by keeping slips of paper ready, and getting people that come to visit me to sign them. I call them 'Corresponding Bands,' for they are too far apart to meet. I send the members 'Band of Mercy' papers, and I get such nice letters from them, telling me of kind things they do for animals. "A Band of Mercy in a place is a splendid thing. There's the greatest difference in Riverdale since this one was started. A few years ago, when a man beat or raced his horse, and any one interfered, he said: 'This horse is mine; I'll do what I like with him.' Most people thought he was right, but now they're all for the poor horse and there isn't a man anywhere around who would dare to abuse any animal. "It's all the children. They're doing a grand work, and I say it's a good thing for them. Since we've studied this subject, it's enough to frighten one to read what is sent us about our American boys and girls. Do you know, Laura, that with all our brag about our schools and colleges, that really are wonderful, we're turning out more criminals than any other civilized country in the world, except Spain and Italy? The cause of it is said to be lack of proper training for the youth of our land. Immigration has something to do with it, too. We're thinking too much about educating the mind, and forgetting about the heart and soul. So I say now, while we've got all our future population in our schools, saints and sinners, good people and bad people, let us try to slip in something between the geography, and history, and grammar that will go a little deeper, and touch them so much, that when they are grown up and go out in the world, they will carry with them lessons of love and good-will to men. "A little child is such a tender thing. You can bend it anyway you like. Speaking of this heart education of children, as set over against mind education, I see that many school-teachers say that there is nothing better than to give them lessons on kindness to animals. Children who are taught to love and protect dumb creatures will be kind to their fellow-men when they grow up." I was very much pleased with this talk between Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura, and kept close to them so that I would not miss a word. As we went along, houses began to appear here and there, set back from the road among the trees. Soon they got quite close together, and I saw some shops. This was the village of Riverdale, and nearly all the buildings were along this winding street. The river was away back of the village. We had already driven there several times. We passed the school on our way. It was a square, white building, standing in the middle of a large yard. Boys and girls, with their arms full of books, were hurrying down the steps and coming into the street. Two quite big boys came behind us, and Mrs. Wood turned around and spoke to them, and asked if they were going to the Band of Mercy. "Oh, yes; ma'am," said the younger one "I've got a recitation, don't you remember?" "Yes, yes; excuse me for forgetting," said Mrs. Wood, with her jolly laugh. "And here are Dolly, and Jennie, and Martha," she went on, as some little girls came running out of a house that we were passing. The little girls joined us and looked so hard at my head and stump of a tail, and my fine collar, that I felt quite shy, and walked with my head against Miss Laura's dress. She stooped down and patted me, and then I felt as if I didn't care how much they stared. Miss Laura never forgot me. No matter how earnestly she was talking, or playing a game, or doing anything, she always stopped occasionally to give me a word or look, to show that she knew I was near. Mrs. Wood paused in front of a building on the main street. A great many boys and girls were going in, and we went with them. We found ourselves in a large room, with a platform at one end of it. There were some chairs on this platform and a small table. A boy stood by this table with his hand on a bell. Presently he rang it, and then every one kept still. Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that this boy was the president of the band, and the young man with the pale face and curly hair who sat in front of him was Mr. Maxwell, the artist's son, who had formed this Band of Mercy. The lad who presided had a ringing, pleasant voice. He said they would begin their meeting by singing a hymn. There was an organ near the platform, and a young girl played on it, while all the other boys and girls stood up, and sang very sweetly and clearly. After they had sung the hymn, the president asked for the report of their last meeting. A little girl, blushing and hanging her head, came forward, and read what was written on a paper that she held in her hand. The president made some remarks after she had finished, and then every one had to vote. It was just like a meeting of grown people, and I was surprised to see how good those children were. They did not frolic nor laugh, but all seemed sober and listened attentively. After the voting was over, the president called upon John Turner to give a recitation. This was the boy whom we saw on the way there. He walked up to the platform, made a bow, and said that he had learned two stories for his recitation, out of the paper, "Dumb Animals." One story was about a horse, and the other was about a dog, and he thought that they were two of the best animal stories on record. He would tell the horse story first. "A man in Missouri had to go to Nebraska to see about some land. He went on horseback, on a horse that he had trained himself, and that came at his whistle like a dog. On getting into Nebraska, he came to a place where there were two roads. One went by a river, and the other went over the hill. The man saw that the travel went over the hill, but thought he'd take the river road. He didn't know that there was a quicksand across it, and that people couldn't use it in spring and summer. There used to be a sign board to tell strangers about it, but it had been taken away. The man got off his horse to let him graze, and walked along till he got so far ahead of the horse that he had to sit down and wait for him. Suddenly he found that he was on a quicksand. His feet had sunk in the sand, and he could not get them out. He threw himself down, and whistled for his horse, and shouted for help, but no one came. He could hear some young people singing out on the river, but they could not hear him. The terrible sand drew him in almost to his shoulders, and he thought he was lost. At that moment the horse came running up, and stood by his master. The man was too low down to get hold of the saddle or bridle, so he took hold of the horse's tail, and told him to go. The horse gave an awful pull, and landed his master on safe ground." Everybody clapped his hands, and stamped when this story was finished, and called out: "The dog story--the dog story!" The boy bowed and smiled, and began again. "You all know what a 'round-up' of cattle is, so I need not explain. Once a man down south was going to have one, and he and his boys and friends were talking it over. There was an ugly, black steer in the herd, and they were wondering whether their old yellow dog would be able to manage him. The dog's name was Tige, and he lay and listened wisely to their talk. The next day there was a scene of great confusion. The steer raged and tore about, and would allow no one to come within whip touch of him. Tige, who had always been brave, skulked about for a while, and then, as if he had got up a little spirit, he made a run at the steer. The steer sighted him, gave a bellow, and, lowering his horns, ran at him. Tige turned tail, and the young men that owned him were frantic. They'd been praising him, and thought they were going to have it proven false. Their father called out: 'Don't shoot Tige, till you see where he's running to.' The dog ran right to the cattle pen. The steer was so enraged that he never noticed where he was going, and dashed in after him. Tige leaped the wall, and came back to the gate, barking and yelping for the men to come and shut the steer in. They shut the gate and petted Tige, and bought him a collar with a silver plate." The boy was loudly cheered, and went to his seat. The president said he would like to have remarks made about these two stories. Several children put up their hands, and he asked each one to speak in turn. One said that if that man's horse had had a docked tail, his master wouldn't have been able to reach it, and would have perished. Another said that if the man hadn't treated his horse kindly, he never would have come at his whistle, and stood over him to see what he could do to help him. A third child said that the people on the river weren't as quick at hearing the voice of the man in trouble as the horse was. When this talk was over, the president called for some stories of foreign animals. Another boy came forward, made his bow, and said, in a short, abrupt voice, "My uncle's name is Henry Worthington. He is an Englishman, and once he was a soldier in India. One day when he was hunting in the Punjab, he saw a mother monkey carrying a little dead baby monkey. Six months after, he was in the same jungle. Saw same monkey still carrying dead baby monkey, all shriveled up. Mother monkey loved her baby monkey, and wouldn't give it up." The boy went to his seat, and the president, with a queer look in his face, said, "That's a very good story, Ronald--if it is true." None of the children laughed, but Mrs. Wood's face got like a red poppy, and Miss Laura bit her lip, and Mr. Maxwell buried his head in his arms, his whole frame shaking. The boy who told the story looked very angry He jumped up again. "My uncle's a true man, Phil. Dodge, and never told a lie in his life." The president remained standing, his face a deep scarlet, and a tall boy at the back of the room got up and said, "Mr. President, what would be impossible in this climate, might be possible in a hot country like India. Doesn't heat sometimes draw up and preserve things?" The president's face cleared. "Thank you for the suggestion," he said. "I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings; but you know there is a rule in the band that only true stories are to be told here. We have five more minutes for foreign stories. Has any one else one?" * * * * * CHAPTER XX STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS A small girl, with twinkling eyes and a merry face, got up, just behind Miss Laura, and made her way to the front. "My dranfadder says," she began, in a piping little voice, "dat when he was a little boy his fadder brought him a little monkey from de West Indies. De naughty boys in de village used to tease de little monkey, and he runned up a tree one day. Dey was drowing stones at him, and a man dat was paintin' de house druv 'em away. De monkey runned down de tree, and shook hands wid de man. My dranfadder saw him," she said, with a shake of her head at the president, as if she was afraid he would doubt her. There was great laughing and clapping of hands when this little girl took her seat, and she hopped right up again and ran back. "Oh, I fordot," she went on, in her squeaky, little voice, "dat my dranfadder says dat afterward de monkey upset de painter's can of oil, and rolled in it, and den jumped down in my dranfadder's flour barrel." The president looked very much amused, and said, "We have had some good stories about monkeys, now let us have some more about our home animals. Who can tell us another story about a horse?" Three or four boys jumped up, but the president said they would take one at a time. The first one was this: A Riverdale boy was walking along the bank of a canal in Hoytville. He saw a boy driving two horses, which were towing a canal-boat. The first horse was lazy, and the boy got angry and struck him several times over the head with his whip. The Riverdale boy shouted across to him, begging him not to be so cruel; but the boy paid no attention. Suddenly the horse turned, seized his tormentor by the shoulder, and pushed him into the canal. The water was not deep, and the boy, after floundering about for a few seconds, came out dripping with mud and filth, and sat down on the tow path, and looked at the horse with such a comical expression, that the Riverdale boy had to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth to keep from laughing. "It is to be hoped that he would learn a lesson," said the president, "and be kinder to his horse in the future. Now, Bernard Howe, your story." The boy was a brother to the little girl who had told the monkey story, and he, too, had evidently been talking to his grandfather. He told two stories, and Miss Laura listened eagerly, for they were about Fairport. The boy said that when his grandfather was young, he lived in Fairport, Maine. On a certain day he stood in the market square to see their first stage-coach put together. It had come from Boston in pieces, for there was no one in Fairport that could make one. The coach went away up into the country one day, and came back the next. For a long time no one understood driving the horses properly, and they came in day after day with the blood streaming from them. The whiffle-tree would swing round and hit them, and when their collars were taken off, their necks would be raw and bloody. After a time, the men got to understand how to drive a coach, and the horses did not suffer so much. The other story was about a team-boat, not a steamboat. More than seventy years ago, they had no steamers running between Fairport and the island opposite where people went for the summer, but they had what they called a team-boat, that is, a boat with machinery to make it go, that could be worked by horses. There were eight horses that went around and around, and made the boat go. One afternoon, two dancing masters, who were wicked fellows, that played the fiddle, and never went to church on Sundays, got on the boat, and sat just where the horses had to pass them as they went around. Every time the horses went by, they jabbed them with their penknives. The man who was driving the horses at last saw the blood dripping from them, and the dancing masters were found out. Some young men on the boat were so angry that they caught up a rope's end, and gave the dancing masters a lashing, and then threw them into the water and made them swim to the island. When this boy took a seat, a young girl read some verses that she had clipped from a newspaper: "Don't kill the toads, the ugly toads, That hop around your door; Each meal the little toad doth eat A hundred bugs or more. "He sits around with aspect meek, Until the bug hath neared, Then shoots he forth his little tongue Like lightning double-geared. "And then he soberly doth wink, And shut his ugly mug, And patiently doth wait until There comes another bug." Mr. Maxwell told a good dog story after this. He said the president need not have any fears as to its truth, for it had happened in his boarding house in the village, and he had seen it himself. Monday, the day before, being wash-day, his landlady had put out a large washing. Among the clothes on the line was a gray flannel shirt belonging to her husband. The young dog belonging to the house had pulled the shirt from the line and torn it to pieces. The woman put it aside and told him master would beat him. When the man came home to his dinner, he showed the dog the pieces of the shirt, and gave him a severe whipping. The dog ran away, visited all the clothes lines in the village, till he found a gray shirt very like his master's. He seized it and ran home, laying it at his master's feet, joyfully wagging his tail meanwhile. Mr. Maxwell's story done, a bright-faced boy, called Simon Grey, got up and said: "You all know our old gray horse Ned. Last week father sold him to a man in Hoytville, and I went to the station when he was shipped. He was put in a box car. The doors were left a little open to give him air, and were locked in that way. There was a narrow, sliding door, four feet from the floor of the car, and, in some way or other, old Ned pushed this door open, crawled through it, and tumbled out on the ground. When I was coming from school, I saw him walking along the track. He hadn't hurt himself, except for a few cuts. He was glad to see me, and followed me home. He must have gotten off the train when it was going full speed, for he hadn't been seen at any of the stations, and the trainmen were astonished to find the doors locked and the car empty, when they got to Hoytville. Father got the man who bought him to release him from his bargain, for he says if Ned is so fond of Riverdale, he shall stay here." The president asked the boys and girls to give three cheers for old Ned, and then they had some more singing. After all had taken their seats, he said he would like to know what the members had been doing for animals during the past fortnight. One girl had kept her brother from shooting two owls that came about their barnyard. She told him that the owls would destroy the rats and mice that bothered him in the barn, but if he hunted them, they would go to the woods. A boy said that he had persuaded some of his friends who were going fishing, to put their bait worms into a dish of boiling water to kill them before they started, and also to promise him that as soon as they took their fish out of the water, they would kill them by a sharp blow on the back of the head. They were all the more ready to do this, when he told them that their fish would taste better when cooked, if they had been killed as soon as they were taken from the water into the air. A little girl had gotten her mother to say that she would never again put lobsters into cold water and slowly boil them to death. She had also stopped a man in the street who was carrying a pair of fowls with their heads down, and asked him if he would kindly reverse their position. The man told her that the fowls didn't mind, and she pursed up her small mouth and showed the band how she said to him, "I would prefer the opinion of the hens." Then she said he had laughed at her, and said, "Certainly, little lady," and had gone off carrying them as she wanted him to. She had also reasoned with different boys outside the village who were throwing stones at birds and frogs, and sticking butterflies, and had invited them to come to the Band of Mercy. This child seemed to have done more than any one else for dumb animals. She had taken around a petition to the village boys, asking them not to search for birds' eggs, and she had even gone into her father's stable, and asked him to hold her up, so that she could look into the horses' mouths to see if their teeth wanted filing or were decayed. When her father laughed at her, she told him that horses often suffer terrible pain from their teeth, and that sometimes a runaway is caused by a metal bit striking against the exposed nerve in the tooth of a horse that has become almost frantic with pain. She was a very gentle girl, and I think by the way that she spoke that her father loved her dearly, for she told how much trouble he had taken to make some tiny houses for her that she wanted for the wrens that came about their farm. She told him that those little birds are so good at catching insects that they ought to give all their time to it, and not have any worry about making houses. Her father made their homes very small, so that the English sparrows could not get in and crowd them out. A boy said that he had gotten a pot of paint, and painted in large letters on the fences around his father's farm: "Spare the toads, don't kill the birds. Every bird killed is a loss to the country." "That reminds me," said the president, "to ask the girls what they have done about the millinery business." "I have told my mother," said a tall, serious-faced girl, "that I think it is wrong to wear bird feathers, and she has promised to give up wearing any of them except ostrich plumes." Mrs. Wood asked permission to say a few words just here, and the president said: "Certainly, we are always glad to hear from you." She went up on the platform, and faced the roomful of children. "Dear boys and girls," she began, "I have had some papers sent me from Boston, giving some facts about the killing of our birds, and I want to state a few of them to you: You all know that nearly every tree and plant that grows swarms with insect life, and that they couldn't grow if the birds didn't eat the insects that would devour their foliage. All day long, the little beaks of the birds are busy. The dear little rose-breasted gross-beak carefully examines the potato plants, and picks off the beetles, the martins destroy weevil, the quail and grouse family eats the chinch-bug, the woodpeckers dig the worms from the trees, and many other birds eat the flies and gnats and mosquitoes that torment us so. No flying or crawling creature escapes their sharp little eyes. A great Frenchman says that if it weren't for the birds human beings would perish from the face of the earth. They are doing all this for us, and how are we rewarding them? All over America they are hunted and killed. Five million birds must be caught every year for American women to wear in their hats and bonnets. Just think of it, girls, Isn't it dreadful? Five million innocent, hardworking, beautiful birds killed, that thoughtless girls and women may ornament themselves with their little dead bodies. One million bobolinks have been killed in one month near Philadelphia. Seventy song-birds were sent from one Long Island village to New York milliners. "In Florida, cruel men shoot the mother birds on their nests while they are rearing their young, because their plumage is prettiest at that time, The little ones cry pitifully, and starve to death. Every bird of the rarer kinds that is killed, such as humming birds, orioles and kingfishers, means the death of several others--that is, the young that starve to death, the wounded that fly away to die, and those whose plumage is so torn that it is not fit to put in a fine lady's bonnet. In some cases where birds have gay wings, and the hunters do not wish the rest of the body, they tear off the wings from the living bird, and throw it away to die. "I am sorry to tell you such painful things, but I think you ought to know them. You will soon be men and women. Do what you can to stop this horrid trade. Our beautiful birds are being taken from us, and the insect pests are increasing. The State of Massachusetts has lost over one hundred thousand dollars because it did not protect its birds. The gypsy moth stripped the trees near Boston, and the State had to pay out all this money, and even then could not get rid of the moths. The birds could have done it better than the State, but they were all gone. My last words to you are, 'Protect the birds.'" Mrs. Wood went to her seat, and though the boys and girls had listened very attentively, none of them cheered her. Their faces looked sad, and they kept very quiet for a few minutes. I saw one or two little girls wiping their eyes. I think they felt sorry for the birds. "Has any boy done anything about blinders and check-reins?" asked the president, after a time. A brown-faced boy stood up. "I had a picnic last Monday," he said; "father let me cut all the blinders off our head-stalls with my penknife." "How did you get him to consent to that?" asked the president. "I told him," said the boy, "that I couldn't get to sleep for thinking of him. You know he drives a good deal late at night. I told him that every dark night he came from Sudbury I thought of the deep ditch alongside the road, and wished his horses hadn't blinders on. And every night he comes from the Junction, and has to drive along the river bank where the water has washed away the earth till the wheels of the wagon are within a foot or two of the edge, I wished again that his horses could see each side of them, for I knew they'd have sense enough to keep out of danger if they could see it. Father said that might be very true, and yet his horses had been broken in with blinders, and didn't I think they would be inclined to shy if he took them off; and wouldn't they be frightened to look around and see the wagon wheels so near. I told him that for every accident that happened to a horse without blinders, several happened to a horse with them; and then I gave him Mr. Wood's opinion--Mr. Wood out at Dingley Farm. He says that the worst thing against blinders is that a frightened horse never knows when he has passed the thing that scared him. He always thinks it is behind him. The blinders are there and he can't see that he has passed it, and he can't turn his head to have a good look at it. So often he goes tearing madly on; and sometimes lives are lost all on account of a little bit of leather fastened over a beautiful eye that ought to look out full and free at the world. That finished father. He said he'd take off his blinders, and if he had an accident, he'd send the bill for damages to Mr. Wood. But we've had no accident. The horses did act rather queerly at first, and started a little; but they soon got over it, and now they go as steady without blinders as they ever did with them." The boy sat down, and the president said: "I think it is time that the whole nation threw off this foolishness of half covering their horses' eyes, just put your hands up to your eyes, members of the band. Half cover them, and see how shut in you will feel; and how curious you will be to know what is going on beside you. Suppose a girl saw a mouse with her eyes half covered, wouldn't she run?" Everybody laughed, and the president asked some one to tell him who invented blinders. "An English nobleman," shouted a boy, "who had a wall-eyed horse! He wanted to cover up the defect, and I think it is a great shame that all the American horses have to suffer because that English one had an ugly eye." "So do I," said the president. "Three groans for blinders, boys." All the children in the room made three dreadful noises away down in their throats. Then they had another good laugh, and the president became sober again. "Seven more minutes," he said; "this meeting has got to be let out at five sharp." A tall girl at the back of the room rose, and said. "My little cousin has two stories that she would like to tell the band." "Very well," said the president; "bring her right along." The big girl came forward, leading a tiny child that she placed in front of the boys and girls. The child stared up into her cousin's face, turning and twisting her white pinafore through her fingers. Every time the big girl took her pinafore away from her, she picked it up again. "Begin, Nannie," said the big girl, kindly. "Well, Cousin Eleanor," said the child, "you know Topsy, Graham's pony. Well, Topsy _would_ run away, and a big, big man came out to papa and said he would train Topsy. So he drove her every day, and beat her, and beat her, till he was tired, but still Topsy would run away. Then papa said he would not have the poor pony whipped so much, and he took her out a piece of bread every day, and he petted her, and now Topsy is very gentle, and never runs away." "Tell about Tiger," said the girl. "Well, Cousin Eleanor," said the child, "you know Tiger, our big dog. He used to be a bad dog, and when Dr. Fairchild drove up to the house he jumped up and bit at him. Dr. Fairchild used to speak kindly to him, and throw out bits of meat, and now when he comes, Tiger follows behind and wags his tail. Now, give me a kiss." The girl had to give her a kiss, right up there before every one, and what a stamping the boys made. The larger girl blushed and hurried back to her seat, with the child clinging to her hand. There was one more story, about a brave Newfoundland dog, that saved eight lives by swimming out to a wrecked sailing vessel, and getting a rope by which the men came ashore, and then a lad got up whom they all greeted with cheers, and cries of, "The Poet! the Poet!" I didn't know what they meant, till Mrs. Wood whispered to Miss Laura that he was a boy who made rhymes, and the children had rather hear him speak than any one else in the room. He had a snub nose and freckles, and I think he was the plainest boy there, but that didn't matter, if the other children loved him. He sauntered up to the front, with his hands behind his back, and a very grand manner. "The beautiful poetry recited here to-day," he drawled, "put some verses in my mind that I never had till I came here to-day." Everyone present cheered wildly, and he began in a singsong voice: "I am a Band of Mercy boy, I would not hurt a fly, I always speak to dogs and cats, When'er I pass them by. "I always let the birdies sing, I never throw a stone, I always give a hungry dog A nice, fat, meaty bone. "I wouldn't drive a bob-tailed horse, Nor hurry up a cow, I----" Then he forgot the rest. The boys and girls were so sorry. They called out, "Pig," "Goat," "Calf," "Sheep," "Hens," "Ducks," and all the other animals' names they could think of, but none of them was right, and as the boy had just made up the poetry, no one knew what the next could be. He stood for a long time staring at the ceiling, then he said, "I guess I'll have to give it up." The children looked dreadfully disappointed. "Perhaps you will remember it by our next meeting," said the president, anxiously. "Possibly", said the boy, "but probably not. I think it is gone forever." And he went to his seat. The next thing was to call for new members. Miss Laura got up and said she would like to join their Band of Mercy. I followed her up to the platform, while they pinned a little badge on her, and every one laughed at me. Then they sang, "God Bless our Native Land," and the president told us that we might all go home. It seemed to me a lovely thing for those children to meet together to talk about kindness to animals. They all had bright and good faces, and many of them stopped to pat me as I came out. One little girl gave me a biscuit from her school bag. Mrs. Wood waited at the door till Mr. Maxwell came limping out on his crutches. She introduced him to Miss Laura, and asked him if he wouldn't go and take tea with them. He said he would be very happy to do so, and then Mrs. Wood laughed; and asked him if he hadn't better empty his pockets first. She didn't want a little toad jumping over her tea table, as one did the last time he was there. * * * * * CHAPTER XXI MR. MAXWELL AND MR. HARRY Mr. Maxwell wore a coat with loose pockets, and while she was speaking, he rested on his crutches, and began to slap them with his hands. "No; there's nothing here to-day," he said; "I think I emptied my pockets before I went to the meeting." Just as he said that there was a loud squeal: "Oh, my guinea pig," he exclaimed; "I forgot him," and he pulled out a little spotted creature a few inches long. "Poor Derry, did I hurt you?" and he soothed it very tenderly. I stood and looked at Mr. Maxwell, for I had never seen any one like him. He had thick curly hair and a white face, and he looked just like a girl. While I was staring at him, something peeped up out of one of his pockets and ran out its tongue at me so fast that I could scarcely see it, and then drew back again. I was thunderstruck. I had never seen such a creature before. It was long and thin like a boy's cane, and of a bright green color like grass, and it had queer shiny eyes. But its tongue was the strangest part of it. It came and went like lightning. I was uneasy about it, and began to bark. "What's the matter, Joe?" said Mrs. Wood; "the pig won't hurt you." But it wasn't the pig I was afraid of, and I kept on barking. And all the time that strange live thing kept sticking up its head and putting out its tongue at me, and neither of them noticed it. "Its getting on toward six," said Mrs. Wood; "we must be going home. Come, Mr. Maxwell." The young man put the guinea pig in his pocket, picked up his crutches, and we started down the sunny village street. He left his guinea pig at his boarding house as he went by, but he said nothing about the other creature, so I knew he did not know it was there. I was very much taken with Mr. Maxwell. He seemed so bright and happy, in spite of his lameness, which kept him from running about like other young men. He looked a little older than Miss Laura, and one day, a week or two later, when they were sitting on the veranda, I heard him tell her that he was just nineteen. He told her, too, that his lameness made him love animals. They never laughed at him, or slighted him, or got impatient, because he could not walk quickly. They were always good to him, and he said he loved all animals while he liked very few people. On this day as he was limping along, he said to Mrs. Wood: "I am getting more absent-minded every day. Have you heard of my latest escapade?" "No," she said. "I am glad," he replied. "I was afraid that it would be all over the village by this time. I went to church last Sunday with my poor guinea pig in my pocket. He hasn't been well, and I was attending to him before church, and put him in there to get warm, and forgot about him. Unfortunately I was late, and the back seats were all full, so I had to sit farther up than I usually do. During the first hymn I happened to strike Piggy against the side of the seat. Such an ear-splitting squeal as he set up. It sounded as if I was murdering him. The people stared and stared, and I had to leave the church, overwhelmed with confusion." Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura laughed, and then they got talking about other matters that were not interesting to me, so I did not listen. But I kept close to Miss Laura, for I was afraid that green thing might hurt her. I wondered very much what its name was. I don't think I should have feared it so much if I had known what it was. "There's something the matter with Joe," said Miss Laura, when we got into the lane. "What is it, dear old fellow?" She put down her little hand, and I licked it, and wished so much that I could speak. Sometimes I wish very much that I had the gift of speech, and then at other times I see how little it would profit me, and how many foolish things I should often say. And I don't believe human beings would love animals as well, if they could speak. When we reached the house, we got a joyful surprise. There was a trunk standing on the veranda, and as soon as Mrs. Wood saw it, she gave a little shriek: "My dear boy!" Mr. Harry was there, sure enough, and stepped out through the open door. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, then he shook hands with Miss Laura and Mr. Maxwell, who seemed to be an old friend of his. They all sat down on the veranda and talked, and I lay at Miss Laura's feet and looked at Mr. Harry. He was such a handsome young man, and had such a noble face. He was older and graver looking than when I saw him last, and he had a light, brown moustache that he did not have when he was in Fairport. He seemed very fond of his mother and of Miss Laura, and however grave his face might be when he was looking at Mr. Maxwell, it always lighted up when he turned to them. "What dog is that?" he said at last, with a puzzled face, and pointing to me. "Why, Harry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "don't you know Beautiful Joe, that you rescued from that wretched milkman?" "Is it possible," he said, "that this well-conditioned creature is the bundle of dirty skin and bones that we nursed in Fairport? Come here, sir. Do you remember me?" Indeed I did remember him, and I licked his hands and looked up gratefully into his face. "You're almost handsome now," he said, caressing me with a firm, kind hand, "and of a solid build, too. You look like a fighter--but I suppose you wouldn't let him fight, even if he wanted to, Laura," and he smiled and glanced at her. "No," she said; "I don't think I should; but he can fight when the occasion requires it." And she told him about our night with Jenkins. All the time she was speaking, Mr. Harry held me by the paws, and stroked my body over and over again. When she finished, he put his head down to me, and murmured, "Good dog," and I saw that his eyes were red and shining. "That's a capital story, we must have it at the Band of Mercy," said Mr. Maxwell. Mrs. Wood had gone to help prepare the tea, so the two young men were alone with Miss Laura. When they had done talking about me, she asked Mr. Harry a number of questions about his college life, and his trip to New York, for he had not been studying all the time that he was away. "What are you going to do with yourself, Gray, when your college course is ended?" asked Mr. Maxwell. "I am going to settle right down here," said Mr. Harry. "What, be a farmer?" asked his friend. "Yes; why not?" "Nothing, only I imagined that you would take a profession." "The professions are overstocked, and we have not farmers enough for the good of the country. There is nothing like farming, to my mind. In no other employment have you a surer living. I do not like the cities. The heat and dust, and crowds of people, and buildings overtopping one another, and the rush of living, take my breath away. Suppose I did go to a city. I would sell out my share of the farm, and have a few thousand dollars. You know I am not an intellectual giant. I would never distinguish myself in any profession. I would be a poor lawyer or doctor, living in a back street all the days of my life, and never watch a tree or flower grow, or tend an animal, or have a drive unless I paid for it. No, thank you. I agree with President Eliot, of Harvard. He says scarcely one person in ten thousand betters himself permanently by leaving his rural home and settling in a city. If one is a millionaire, city life is agreeable enough, for one can always get away from it; but I am beginning to think that it is a dangerous thing, in more ways than one, to be a millionaire. I believe the safety of the country lies in the hands of the farmers; for they are seldom very poor or very rich. We stand between the two dangerous classes--the wealthy and the paupers." "But most farmers lead such a dog's life," said Mr. Maxwell. "So they do; farming isn't made one-half as attractive as it should be," said Mr. Harry. Mr. Maxwell smiled. "Attractive farming. Just sketch an outline of that, will you, Gray?" "In the first place," said Mr. Harry, "I would like to tear out of the heart of the farmer the thing that is as firmly implanted in him as it is in the heart of his city brother--the thing that is doing more to harm our nation than anything else under the sun." "What is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell, curiously. "The thirst for gold. The farmer wants to get rich, and he works so hard to do it that he wears himself out soul and body, and the young people around him get so disgusted with that way of getting rich, that they go off to the cities to find out some other way, or at least to enjoy themselves, for I don't think many young people are animated by a desire to heap up money." Mr. Maxwell looked amused. "There is certainly a great exodus from country places cityward," he said. "What would be your plan for checking it?" "I would make the farm so pleasant, that you couldn't hire the boys and girls to leave it. I would have them work, and work hard, too, but when their work was over, I would let them have some fun. That is what they go to the city for. They want amusement and society, and to get into some kind of a crowd when their work is done. The young men and young women want to get together, as is only natural. Now that could be done in the country. If farmers would be contented with smaller profits and smaller farms, their houses could be nearer together. Their children would have opportunities of social intercourse, there could be societies and clubs, and that would tend to a distribution of literature. A farmer ought to take five or six papers and two or three magazines. He would find it would pay him in the long run, and there ought to be a law made compelling him to go to the post office once a day." Mr. Maxwell burst out laughing. "And another to make him mend his roads as well as mend his ways. I tell you Gray, the bad roads would put an end to all these fine schemes of yours. Imagine farmers calling on each other on a dark evening after a spring freshet. I can see them mired and bogged, and the house a mile ahead of them." "That is true," said Mr. Harry, "the road question is a serious one. Do you know how father and I settle it?" "No," said Mr. Maxwell. "We got so tired of the whole business, and the farmers around here spent so much time in discussing the art of roadmaking, as to whether it should be viewed from the engineering point of view, or the farmers' practical point of view, and whether we would require this number of stump extractors or that number, and how many shovels and crushers and ditchers would be necessary to keep our roads in order, and so on, that we simply withdrew. We keep our own roads in order. Once a year, father gets a gang of men and tackles every section of the road that borders upon our land, and our roads are the best around here. I wish the government would take up this matter of making roads and settle it. If we had good, smooth, country roads, such as they have in some parts of Europe, we would be able to travel comfortably over them all through the year, and our draught animals would last longer, for they would not have to expend so much energy in drawing their loads." * * * * * CHAPTER XXII WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TEA TABLE From my station under Miss Laura's chair, I could see that all the time Mr. Harry was speaking, Mr. Maxwell, although he spoke rather as if he was laughing at him, was yet glancing at him admiringly. When Mr. Harry was silent, he exclaimed, "You are right, you are right, Gray. With your smooth highways, and plenty of schools, and churches, and libraries, and meetings for young people, you would make country life a paradise, and I tell you what you would do, too; you would empty the slums of the cities. It is the slowness and dullness of country life, and not their poverty alone, that keep the poor in dirty lanes and tenement houses. They want stir and amusement, too, poor souls, when their day's work is over. I believe they would come to the country if it were made more pleasant for them." "That is another question," said Mr. Harry, "a burning question in my mind--the labor and capital one. When I was in New York, Maxwell, I was in a hospital, and saw a number of men who had been day laborers. Some of them were old and feeble, and others were young men, broken down in the prime of life. Their limbs were shrunken and drawn. They had been digging in the earth, and working on high buildings, and confined in dingy basements, and had done all kinds of hard labor for other men. They had given their lives and strength for others, and this was the end of it--to die poor and forsaken. I looked at them, and they reminded me of the martyrs of old. Ground down, living from hand to mouth, separated from their families in many cases--they had had a bitter lot. They had never had a chance to get away from their fate, and had to work till they dropped. I tell you there is something wrong. We don't do enough for the people that slave and toil for us. We should take better care of them, we should not herd them together like cattle, and when we get rich, we should carry them along with us, and give them a part of our gains, for without them we would be as poor as they are." "Good, Harry--I'm with you there," said a voice behind him, and looking around, we saw Mr. Wood standing in the doorway, gazing down proudly at his step-son. Mr. Harry smiled, and getting up, said, "Won't you have my chair, sir?" "No, thank you; your mother wishes us to come to tea. There are muffins, and you know they won't improve with keeping." They all went to the dining-room, and I followed them. On the way, Mr. Wood said, "Right on top of that talk of yours, Harry, I've got to tell you of another person who is going to Boston to live." "Who is it?" said Mr. Harry. "Lazy Dan Wilson. I've been to see him this afternoon. You know his wife is sick, and they're half starved. He says he is going to the city, for he hates to chop wood and work, and he thinks maybe he'll get some light job there." Mr. Harry looked grave, and Mr. Maxwell said, "He will starve, that's what he will do." "Precisely," said Mr. Wood, spreading out his hard, brown hands, as he sat down at the table. "I don't know why it is, but the present generation has a marvelous way of skimming around any kind of work with their hands, They'll work their brains till they haven't got any more backbone than a caterpillar, but as for manual labor, it's old-timey and out of fashion. I wonder how these farms would ever have been carved out of the backwoods, if the old Puritans had sat down on the rocks with their noses in a lot of books, and tried to figure out just how little work they could do, and yet exist." "Now, father," said Mrs. Wood, "you are trying to insinuate that the present generation is lazy, and I'm sure it isn't. Look at Harry. He works as hard as you do." "Isn't that like a woman?" said Mr. Wood, with a good-natured laugh. "The present generation consists of her son, and the past of her husband. I don't think all our young people are lazy, Hattie; but how in creation, unless the Lord rains down a few farmers, are we going to support all our young lawyers and doctors? They say the world is getting healthier and better, but we've got to fight a little more, and raise some more criminals, and we've got to take to eating pies and doughnuts for breakfast again, or some of our young sprouts from the colleges will go a begging." "You don't mean to undervalue the advantages of a good education, do you, Mr. Wood?" said Mr. Maxwell. "No, no; look at Harry there. Isn't he pegging away at his studies with my hearty approval? and he's going to be nothing but a plain, common farmer. But he'll be a better one than I've been though, because he's got a trained mind. I found that out when he was a lad going to the village school. He'd lay out his little garden by geometry, and dig his ditches by algebra. Education's a help to any man. What I am trying to get at is this, that in some way or other we're running more to brains and less to hard work than our forefathers did." Mr. Wood was beating on the table with his forefinger while he talked, and every one was laughing at him. "When you've quite finished speechifying, John," said Mrs. Wood, "perhaps you'll serve the berries and pass the cream and sugar. Do you get yellow cream like this in the village, Mr. Maxwell?" "No, Mrs. Wood," he said; "ours is a much paler yellow," and then there was a great tinkling of china, and passing of dishes, and talking and laughing, and no one noticed that I was not in my usual place in the hall. I could not get over my dread of the green creature, and I had crept under the table, so that if it came out and frightened Miss Laura, I could jump up and catch it. When tea was half over, she gave a little cry. I sprang up on her lap, and there, gliding over the table toward her, was the wicked-looking green thing. I stepped on the table, and had it by the middle before it could get to her. My hind legs were in a dish of jelly, and my front ones were in a plate of cake, and I was very uncomfortable. The tail of the green thing hung in a milk pitcher, and its tongue was still going at me, but I held it firmly and stood quite still. "Drop it, drop it!" cried Miss Laura, in tones of distress, and Mr. Maxwell struck me on the back, so I let the thing go, and stood sheepishly looking about me. Mr. Wood was leaning back in his chair, laughing with all his might, and Mrs. Wood was staring at her untidy table with rather a long face. Miss Laura told me to jump on the floor, and then she helped her aunt to take the spoiled things off the table. I felt that I had done wrong, so I slunk out into the hall. Mr. Maxwell was sitting on the lounge, tearing his handkerchief in strips and tying them around the creature where my teeth had stuck in. I had been careful not to hurt it much, for I knew it was a pet of his; but he did not know that, and scowled at me, saying: "You rascal; you've hurt my poor snake terribly." I felt so badly to hear this that I went and stood with my head in a corner. I had almost rather be whipped than scolded. After a while, Mr. Maxwell went back into the room, and they all went on with their tea. I could hear Mr. Wood's loud, cheery voice, "The dog did quite right. A snake is mostly a poisonous creature, and his instinct told him to protect his mistress. Where is he? Joe, Joe!" I would not move till Miss Laura came and spoke to me. "Dear old dog," she whispered, "You knew the snake was there all the time, didn't you?" Her words made me feel better, and I followed her to the dining room, where Mr. Wood made me sit beside him and eat scraps from his hand all through the meal. Mr. Maxwell had got over his ill humor, and was chatting in a lively way. "Good Joe," he said, "I was cross to you, and I beg your pardon It always riles me to have any of my pets injured. You didn't know my poor snake was only after something to eat. Mrs. Wood has pinned him in my pocket so he won't come out again. Do you know where I got that snake, Mrs. Wood?" "No," she said; "you never told me." "It was across the river by Blue Ridge," he said. "One day last summer I was out rowing, and, getting very hot, tied my boat in the shade of a big tree. Some village boys were in the woods, and, hearing a great noise, I went to see what it was all about They were Band of Mercy boys, and finding a country boy beating a snake to death, they were remonstrating with him for his cruelty, telling him that some kinds of snakes were a help to the farmer, and destroyed large numbers of field mice and other vermin. The boy was obstinate. He had found the snake, and he insisted upon his right to kill it, and they were having rather a lively time when I appeared. I persuaded them to make the snake over to me. Apparently it was already dead. Thinking it might revive, I put it on some grass in the bow of the boat. It lay there motionless for a long time, and I picked up my oars and started for home. I had got half way across the river, when I turned around and saw that the snake was gone. It had just dropped into the water, and was swimming toward the bank we had left. I turned and followed it. "It swam slowly and with evident pain, lifting Its head every few seconds high above the water, to see which way it was going. On reaching the bank it coiled itself up, throwing up blood and water. I took it up carefully, carried it home, and nursed it. It soon got better, and has been a pet of mine ever since." After tea was over, and Mrs. Wood and Miss Laura had helped Adele finish the work, they all gathered in the parlor. The day had been quite warm, but now a cool wind had sprung up, and Mr. Wood said that it was blowing up rain. Mrs. Wood said that she thought a fire would be pleasant; so they lighted the sticks of wood in the open grate, and all sat round the blazing fire. Mr. Maxwell tried to get me to make friends with the little snake that he held in his hands toward the blaze, and now that I knew that it was harmless I was not afraid of it; but it did not like me, and put out its funny little tongue whenever I looked at it. By-and-by the rain began to strike against the windows, and Mr. Maxwell said, "This is just the night for a story. Tell us something out of your experience, won't you, Mr. Wood?" "What shall I tell you?" he said, good-humoredly. He was sitting between his wife and Mr. Harry, and had his hand on Mr. Harry's knee. "Something about animals," said Mr. Maxwell. "We seem to be on that subject to-day." "Well," said Mr. Wood, "I'll talk about something that has been running in my head for many a day. There is a good deal of talk nowadays about kindness to domestic animals; but I do not hear much about kindness to wild ones. The same Creator formed them both. I do not see why you should not protect one as well as the other. I have no more right to torture a bear than a cow. Our wild animals around here are getting pretty well killed off, but there are lots in other places. I used to be fond of hunting when I was a boy; but I have got rather disgusted with killing these late years, and unless the wild creatures ran in our streets, I would lift no hand to them. Shall I tell you some of the sport we had when I was a youngster?" "Yes, yes!" they all exclaimed. * * * * * CHAPTER XXIII TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS "Well," Mr. Wood began. "I was brought up, as you all know, in the eastern part of Maine, and we often used to go over into New Brunswick for our sport. Moose were our best game. Did you ever see one, Laura?" "No, uncle," she said. "Well, when I was a boy there was no more beautiful sight to me in the world than a moose with his dusky hide, and long legs, and branching antlers, and shoulders standing higher than a horse's. Their legs are so long that they can't eat close to the ground. They browse on the tops of plants, and the tender shoots and leaves of trees. They walk among the thick underbrush, carrying their horns adroitly to prevent their catching in the branches, and they step so well, and aim so true, that you'll scarcely hear a twig fall as they go. "They're a timid creature except at times. Then they'll attack with hoofs and antlers whatever comes in their way. They hate mosquitoes, and when they're tormented by them it's just as well to be careful about approaching them. Like all other creatures, the Lord has put into them a wonderful amount of sense, and when a female moose has her one or two fawns she goes into the deepest part of the forest, or swims to islands in large lakes, till they are able to look out for themselves. "Well, we used to like to catch a moose, and we had different ways of doing it. One way was to snare them. We' d make a loop in a rope and hide it on the ground under the dead leaves in one of their paths. This was connected with a young sapling whose top was bent down. When the moose stepped on the loop it would release the sapling, and up it would bound, catching him by the leg. These snares were always set deep in the woods, and we couldn't visit them very often. Sometimes the moose would be there for days, raging and tearing around, and scratching the skin off his legs. That was cruel. I wouldn't catch a moose in that way now for a hundred dollars. "Another way was to hunt them on snow shoes with dogs. In February and March the snow was deep, and would carry men and dogs. Moose don't go together in herds. In the summer they wander about over the forest, and in the autumn they come together in small groups, and select a hundred or two of acres where there is plenty of heavy undergrowth, and to which they usually confine themselves. They do this so that their tracks won't tell their enemies where they are. "Any of these places where there were several moose we called a moose yard. We went through the woods till we got on to the tracks of some of the animals belonging to it, then the dogs smelled them and went ahead to start them. If I shut my eyes now I can see one of our moose hunts. The moose running and plunging through the snow crust, and occasionally rising up and striking at the dogs that hang on to his bleeding flanks and legs. The hunters' rifles going crack, crack, crack, sometimes killing or wounding dogs as well as moose. That, too, was cruel. "Two other ways we had of hunting moose: Calling and stalking. The calling was done in this way: We took a bit of birch bark and rolled it up in the shape of a horn. We took this horn and started out, either on a bright moonlight night or just at evening, or early in the morning. The man who carried the horn hid himself, and then began to make a lowing sound like a female moose. He had to do it pretty well to deceive them. Away in the distance some moose would hear it, and with answering grunts would start off to come to it. If a young male moose was coming, he'd mind his steps, I can assure you, on account of fear of the old ones, but if it was an old fellow, you'd hear him stepping out bravely and rapping his horns against the trees, and plunging into any water that came in his way. When he got pretty near, he'd stop to listen, and then the caller had to be very careful and put his trumpet down close to the ground, so as to make a lower sound. If the moose felt doubtful he'd turn; if not, he'd come on, and unlucky for him if he did, for he got a warm reception, either from the rifles in our hands as we lay hid near the caller, or from some of the party stationed at a distance. "In stalking, we crept on them the way a cat creeps on a mouse. In the daytime a moose is usually lying down. We'd find their tracks and places where they'd been nipping off the ends of branches and twigs, and follow them up. They easily take the scent of men, and we'd have to keep well to the leeward. Sometimes we'd come upon them lying down, but, if in walking along, we'd broken a twig, or made the slightest noise, they'd think it was one of their mortal enemies, a bear--creeping on them, and they'd be up and away. Their sense of hearing is very keen, but they're not so quick to see. A fox is like that, too. His eyes aren't equal to his nose. "Stalking is the most merciful way to kill a moose. Then they haven't the fright and suffering of the chase." "I don't see why they need to be killed at all," said Mrs. Wood. "If I knew that forest back of the mountains was full of wild creatures, I think I'd be glad of it, and not want to hunt them, that is, if they were harmless and beautiful creatures like the deer." "You're a woman," said Mr. Wood, "and women are more merciful than men. Men want to kill and slay. They're like the Englishman, who said: 'What a fine day it is; let's go out and kill something.'" "Please tell us some more about the dogs that helped you catch the moose, uncle," said Miss Laura, I was sitting up very straight beside her, listening to every word Mr. Wood said, and she was fondling my head. "Well, Laura, when we camped out on the snow and slept on spruce boughs while we were after the moose, the dogs used to be a great comfort to us. They slept at our feet and kept us warm. Poor brutes, they mostly had a rough time of it. They enjoyed the running and chasing as much as we did, but when it came to broken ribs and sore heads, it was another matter, Then the porcupines bothered them. Our dogs would never learn to let them alone. If they were going through the woods where there were no signs of moose and found a porcupine, they'd kill it. The quills would get in their mouths and necks and chests, and we'd have to gag them and take bullet molds or nippers, or whatever we had, sometimes our jack-knives, and pull out the nasty things. If we got hold of the dogs at once, we could pull out the quills with our fingers. Sometimes the quills had worked in, and the dogs would go home and lie by the fire with running sores till they worked out. I've seen quills work right through dogs. Go in on one side and come out on the other." "Poor brutes," said Mrs. Wood. "I wonder you took them." "We once lost a valuable hound while moose hunting," said Mr. Wood. "The moose struck him with his hoof and the dog was terribly injured, and lay in the woods for days, till a neighbor of ours, who was looking for timber, found him and brought him home on his shoulders. Wasn't there rejoicing among us boys to see old Lion coming back, We took care of him and he got well again. "It was good sport to see the dogs when we were hunting a bear with them. Bears are good runners, and when dogs get after them, there is great skirmishing. They nip the bear behind, and when they turn, the dogs run like mad, for a hug from a bear means sure death to a dog. If they got a slap from his paws, over they'd go. Dogs new to the business were often killed by the bears." "Were there many bears near your home, Mr. Wood?" asked Mr. Maxwell. "Lots of them. More than we wanted. They used to bother us fearfully about our sheep and cattle. I've often had to get up in the night, and run out to the cattle. The bears would come out of the woods, and jump on to the young heifers and cows, and strike them and beat them down and the cattle would roar as if the evil one had them. If the cattle were too far away from the house for us to hear them, the bears would worry them till they were dead. "As for the sheep, they never made any resistance. They'd meekly run in a corner when they saw a bear coming, and huddle together, and he'd strike at them, and scratch them with his claws, and perhaps wound a dozen before he got one firmly. Then he'd seize it in his paws, and walk off on his hind legs over fences and anything else that came in his way, till he came to a nice, retired spot, and there he' d sit down and skin that sheep just like a butcher. He'd gorge himself with the meat, and in the morning we'd find the other sheep that he'd torn, and we'd vow vengeance against that bear. He'd be almost sure to come back for more, so for a while after that we always put the sheep in the barn at nights and set a trap by the remains of the one he had eaten. "Everybody hated bears, and hadn't much pity for them; still they were only getting their meat as other wild animals do, and we'd no right to set such cruel traps for them as the steel ones. They had a clog attached to them, and had long, sharp teeth. We put them on the ground and strewed leaves over them, and hung up some of the carcass left by the bear near by. When he attempted to get this meat, he would tread on the trap, and the teeth would spring together, and catch him by the leg. They always fought to get free. I once saw a bear that had been making a desperate effort to get away. His leg was broken, the skin and flesh were all torn away, and he was held by the tendons. It was a foreleg that was caught, and he would put his hind feet against the jaws of the trap, and then draw by pressing with his feet, till he would stretch those tendons to their utmost extent. "I have known them to work away till they really pulled these tendons out of the foot, and got off. It was a great event in our neighborhood when a bear was caught. Whoever caught him blew a horn, and the men and boys came trooping together to see the sight. I've known them to blow that horn on a Sunday morning, and I've seen the men turn their backs on the meeting house to go and see the bear." "Was there no more merciful way of catching them than by this trap?" asked Miss Laura. "Oh, yes, by the deadfall--that is by driving heavy sticks into the ground, and making a box-like place, open on one side, where two logs were so arranged with other heavy logs upon them, that when the bear seized the bait, the upper log fell down and crushed him to death. Another way was to fix a bait in a certain place, with cords tied to it, which cords were fastened to triggers of guns placed at a little distance. When the bear took the bait, the guns went off, and he shot himself. "Sometimes it took a good many bullets to kill them. I remember one old fellow that we put eleven into, before he keeled over. It was one fall, over on Pike's Hill. The snow had come earlier than usual, and this old bear hadn't got into his den for his winter's sleep. A lot of us started out after him. The hill was covered with beech trees, and he'd been living all the fall on the nuts, till he'd got as fat as butter. We took dogs and worried him, and ran him from one place to another, and shot at him, till at last he dropped. We took his meat home, and had his skin tanned for a sleigh robe. "One day I was in the woods, and looking through the trees espied a bear. He was standing up on his hind legs, snuffing in every direction, and just about the time I espied him, he espied me. I had no dog and no gun, so I thought I had better be getting home to my dinner. I was a small boy then, and the bear, probably thinking I'd be a mouthful for him anyway, began to come after me in a leisurely way. I can see myself now going through those woods--hat gone, jacket flying, arms out, eyes rolling over my shoulder every little while to see if the bear was gaining on me. He was a benevolent-looking old fellow, and his face seemed to say, 'Don't hurry, little boy.' He wasn't doing his prettiest, and I soon got away from him, but I made up my mind then, that it was more fun to be the chaser than the chased. "Another time I was out in our cornfield, and hearing a rustling, looked through the stalks, and saw a brown bear with two cubs. She was slashing down the corn with her paws to get at the ears. She smelled me, and getting frightened began to run. I had a dog with me this time, and shouted and rapped on the fence, and set him on her. He jumped up and snapped at her flanks, and every few instants she'd turn and give him a cuff, that would send him yards away. I followed her up, and just back of the farm she and her cubs took into a tree. I sent my dog home, and my father and some of the neighbors came. It had gotten dark by this time, so we built a fire under the tree, and watched all night, and told stories to keep each other awake. Toward morning we got sleepy, and the fire burnt low, and didn't that old bear and one cub drop right down among us and start off to the woods. That waked us up. We built up the fire and kept watch, so that the one cub, still in the tree, couldn't get away. Until daylight the mother bear hung around, calling to the cub to come down." "Did you let it go, uncle?" asked Miss Laura. "No, my dear, we shot it." "How cruel!" cried Mrs. Wood. "Yes, weren't we brutes?" said her husband; "but there was some excuse for us, Hattie. The bears ruined our farms. This kind of hunting that hunts and kills for the mere sake of slaughter is very different from that. I'll tell you what I've no patience with, and that's with these English folks that dress themselves up, and take fine horses and packs of dogs, and tear over the country after one little fox or rabbit. Bah, it's contemptible. Now if they were hunting cruel, man-eating tigers, or animals that destroy property, it would be a different thing." * * * * * CHAPTER XXIV THE RABBIT AND THE HEN "You had foxes up in Maine, I suppose, Mr. Wood, hadn't you?" asked Mr. Maxwell. "Heaps of them. I always want to laugh when I think of our foxes, for they were so cute. Never a fox did I catch in a trap, though I'd set many a one. I'd take the carcass of some creature that had died, a sheep, for instance, and put it in a field near the woods, and the foxes would come and eat it. After they got accustomed to come and eat and no harm befell them, they would be unsuspecting. So just before a snowstorm, I'd take a trap and put it in this spot. I'd handle it with gloves, and I'd smoke it, and rub fir boughs on it to take away the human smell, and then the snow would come and cover it up, and yet those foxes would know it was a trap and walk all around it. It's a wonderful thing, that sense of smell in animals, if it is a sense of smell. Joe here has got a good bit of it." "What kind of traps were they, father?" asked Mr. Harry. "Cruel ones--steel ones. They'd catch an animal by the leg and sometimes break the bone, the leg would bleed, and below the jaws of he trap it would freeze, there being no circulation of the blood. Those steel traps are an abomination. The people around here use one made on the same principle for catching rats. I wouldn't have them on my place for any money. I believe we've got to give an account for all the unnecessary suffering we put on animals." "You'll have some to answer for, John, according to your own story," said Mrs. Wood. "I have suffered already," he said. "Many a night I've lain on my bed and groaned, when I thought of needless cruelties I'd put upon animals when I was a young, unthinking boy--and I was pretty carefully brought up, too, according to our light in those days. I often think that if I was cruel, with all the instruction I had to be merciful, what can be expected of the children that get no good teaching at all when they're young." "Tell us some more about the foxes, Mr. Wood," said Mr. Maxwell. "Well, we used to have rare sport hunting them with fox-hounds. I'd often go off for the day with my hounds. Sometimes in the early morning they'd find a track in the snow. The leader for scent would go back and forth, to find out which way the fox was going. I can see him now. All the time that he ran, now one way and now another on the track of the fox, he was silent, but kept his tail aloft, wagging it as a signal to the hounds behind. He was leader in scent, but he did not like bloody, dangerous fights. By-and-by, he would decide which way the fox had gone. Then his tail, still kept high in the air, would wag more violently. The rest followed him in single file, going pretty slow, so as to enable us to keep up to them. By-and-by, they would come to a place where the fox was sleeping for the day. As soon as he was disturbed he would leave his bed under some thick fir or spruce branches near the ground. This flung his fresh scent into the air. As soon as the hounds sniffed it, they gave tongue in good earnest. It was a mixed, deep baying, that made the blood quicken in my veins. While in the excitement of his first fright, the fox would run fast for a mile or two, till he found it an easy matter to keep out of the way of the hounds. Then he, cunning creature, would begin to bother them. He would mount to the top pole of the worm fence dividing the fields from the woods. He could trot along here quite a distance and then make a long jump into the woods. The hounds would come up, but could not walk the fence, and they would have difficulty in finding where the fox had left it. Then we saw generalship. The hounds scattered in all directions, and made long detours into the woods and fields. As soon as the track was lost, they ceased to bay, but the instant a hound found it again, he bayed to give the signal to the others. All would hurry to the spot, and off they would go baying as they went. "Then Mr. Fox would try a new trick. He would climb a leaning tree, and then jump to the ground. This trick would soon be found out. Then he'd try another. He would make a circle of a quarter of a mile in circumference. By making a loop in his course, he would come in behind the hounds, and puzzle them between the scent of his first and following tracks. If the snow was deep, the hounds had made a good track for him. Over this he could run easily, and they would have to feel their way along, for after he had gone around the circle a few times, he would jump from the beaten path as far as he could, and make off to other cover in a straight line. Before this was done it was my plan to get near the circle, taking care to approach it on the leeward side. If the fox got a sniff of human scent, he would leave his circle very quickly, and make tracks fast to be out of danger. By the baying of the hounds, the circle in which the race was kept up could be easily known. The last runs to get near enough to shoot had to be done when the hounds' baying came from the side of the circle nearest to me. For then the fox would be on the opposite side farthest away. As soon as I got near enough to see the hounds when they passed, I stopped. When they got on the opposite side, I then kept a bright lookout for the fox. Sometimes when the brush was thick, the sight of him would be indistinct. The shooting had to be quick. As soon as the report of the gun was heard, the hounds ceased to bay, and made for the spot. If the fox was dead, they enjoyed the scent of his blood. If only wounded, they went after him with all speed. "Sometimes he was overtaken and killed, and sometimes he got into his burrow in the earth, or in a hollow log, or among the rocks. "One day, I remember, when I was standing on the outside of the circle, the fox came in sight. I fired. He gave a shrill bark, and came toward me. Then he stopped in the snow and fell dead in his tracks. I was a pretty good shot in those days." "Poor little fox," said Miss Laura. "I wish you had let him get away." "Here's one that nearly got away," said Mr. Wood. "One winter's day, I was chasing him with the hounds. There was a crust on the snow, and the fox was light, while the dogs were heavy. They ran along, the fox trotting nimbly on the top of the crust and the dogs breaking through, and every few minutes that fox would stop and sit down to look at the dogs. They were in a fury, and the wickedness of the fox in teasing them, made me laugh so much that I was very unwilling to shoot him." "You said your steel traps were cruel things, uncle," said Miss Laura. "Why didn't you have a deadfall for the foxes as you had for the bears?" "They were too cunning to go into deadfalls. There was a better way to catch them, though. Foxes hate water, and never go into it unless they are obliged to, so we used to find a place where a tree had fallen across a river, and made a bridge for them to go back and forth on. Here we set snares, with spring poles that would throw them into the river when they made struggles to get free, and drown them. Did you ever hear of the fox, Laura, that wanted to cross a river, and lay down on the bank pretending that he was dead, and a countryman came along, and, thinking he had a prize, threw him in his boat and rowed across, when the fox got up and ran away?" "Now, uncle," said Miss Laura, "you're laughing at me. That couldn't be true." "No, no," said Mr. Wood, chuckling; "but they're mighty cute at pretending they're dead. I once shot one in the morning, carried him a long way on my shoulders, and started to skin him in the afternoon, when he turned around and bit me enough to draw blood. At another time I dug one out of a hole in the ground. He feigned death, I took him up and threw him down at some distance, and he jumped up and ran into the woods." "What other animals did you catch when you were a boy?" asked Mr. Maxwell. "Oh, a number. Otters and beavers--we caught them in deadfalls and in steel traps. The mink we usually took in deadfalls, smaller, of course, than the ones we used for the bears. The musk-rat we caught in box traps like a mouse trap. The wild-cat we ran down like the 'loup cervier'--" "What kind of an animal is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell. "It is a lynx, belonging to the cat species. They used to prowl about the country killing hens, geese, and sometimes sheep. They'd fix their tushes in the sheep's neck and suck the blood. "They did not think much of the sheep's flesh. We ran them down with dogs. They'd often run up trees, and we'd shoot them. Then there were rabbits that we caught, mostly in snares. For musk-rats, we'd put a parsnip or an apple on the spindle of a box trap. When we snared a rabbit, I always wanted to find it caught around the neck and strangled to death. If they got half through the snare and were caught around the body, or by the hind legs, they'd live for some time, and they'd cry just like a child. I like shooting them better, just because I hated to hear their pitiful cries. It's a bad business this of killing dumb creatures, and the older I get, the more chicken-hearted I am about it." "Chicken-hearted--I should think you are," said Mrs. Wood. "Do you know, Laura, he won't even kill a fowl for dinner. He gives it to one of the men to do." "Blessed are the merciful," said Miss Laura, throwing her arm over her uncle's shoulder. "I love you, dear Uncle John, because you are so kind to every living thing." "I'm going to be kind to you now," said her uncle, "and send you to bed. You look tired." "Very well," she said, with a smile. Then bidding them all good-night, she went upstairs. Mr. Wood turned to Mr. Maxwell. "You're going to stay all night with us, aren't you?" "So Mrs. Wood says," replied the young man, with a smile. "Of course," she said. "I couldn't think of letting you go back to the village such a night as this. It's raining cats and dogs--but I mustn't say that, or there'll be no getting you to stay. I'll go and prepare your old room next to Harry's." And she bustled away. The two young men went to the pantry for doughnuts and milk, and Mr. Wood stood gazing down at me. "Good dog," he said; "you look as if you sensed that talk to-night. Come, get a bone, and then away to bed." He gave me a very large mutton bone, and I held it in my mouth, and watched him opening the woodshed door. I love human beings; and the saddest time of day for me is when I have to be separated from them while they sleep. "Now, go to bed and rest well, Beautiful Joe," said Mr. Wood, "and if you hear any stranger round the house, run out and bark. Don't be chasing wild animals in your sleep, though. They say a dog is the only animal that dreams. I wonder whether it's true?" Then he went into the house and shut the door. I had a sheepskin to lie on, and a very good bed it made. I slept soundly for a long time; then I waked up and found that, instead of rain pattering against the roof, and darkness everywhere, it was quite light. The rain was over, and the moon was shining beautifully. I ran to the door and looked out. It was almost as light as day. The moon made it very bright all around the house and farm buildings, and I could look all about and see that there was no one stirring. I took a turn around the yard, and walked around to the side of the house, to glance up at Miss Laura's window. I always did this several times through the night, just to see if she was quite safe. I was on my way back to my bed, when I saw two small, white things moving away down the lane. I stood on the veranda and watched them. When they got nearer, I saw that there was a white rabbit hopping up the road, followed by a white hen. It seemed to me a very strange thing for these creatures to be out this time of night, and why were they coming to Dingley Farm? This wasn't their home. I ran down on the road and stood in front of them. Just as soon as the hen saw me, she fluttered in front of the rabbit, and, spreading out her wings, clucked angrily, and acted as if she would peck my eyes out if I came nearer. I saw that they were harmless creatures, and, remembering my adventure with the snake, I stepped aside. Besides that, I knew by their smell that they had been near Mr. Maxwell, so perhaps they were after him. They understood quite well that I would not hurt them, and passed by me. The rabbit went ahead again and the hen fell behind. It seemed to me that the hen was sleepy, and didn't like to be out so late at night, and was only following the rabbit because she thought it was her duty. He was going along in a very queer fashion, putting his nose to the ground, and rising up on his hind legs, and sniffing the air, first on this side and then on the other, and his nose going, going all the time. He smelled all around the house till he came to Mr. Maxwell's room at the back. It opened on the veranda by a glass door, and the door stood ajar. The rabbit squeezed himself in, and the hen stayed out. She watched for a while, and when he didn't come back, she flew upon the back of a chair that stood near the door, and put her head under her wing. I went back to my bed, for I knew they would do no harm. Early in the morning, when I was walking around the house, I heard a great shouting and laughing from Mr. Maxwell's room. He and Mr. Harry had just discovered the hen and the rabbit; and Mr. Harry was calling his mother to come and look at them. The rabbit had slept on the foot of the bed. Mr. Harry was chaffing Mr. Maxwell very much, and was telling him that any one who entertained him was in for a traveling menagerie. They had a great deal of fun over it, and Mr. Maxwell said that he had had that pretty, white hen as a pet for a long time in Boston. Once when she ha$ some little chickens, a frightened rabbit, that was being chased by a dog, ran into the yard. In his terror he got right under the hen's wings, and she sheltered him, and pecked at the dog's eyes, and kept him off till help came. The rabbit belonged to a neighbor's boy, and Mr. Maxwell bought it from him. From the day the hen protected him, she became his friend, and followed him everywhere. I did not wonder that the rabbit wanted to see his master. There was something about that young man that made dumb animals just delight in him. When Mrs. Wood mentioned this to him he said, "I don't know why they should--I don't do anything to fascinate them." "You love them," she said, "and they know it. That is the reason." * * * * * CHAPTER XXV A HAPPY HORSE For a good while after I went to Dingley Farm I was very shy of the horses, for I was afraid they might kick me, thinking that I was a "bad dog" like Bruno. However, they all had such good faces, and looked at me so kindly, that I was beginning to get over my fear of them. Fleetfoot, Mr. Harry's colt, was my favorite, and one afternoon, when Mr. Harry and Miss Laura were going out to see him, I followed them. Fleetfoot was amusing himself by rolling over and over on the grass under a tree, but when he saw Mr. Harry, he gave a shrill whinny, and running to him, began nosing about his pockets. "Wait a bit," said Mr. Harry, holding him by the forelock. "Let me introduce you to this young lady, Miss Laura Morris. I want you to make her a bow." He gave the colt some sign, and immediately he began to paw the ground and shake his head. Mr. Harry laughed and went on: "Here is her dog Joe. I want you to like him, too. Come here, Joe." I was not at all afraid, for I knew Mr, Harry would not let him hurt me, so I stood in front of him, and for the first time had a good look at him. They called him the colt, but he was really a full-grown horse, and had already been put to work. He was of a dark chestnut color, and had a well-shaped body and a long, handsome head, and I never saw, in the head of a man or beast, a more beautiful pair of eyes than that colt had--large, full, brown eyes they were that he turned on me almost as a person would. He looked me all over as if to say: "Are you a good dog, and will you treat me kindly, or are you a bad one like Bruno, and will you chase me and snap at my heels and worry me, so that I shall want to kick you?" I looked at him very earnestly and wagged my body, and lifted myself on my hind legs toward him. He seemed pleased and put down his nose to sniff at me, and then we were friends. Friends, and such good friends, for next to Jim and Billy, I have loved Fleetfoot. Mr. Harry pulled some lumps of sugar out of his pocket, and giving them to Miss Laura, told her to put them on the palm of her hand and hold it out flat toward Fleetfoot. The colt ate the sugar, and all the time eyed her with his quiet, observing glance, that made her exclaim: "What a wise-looking colt!" "He is like an old horse," said Mr. Harry. "When he hears a sudden noise, he stops and looks all about him to find an explanation." "He has been well trained," said Miss Laura. "I have brought him up carefully," said Mr. Harry. "Really, he has been treated more like a dog than a colt. He follows me about the farm and smells everything I handle, and seems to want to know the reason of things. "Your mother says," replied Miss Laura. "that she found you both asleep on the lawn one day last summer, and the colt's head was on your arm." Mr. Harry smiled and threw his arm over the colt's neck. "We've been comrades, haven't we, Fleetfoot? I've been almost ashamed of his devotion. He has followed me to the village, and he always wants to go fishing with me. He's four years old now, so he ought to get over those coltish ways. I've driven him a good deal. We're going out in the buggy this afternoon, will you come?" "Where are you going?" asked Miss Laura. "Just for a short drive back of the river, to collect some money for father. I'll be home long before tea time." "Yes, I should like to go," said Miss Laura, "I will go to the house and get my other hat." "Come on, Fleetfoot," said Mr. Harry. And he led the way from the pasture, the colt following behind with me. I waited about the veranda, and in a short time Mr. Harry drove up to the front door. The buggy was black and shining, and Fleetfoot had on a silver-mounted harness that made him look very fine. He stood gently switching his long tail to keep the flies away, and with his head turned to see who was going to get into the buggy. I stood by him, and as soon as he saw that Miss Laura and Mr. Harry had seated themselves, he acted as if he wanted to be off. Mr. Harry spoke to him and away he went, I racing down the lane by his side, so happy to think he was my friend. He liked having me beside him, and every few seconds put down his head toward me. Animals can tell each other things without saying a word. When Fleetfoot gave his head a little toss in a certain way, I knew that he wanted to have a race. He had a beautiful even gait, and went very swiftly. Mr. Harry kept speaking to him to check him. "You don't like him to go too fast, do you?" said Miss Laura. "No," he returned. "I think we could make a racer of him if we liked, but father and I don't go in for fast horses. There is too much said about fast trotters and race horses. On some of the farms around here, the people have gone mad on breeding fast horses. An old farmer out in the country had a common cart-horse that he suddenly found out had great powers of speed and endurance. He sold him to a speculator for a big price, and it has set everybody wild. If the people who give all their time to it can't raise fast horses, I don't see how the farmers can. A fast horse on a farm is ruination to the boys, for it starts them racing and betting. Father says he is going to offer a prize for the fastest walker that can be bred in New Hampshire. That Dutchman of ours, heavy as he is, is a fair walker, and Cleve and Pacer can each walk four and a half miles an hour." "Why do you lay such stress on their walking fast?" asked Miss Laura. "Because so much of the farm work must be done at a walk. Ploughing, teaming, and drawing produce to market, and going up and down hills. Even for the cities it is good to have fast walkers. Trotting on city pavements is very hard on the dray horses. If they are allowed to go at a quick walk, their legs will keep strong much longer. It is shameful the way horses are used up in big cities. Our pavements are so bad that cab horses are used up in three years. In many ways we are a great deal better off in this new country than the people in Europe; but we are not in respect of cab horses, for in London and Paris they last for five years. I have seen horses drop down dead in New York just from hard usage. Poor brutes, there is a better time coming for them though. When electricity is more fully developed, we'll see some wonderful changes. As it is, last year in different places, about thirty thousand horses were released from those abominable horse cars, by having electricity introduced on the roads. Well, Fleetfoot, do you want another spin? All right, my boy, go ahead." Away we went again along a bit of level road. Fleetfoot had no check-rein on his beautiful neck, and when he trotted, he could hold his head in an easy, natural position. With his wonderful eyes and flowing mane and tail, and his glossy, reddish-brown body, I thought that he was the handsomest horse I had ever seen. He loved to go fast, and when Mr. Harry spoke to him to slow up again, he tossed his head with impatience. But he was too sweet-tempered to disobey. In all the years that I have known Fleetfoot, I have never once seen him refuse to do as his master told him. "You have forgotten your whip, haven't you Harry?" I heard Miss Laura say, as we jogged slowly along, and I ran by the buggy panting and with my tongue hanging out. "I never use one," said Mr. Harry; "if I saw any man lay one on Fleetfoot, I'd knock him down." His voice was so severe that I glanced up into the buggy. He looked just as he did the day that he stretched Jenkins on the ground, and gave him a beating. "I am so glad you don't," said Miss Laura. "You are like the Russians. Many of them control their horses by their voices, and call them such pretty names. But you have to use a whip for some horses, don't you, Cousin Harry?" "Yes, Laura. There are many vicious horses that can't be controlled otherwise, and then with many horses one requires a whip in case of necessity for urging them forward. "I suppose Fleetfoot never balks," said Miss Laura. "No," replied Mr. Harry; "Dutchman sometimes does, and we have two cures for him, both equally good. We take up a forefoot and strike his shoe two or three times with a stone. The operation always interests him greatly, and he usually starts. If he doesn't go for that, we pass a line round his forelegs, at the knee joint, then go in front of him and draw on the line. Father won't let the men use a whip, unless they are driven to it." "Fleetfoot has had a happy life, hasn't he?" said Miss Laura, looking admiringly at him. "How did he get to like you so much, Harry?" "I broke him in after a fashion of my own. Father gave him to me, and the first time I saw him on his feet, I went up carefully and put my hand on him. His mother was rather shy of me, for we hadn't had her long, and it made him shy too, so I soon left him. The next time I stroked him; the next time I put my arm around him. Soon he acted like a big dog. I could lead him about by a strap, and I made a little halter and a bridle for him. I didn't see why I shouldn't train him a little while he was young and manageable. I think it is cruel to let colts run till one has to employ severity in mastering them. Of course, I did not let him do much work. Colts are like boys--a boy shouldn't do a man's work, but he had exercise every day, and I trained him to draw a light cart behind him. I used to do all kinds of things to accustom him to unusual sounds. Father talked a good deal to me about Rarey, the great horse-tamer, and it put ideas into my head. He said he once saw Rarey come on a stage in Boston with a timid horse that he was going to accustom to a loud noise. First a bugle was blown, then some louder instrument, and so on, till there was a whole brass band going. Rarey reassured the animal, and it was not afraid." "You like horses better than any other animals, don't you, Harry?" asked Miss Laura. "I believe I do, though I am very fond of that dog of yours. I think I know more about horses than dogs. Have you noticed Scamp very much?" "Oh, yes; I often watched her. She is such an amusing little creature." "She's the most interesting one we've got, that is, after Fleetfoot. Father got her from a man who couldn't manage her, and she came to us with a legion of bad tricks. Father has taken solid comfort though, in breaking her of them. She is his pet among our stock. I suppose you know that horses, more than any other animals, are creatures of habit. If they do a thing once, they will do it again. When she came to us, she had a trick of biting at a person who gave her oats. She would do it without fail, so father put a little stick under his arm, and every time she would bite, he would give her a rap over the nose. She soon got tired of biting, and gave it up. Sometimes now, you'll see her make a snap at father as if she was going to bite, and then look under his arm to see if the stick is there. He cured some of her tricks in one way, and some in another. One bad one she had was to start for the stable the minute one of the traces was unfastened when we were unharnessing. She pulled father over once, and another time she ran the shaft of the sulky clean through the barn door. The next time father brought her in, he got ready for her. He twisted the lines around his hands, and the minute she began to bolt, he gave a tremendous jerk, that pulled her back upon her haunches, and shouted, 'Whoa!' It cured her, and she never started again, till he gave her the word. Often now, you'll see her throw her head back when she is being unhitched. He only did it once, yet she remembers. If we'd had the training of Scamp, she'd be a very different animal. It's nearly all in the bringing up of a colt, whether it will turn out vicious or gentle. If any one were to strike Fleetfoot, he would not know what it meant. He has been brought up differently from Scamp. "She was probably trained by some brutal man who inspired her with distrust of the human species. She never bites an animal, and seems attached to all the other horses. She loves Fleetfoot and Cleve and Pacer. Those three are her favorites." "I love to go for drives with Cleve and Pacer," said Miss Laura, "they are so steady and good. Uncle says they are the most trusty horses he has. He has told me about the man you had, who said that those two horses knew more than most 'humans.'" "That was old Davids," said Mr. Harry; "when we had him, he was courting a widow who lived over in Hoytville. About once a fortnight, he'd ask father for one of the horses to go over to see her. He always stayed pretty late, and on the way home he'd tie the reins to the whip-stock and go to sleep, and never wake up till Cleve or Pacer, whichever one he happened to have, would draw up in the barnyard. They would pass any rigs they happened to meet, and turn out a little for a man. If Davids wasn't asleep, he could always tell by the difference in their gait which they were passing. They'd go quickly past a man, and much slower, with more of a turn out, if it was a team. But I dare say father told you this. He has a great stock of horse stories, and I am almost as bad. You will have to cry 'halt,' when we bore you." "You never do," replied Miss Laura. "I love to talk about animals. I think the best story about Cleve and Pacer is the one that uncle told me last evening. I don't think you were there. It was about stealing the oats." "Cleve and Pacer never steal," said Mr. Harry. "Don't you mean Scamp? She's the thief." "No, it was Pacer that stole. He got out of his box, uncle says, and found two bags of oats, and he took one in his teeth and dropped it before Cleve, and ate the other himself, and uncle was so amused that he let them eat a long time, and stood and watched them." "That _was_ a clever trick," said Mr. Harry. "Father must have forgotten to tell me. Those two horses have been mates ever since I can remember, and I believe if they were separated, they'd pine away and die. You have noticed how low the partitions are between the boxes in the horse stable. Father says you wouldn't put a lot of people in separate boxes in a room, where they couldn't see each other, and horses are just as fond of company as we are. Cleve and Pacer are always nosing each other. A horse has a long memory. Father has had horses recognize him, that he has been parted from for twenty years. Speaking of their memories reminds me of another good story about Pacer that I never heard till yesterday, and that I would not talk about to any one but you and mother. Father wouldn't write me about it, for he never will put a line on paper where any one's reputation is concerned." * * * * * CHAPTER XXVI THE BOX OF MONEY "This story," said Mr. Harry, "is about one of the hired men we had last winter, whose name was Jacobs. He was a cunning fellow, with a hangdog look, and a great cleverness at stealing farm produce from father on the sly, and selling it. Father knew perfectly well what he was doing, and was wondering what would be the best way to deal with him, when one day something happened that brought matters to a climax. "Father had to go to Sudbury for farming tools, and took Pacer and the cutter. There are two ways of going there--one the Sudbury Road, and the other the old Post Road, which is longer and seldom used. On this occasion father took the Post Road. The snow wasn't deep, and he wanted to inquire after an old man who had been robbed and half frightened to death, a few days before. He was a miserable old creature, known as Miser Jerrold, and he lived alone with his daughter. He had saved a little money that he kept in a box under his bed. When father got near the place, he was astonished to see by Pacer's actions that he had been on this road before, and recently, too. Father is so sharp about horses, that they never do a thing that he doesn't attach a meaning to. So he let the reins hang a little loose, and kept his eye on Pacer. The horse went along the road, and seeing father didn't direct him, turned into the lane leading to the house. There was an old red gate at the end of it, and he stopped in front of it, and waited for father to get out. Then he passed through, and instead of going up to the house, turned around, and stood with his head toward the road. "Father never said a word, but he was doing a lot of thinking. He went into the house, and found the old man sitting over the fire, rubbing his hands, and half-crying about 'the few poor dollars,' that he said he had had stolen from him. Father had never seen him before, but he knew he had the name of being half silly, and question him as much as he liked, he could make nothing of him. The daughter said that they had gone to bed at dark the night her father was robbed. She slept up stairs, and he down below. About ten o'clock she heard him scream, and running down stairs, she found him sitting up in bed, and the window wide open. He said a man had sprung in upon him, stuffed the bedclothes into his mouth, and dragging his box from under the bed, had made off with it. She ran to the door and looked out, but there was no one to be seen. It was dark, and snowing a little, so no traces of footsteps were to be perceived in the morning. "Father found that the neighbors were dropping in to bear the old man company, so he drove on to Sudbury, and then returned home. When he got back, he said Jacobs was hanging about the stable in a nervous kind of a way, and said he wanted to speak to him. Father said very good, but put the horse in first. Jacobs unhitched, and father sat on one of the stable benches and watched him till he came lounging along with a straw in his mouth, and said he'd made up his mind to go West, and he'd like to set off at once. "Father said again, very good, but first he had a little account to settle with him, and he took out of his pocket a paper, where he had jotted down, as far as he could, every quart of oats, and every bag of grain, and every quarter of a dollar of market money that Jacobs had defrauded him of. Father said the fellow turned all the colors of the rainbow, for he thought he had covered up his tracks so cleverly that he would never be found out. Then father said, 'Sit down, Jacobs, for I have got to have a long talk with you.' He had him there about an hour, and when he finished, the fellow was completely broken down. Father told him that there were just two courses in life for a young man to take, and he had gotten on the wrong one. He was a young, smart fellow, and if he turned right around now, there was a chance for him. If he didn't there was nothing but the State's prison ahead of him, for he needn't think he was going to gull and cheat all the world, and never be found out. Father said he'd give him all the help in his power, if he had his word that he'd try to be an honest man. Then he tore up the paper, and said there was an end of his indebtedness to him. "Jacobs is only a young fellow, twenty-three or thereabout, and father says he sobbed like a baby. Then, without looking at him, father gave an account of his afternoon's drive, just as if he was talking to himself. He said that Pacer never to his knowledge had been on that road before, and yet he seemed perfectly familiar with it, and that he stopped and turned already to leave again quickly, instead of going up to the door, and how he looked over his shoulder and started on a run down the lane, the minute father's foot was in the cutter again. In the course of his remarks, father mentioned the fact that on Monday, the evening that the robbery was committed, Jacobs had borrowed Pacer to go to the Junction, but had come in with the horse steaming, and looking as if he had been driven a much longer distance than that. Father said that when he got done, Jacobs had sunk down all in a heap on the stable floor, with his hands over his face. Father left him to have it out with himself, and went to the house. "The next morning, Jacobs looked just the same as usual, and went about with the other men doing his work, but saying nothing about going West. Late in the afternoon, a farmer going by hailed father, and asked if he'd heard the news. "Old Miser Jerrold's box had been left on his doorstep some time through the night, and he'd found it in the morning. The money was all there, but the old fellow was so cute that he wouldn't tell any one how much it was. The neighbors had persuaded him to bank it, and he was coming to town the next morning with it, and that night some of them were going to help him mount guard over it. Father told the men at milking time, and he said Jacobs looked as unconscious as possible. However, from that day there was a change in him. He never told father in so many words that he' d resolved to be an honest man, but his actions spoke for him. He had been a kind of sullen, unwilling fellow, but now he turned handy and obliging, and it was a real trial to father to part with him." Miss Laura was intensely interested in this story. "Where is he now, Cousin Harry?" she asked, eagerly. "What became of him?" Mr. Harry laughed in such amusement that I stared up at him, and even Fleetfoot turned his head around to see what the joke was. We were going very slowly up a long, steep hill, and in the clear, still air, we could hear every word spoken in the buggy. "The last part of the story is the best, to my mind," said Mr. Harry, "and as romantic as even a girl could desire. The affair of the stolen box was much talked about along Sudbury way, and Miss Jerrold got to be considered quite a desirable young person among some of the youth near there, though she is a frowsy-headed creature, and not as neat in her personal attire as a young girl should be. Among her suitors was Jacobs. He cut out a blacksmith, and a painter, and several young farmers, and father said he never in his life had such a time to keep a straight face, as when Jacobs came to him this spring, and said he was going to marry old Miser Jerrold's daughter. He wanted to quit father's employ, and he thanked him in a real manly way for the manner in which he had always treated him. Well, Jacobs left, and mother says that father would sit and speculate about him, as to whether he had fallen in love with Eliza Jerrold, or whether he was determined to regain possession of the box, and was going to do it honestly, or whether he was sorry for having frightened the old man into a greater degree of imbecility, and was marrying the girl so that he could take care of him, or whether it was something else, and so on, and so on. He had a dozen theories, and then mother says he would burst out laughing, and say it was one of the cutest tricks that he had ever heard of. "In the end, Jacobs got married, and father and mother went to the wedding. Father gave the bridegroom a yoke of oxen, and mother gave the bride a lot of household linen, and I believe they're as happy as the day is long. Jacobs makes his wife comb her hair, and he waits on the old man as if he was his son, and he is improving the farm that was going to rack and ruin, and I hear he is going to build a new house." "Harry," exclaimed Miss Laura, "can't you take me to see them?" "Yes, indeed; mother often drives over to take them little things, and we'll go, too, sometime. I'd like to see Jacobs myself, now that he is a decent fellow. Strange to say, though he hadn't the best of character, no one has ever suspected him of the robbery, and he's been cunning enough never to say a word about it. Father says Jacobs is like all the rest of us. There's mixture of good and evil in him, and sometimes one predominates, and sometimes the other. But we must get on and not talk here all day. Get up, Fleetfoot." "Where did you say we were going?" asked Miss Laura, as we crossed the bridge over the river. "A little way back here in the woods," he replied. "There's an Englishman on a small clearing that he calls Penhollow. Father loaned him some money three years ago, and he won't pay either interest or principal." "I think I've heard of him," said Miss Laura "Isn't he the man whom the boys call Lord Chesterfield?" "The same one. He's a queer specimen of a man. Father has always stood up for him. He has a great liking for the English. He says we ought to be as ready to help an Englishman as an American, for we spring from common stock." "Oh, not Englishmen only," said Miss Laura, warmly; "Chinamen, and Negroes, and everybody. There ought to be a brotherhood of nations, Harry." "Yes, Miss Enthusiasm, I suppose there ought to be," and looking up, I could see that Mr. Harry was gazing admiringly into his cousin's face. "Please tell me some more about the Englishman," said Miss Laura. "There isn't much to tell. He lives alone, only coming occasionally to the village for supplies, and though he is poorer than poverty, he despises every soul within a ten-mile radius of him, and looks upon us as no better than an order of thrifty, well-trained lower animals." "Why is that?" asked Miss Laura, in surprise. "He is a gentleman, Laura, and we are only common people. My father can't hand a lady in and out of a carriage as Lord Chesterfield can, nor can he make so grand a bow, nor does he put on evening dress for a late dinner, and we never go to the opera nor to the theatre, and know nothing of polite society, nor can we tell exactly whom our great-great-grandfather sprang from. I tell you, there is a gulf between us and that Englishman, wider than the one young Curtius leaped into." Miss Laura was laughing merrily. "How funny that sounds, Harry. So he despises you," and she glanced at her good-looking cousin, and his handsome buggy and well-kept horse, and then burst into another merry peal of laughter. Mr. Harry laughed, too. "It does seem absurd. Sometimes when I pass him jogging along to town in his rickety old cart, and look at his pale, cruel face, and know that he is a broken-down gambler and man of the world, and yet considers himself infinitely superior to me--a young man in the prime of life, with a good constitution and happy prospects, it makes me turn away to hide a smile." By this time we had left the river and the meadows far behind us, and were passing through a thick wood. The road was narrow and very broken, and Fleetfoot was obliged to pick his way carefully. "Why does the Englishman live in this out-of-the-way place, if he is so fond of city life?" said Miss Laura. "I don't know," said Mr. Harry. "Father is afraid that he has committed some misdeed, and is in hiding; but we say nothing about it. We have not seen him for some weeks, and to tell the truth, this trip is as much to see what has become of him, as to make a demand upon him for the money. As he lives alone, he might lie there ill, and no one would know anything about it. The last time that we knew of his coming to the village was to draw quite a sum of money from the bank. It annoyed father, for he said he might take some of it to pay his debts. I think his relatives in England supply him with funds. Here we are at the entrance to the mansion of Penhollow. I must get out and open the gate that will admit us to the winding avenue." We had arrived in front of some bars which were laid across an opening in the snake fence that ran along one side of the road. I sat down and looked about. It was a strange, lonely place. The trees almost met overhead, and it was very dim and quiet. The sun could only send little straggling beams through the branches. There was a muddy pool of water before the bars that Mr. Harry was letting down, and he got his feet wet in it. "Confound that Englishman," he said, backing out of the water, and wiping his boots on the grass. "He hasn't even gumption enough to throw down a load of stone there. Drive in, Laura, and I'll put up the bars." Fleetfoot took us through the opening, and then Mr. Harry jumped into the buggy and took up the reins again. We had to go very slowly up a narrow, rough road. The bushes scratched and scraped against the buggy, and Mr. Harry looked very much annoyed. "No man liveth to himself," said Miss Laura, softly. "This man's carelessness is giving you trouble. Why doesn't he cut these branches that overhang the road?" "He can't do it, because his abominable laziness won't let him," said Mr. Harry. "I'd like to be behind him for a week, and I'd make him step a little faster. We have arrived at last, thank goodness." There was a small grass clearing in the midst of the woods. Chips and bits of wood were littered about, and across the clearing was a roughly-built house of unpainted boards. The front door was propped open by a stick. Some of the panes of glass in the windows were broken, and the whole house had a melancholy, dilapidated look. I thought that I had never seen such a sad-looking place. "It seems as if there was no one about," said Mr. Harry, with a puzzled face. "Barron must be away. Will you hold Fleetfoot, Laura, while I go and see?" He drew the buggy up near a small log building that had evidently been used for a stable, and I lay down beside it and watched Miss Laura. * * * * * CHAPTER XXVII A NEGLECTED STABLE I had not been on the ground more than a few seconds, before I turned my eyes from Miss Laura to the log hut. It was deathly quiet, there was not a sound coming from it, but the air was full of queer smells, and I was so uneasy that I could not lie still. There was something the matter with Fleetfoot, too. He was pawing the ground and whinnying, and looking, not after Mr. Harry, but toward the log building. "Joe," said Miss Laura, "what is the matter with you and Fleetfoot? Why don't you stand still? Is there any stranger about?" and she peered out of the buggy. I knew there was something wrong somewhere, but I didn't know what it was; so I stretched myself up on the step of the buggy, and licked her hand, and barking, to ask her to excuse me, I ran off to the other side of the log hut. There was a door there, but it was closed, and propped firmly up by a plank that I could not move, scratch as hard as I liked. I was determined to get in, so I jumped against the door, and tore and bit at the plank, till Miss Laura came to help me. "You won't find anything but rats in that ramshackle old place, Beautiful Joe," she said, as she pulled the plank away; "and as you don't hurt them, I don't see what you want to get in for. However, you are a sensible dog, and usually have a reason for having your own way, so I am going to let you have it." The plank fell down as she spoke, and she pulled open the rough door and looked in. There was no window inside, only the light that streamed through the door, so that for an instant she could see nothing. "Is any one here?" she asked, in her clear, sweet voice. There was no answer, except a low, moaning sound. "Why, some poor creature is in trouble, Joe," said Miss Laura, cheerfully. "Let us see what it is," and she stepped inside. I shall never forget seeing my dear Miss Laura going into that wet and filthy log house, holding up her white dress in her hands, her face a picture of pain and horror. There were two rough stalls in it, and in the first one was tied a cow, with a calf lying beside her. I could never have believed, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, that an animal could get so thin as that cow was. Her backbone rose up high and sharp, her hip bones stuck away out, and all her body seemed shrunken in. There were sores on her sides, and the smell from her stall was terrible. Miss Laura gave one cry of pity, then with a very pale face she dropped her dress, and seizing a little penknife from her pocket, she hacked at the rope that tied the cow to the manger, and cut it so that the cow could lie down. The first thing the poor cow did was to lick her calf, but it was quite dead. I used to think Jenkins's cows were thin enough, but he never had one that looked like this. Her head was like the head of a skeleton, and her eyes had such a famished look, that I turned away, sick at heart, to think that she had suffered so. When the cow lay down, the moaning noise stopped, for she had been making it. Miss Laura ran outdoors, snatched a handful of grass and took it in to her. The cow ate it gratefully, but slowly, for her strength seemed all gone. Miss Laura then went into the other stall to see if there was any creature there. There had been a horse. There was now a lean, gaunt-looking animal lying on the ground, that seemed as if he was dead. There was a heavy rope knotted round his neck, and fastened to his empty rack. Miss Laura stepped carefully between his feet, cut the rope and going outside the stall spoke kindly to him. He moved his ears slightly, raised his head, tried to get up, fell back again, tried again, and succeeded in staggering outdoors after Miss Laura, who kept encouraging him, and then he fell down on the grass. Fleetfoot stared at the miserable-looking creature as if he did not know what it was. The horse had no sores on his body, as the cow had, nor was he quite so lean; but he was the weakest, most distressed-looking animal that I ever saw. The flies settled on him, and Miss Laura had to keep driving them away. He was a white horse, with some kind of pale-colored eyes, and whenever he turned them on Miss Laura, she would look away. She did not cry, as she often did over the sick and suffering animals. This seemed too bad for tears. She just hovered over that poor horse with her face as white as her dress, and an expression of fright in her eyes. Oh, how dirty he was! I would never have imagined that a horse could get in such a condition. All this had only taken a few minutes, and just after she got the horse out, Mr. Harry appeared. He came out of the house with a slow step, that quickened to a run when he saw Miss Laura. "Laura!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing?" Then he stopped and looked at the horse, not in amazement, but very sorrowfully. "Barron is gone," he said, and crumpling up a piece of paper, he put it in his pocket "What is to be done for these animals? There is a cow, isn't there?" He stepped to the door of the log hut, glanced in, and said, quickly: "Do you feel able to drive home?" "Yes," said Miss Laura. "Sure?" and he eyed her anxiously. "Yes, yes," she returned; "what shall I get?" "Just tell father that Barron has run away and left a starving pig, cow, and horse. There's not a thing to eat here. He'll know what to do. I'll drive you to the road." Miss Laura got into the buggy and Mr. Harry jumped in after her. He drove her to the road and put down the bars; then he said: "Go straight on. You'll soon be on the open road, and there's nothing to harm you. Joe will look after you. Meanwhile I'll go back to the house and heat some water." Miss Laura let Fleetfoot go as fast as he liked on the way home, and it only seemed a few minutes before we drove into the yard. Adele came out to meet us. "Where's uncle?" asked Miss Laura. "Gone to de big meadow," said Adele. "And auntie?" "She had de colds and chills, and entered into de bed to keep warm. She lose herself in sleep now. You not go near her." "Are there none of the men about?" asked Miss Laura. "No, mademoiselle. Dey all occupied way off." "Then you help me, Adele, like a good girl," said Miss Laura, hurrying into the house. "We've found a sick horse and cow. What shall I take them?" "Nearly all animals like de bran mash," said Adele. "Good!" cried Miss Laura. "That is the very thing. Put in the things to make it, will you please, and I would like some vegetables for the cow. Carrots, turnips, anything you have; take some of those you have prepared for dinner tomorrow, and please run up to the barn, Adele, and get some hay, and corn, and oats, not much, for we'll be going back again; but hurry, for the poor things are starving, and have you any milk for the pig? Put it in one of those tin kettles with covers." For a few minutes, Miss Laura and Adele flew about the kitchen, then we set off again. Miss Laura took me in the buggy, for I was out of breath and wheezing greatly. I had to sit on the seat beside her, for the bottom of the buggy and the back were full of eatables for the poor sick animals. Just as we drove into the road, we met Mr. Wood. "Are you running away with the farm?" he said with a laugh, pointing to the carrot tops that were gaily waving over the dashboard. Miss Laura said a few words to him, and with a very grave face he got in beside her. In a short time, we were back on the lonely road. Mr. Harry was waiting at the gate for us, and when he saw Miss Laura, he said, "Why did you come jack again? You'll be tired out. This isn't a place for a sensitive girl like you." "I thought I might be of some use," said she, gently. "So you can," said Mr. Wood. "You go into the house and sit down, and Harry and I will come to you when we want cheering up. What have you been doing, Harry?" "I've watered them a little, and got a good fire going. I scarcely think the cow will pull through. I think we'll save the horse. I tried to get the cow out-doors, but she can't move." "Let her alone," said Mr. Wood. "Give her some food and her strength will come to her. What have you got here?" and he began to take the things out of the buggy. "Bless the child, she's thought of everything, even the salt. Bring those things into the house, Harry, and we'll make a bran mash." For more than an hour they were fussing over the animals. Then they came in and sat down. The inside of the Englishman's house was as untidy as the outside. There was no upstairs to it--only one large room with a dirty curtain stretched across it. On one side was a low bed with a heap of clothes on it, a chair and a wash-stand. On the other was a stove, a table, a shaky rocking-chair that Miss Laura was sitting in, a few hanging shelves with some dishes and books on them, and two or three small boxes that had evidently been used for seats. On the walls were tacked some pictures of grand houses and ladies and gentlemen in fine clothes, and Miss Laura said that some of them were noble people. "Well, I'm glad this particular nobleman has left us," said Mr. Wood, seating himself on one of the boxes, "if nobleman he is. I should call him in plain English, a scoundrel. Did Harry show you his note?" "No, uncle," said Miss Laura. "Read it aloud," said Mr. Wood. "I'd like to hear it again." Miss Laura read: J. WOOD, Esq. Dear Sir:--It is a matter of great regret to me that I am suddenly called away from my place at Penhollow, and will, therefore, not be able to do myself the pleasure of calling on you and settling my little account. I sincerely hope that the possession of my live stock which I make entirely over to you, will more than reimburse you for any trifling expense which you may have incurred on my account. If it is any gratification to you to know that you have rendered a slight assistance to the son of one of England's noblest noblemen, you have it. With expressions of the deepest respect, and hoping that my stock may be in good condition when you take possession, I am, dear sir, ever devotedly yours, HOWARD ALGERNON LEDUC BARRON. Miss Laura dropped the paper. "Uncle, did he leave those animals to starve?" "Didn't you notice," said Mr. Wood, grimly, "that there wasn't a wisp of hay inside that shanty, and that where the poor beasts were tied up the wood was knawed and bitten by them in their torture for food? Wouldn't he have sent me that note, instead of leaving it here on the table, if he'd wanted me to know? The note isn't dated, but I judge he's been gone five or six days. He has had a spite against me ever since I lent him that hundred dollars. I don't know why, for I've stood up for him when others would have run him out of the place. He intended me to come here and find every animal lying dead. "He even had a rope around the pig's neck. Harry, my boy, let us go and look after them again. I love a dumb brute too well to let it suffer, but in this case I'd give two hundred dollars more if I could make them live and have Barron know it." They left the room, and Miss Laura sat turning the sheet of paper over and over, with a kind of horror in her face. It was a very dirty piece of paper, but by-and-by she made a discovery. She took it in her hand and went out-doors. I am sure that the poor horse lying on the grass knew her. He lifted his head, and what a different expression he had now that his hunger had been partly satisfied. Miss Laura stroked and patted him, then she called to her cousin, "Harry, will you look at this?" He took the paper from her, and said: "That is a crest shining through the different strata of dust and grime, probably that of his own family We'll have it cleaned, and it will enable us to track the villain. You want him punished, don't you?" he said, with a little, sly laugh at Miss Laura. She made a gesture in the direction of the suffering horse, and said, frankly, "Yes, I do." "Well, my dear girl," he said, "father and I are with you. If we can hunt Barron down, we'll do it." Then he muttered to himself as she turned away, "She is a real Puritan, gentle, and sweet, and good, and yet severe. Rewards for the virtuous, punishments for the vicious," and he repeated some poetry: "She was so charitable and so piteous, She would weep if that she saw a mouse Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled." Miss Laura saw that Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were doing all that could be done for the cow and horse, so she wandered down to a hollow at the back of the house, where the Englishman had kept his pig. Just now, he looked more like a greyhound than a pig. His legs were so long, his nose so sharp, and hunger, instead of making him stupid like the horse and cow, had made him more lively. I think he had probably not suffered so much as they had, or perhaps he had had a greater store of fat to nourish him. Mr. Harry said that if he had been a girl, he would have laughed and cried at the same time when he discovered that pig. He must have been asleep or exhausted when we arrived, for there was not a sound out of him, but shortly afterward he had set up a yelling that attracted Mr. Harry's attention, and made him run down to him. Mr. Harry said he was raging around his pen, digging the ground with his snout, falling down and getting up again, and by a miracle, escaping death by choking from the rope that was tied around his neck. Now that his hunger had been satisfied, he was gazing contentedly at his little trough that was half full of good, sweet milk. Mr. Harry said that a starving animal, like a starving person, should only be fed a little at a time; but the Englishman's animals had always been fed poorly, and their stomachs had contracted so that they could not eat much at one time. Miss Laura got a stick and scratched poor piggy's back a little, and then she went back to the house. In a short time we went home with Mr. Wood. Mr. Harry was going to stay all night with the sick animals, and his mother would send him things to make him comfortable. She was better by the time we got home, and was horrified to hear the tale of Mr. Barron's neglect. Later in the evening, she sent one of the men over with a whole box full of things for her darling boy, and a nice, hot tea, done up for him in a covered dish. When the man came home, he said that Mr. Harry would not sleep in the Englishman's dirty house, but had slung a hammock out under the trees. However, he would not be able to sleep much, for he had his lantern by his side, all ready to jump up and attend to the horse and cow. It was a very lonely place for him out there in the woods, and his mother said that she would be glad when the sick animals could be driven to their own farm. * * * * * CHAPTER XXVIII THE END OF THE ENGLISHMAN In a few days, thanks to Mr. Harry's constant care, the horse and cow were able to walk. It was a mournful procession that came into the yard at Dingley Farm. The hollow-eyed horse, and lean cow, and funny, little thin pig, staggering along in such a shaky fashion. Their hoofs were diseased, and had partly rotted away, so that they could not walk straight. Though it was only a mile or two from Penhollow to Dingley Farm, they were tired out, and dropped down exhausted on their comfortable beds. Miss Laura was so delighted to think that they had all lived, that she did not know what to do. Her eyes were bright and shining, and she went from one to another with such a happy face. The queer little pig that Mr. Harry had christened "Daddy Longlegs," had been washed, and he lay on his heap of straw in the corner of his neat little pen, and surveyed his clean trough and abundance of food with the air of a prince. Why, he would be clean and dry here, and all his life he had been used to dirty, damp Penhollow, with the trees hanging over him, and his little feet in a mass of filth and dead leaves. Happy little pig! His ugly eyes seemed to blink and gleam with gratitude, and he knew Miss Laura and Mr. Harry as well as I did. His tiny tail was curled so tight that it was almost in a knot. Mr. Wood said that was a sign that he was healthy and happy, and that when poor Daddy was at Penhollow he had noticed that his tail hung as limp and as loose as the tail of a rat. He came and leaned over the pen with Miss Laura, and had a little talk with her about pigs. He said they were by no means the stupid animals that some people considered them. He had had pigs that were as clever as dogs. One little black pig that he had once sold to a man away back in the country had found his way home, through the woods, across the river, up hill and down dale, and he'd been taken to the place with a bag over his head. Mr. Wood said that he kept that pig because he knew so much. He said the most knowing pigs he ever saw were Canadian pigs. One time he was having a trip on a sailing vessel, and it anchored in a long, narrow harbor in Canada, where the tide came in with a front four or five feet high called the "bore." There was a village opposite the place where the ship was anchored, and every day at low tide, a number of pigs came down to look for shell-fish. Sometimes they went out for half a mile over the mud flats, but always a few minutes before the tide came rushing in they turned and hurried to the shore. Their instincts warned them that if they stayed any longer they would be drowned. Mr. Wood had a number of pigs, and after a while Daddy was put in with them, and a fine time he had of it making friends with the other little grunters. They were often let out in the pasture or orchard, and when they were there, I could always single out Daddy from among them, because he was the smartest. Though he had been brought up in such a miserable way, he soon learned to take very good care of himself at Dingley Farm, and it was amusing to see him when a storm was coming on, running about in a state of great excitement carrying little bundles of straw in his mouth to make himself a bed. He was a white pig, and was always kept very clean. Mr. Wood said that it is wrong to keep pigs dirty. They like to be clean as well as other animals, and if they were kept so, human beings would not get so many diseases from eating their flesh. The cow, poor unhappy creature, never, as long as she lived on Dingley Farm, lost a strange, melancholy look from her eyes. I have heard it said that animals forget past unhappiness, and perhaps some of them do. I know that I have never forgotten my one miserable year with Jenkins, and I have been a sober, thoughtful dog in consequence of it, and not playful like some dogs who have never known what it is to be really unhappy. It always seemed to me that the Englishman's cow was thinking of her poor dead calf, starved to death by her cruel master. She got well herself, and came and went with the other cows, seemingly as happy as they, but often when I watched her standing chewing her cud, and looking away in the distance, I could see a difference between her face and the faces of the cows that had always been happy on Dingley Farm. Even the farm hands called her "Old Melancholy," and soon she got to be known by that name, or Mel, for short. Until she got well, she was put into the cow stable, where Mr. Wood's cows all stood at night upon raised platforms of earth covered over with straw litter, and she was tied with a Dutch halter, so that she could lie down and go to sleep when she wanted to. When she got well, she was put out to pasture with the other cows. The horse they named "Scrub," because he could never be, under any circumstance, anything but a broken-down, plain-looking animal. He was put into the horse stable in a stall next Fleetfoot, and as the partition was low, they could look over at each other. In time, by dint of much doctoring, Scrub's hoofs became clean and sound, and he was able to do some work. Miss Laura petted him a great deal. She often took out apples to the stable, and Fleetfoot would throw up his beautiful head and look reproachfully over the partition at her, for she always stayed longer with Scrub than with him, and Scrub always got the larger share of whatever good thing was going. Poor old Scrub! I think he loved Miss Laura. He was a stupid sort of a horse, and always acted as if he was blind. He would run his nose up and down the front of her dress, nip at the buttons, and be very happy if he could get a bit of her watch-chain between his strong teeth. If he was in the field he never seemed to know her till she was right under his pale-colored eyes. Then he would be delighted to see her. He was not blind though, for Mr. Wood said he was not. He said he had probably not been an over-bright horse to start with, and had been made more dull by cruel usage. As for the Englishman, the master of these animals, a very strange thing happened to him. He came to a terrible end, but for a long time no one knew anything about it. Mr. Wood and Mr. Harry were so very angry with him that they said they would leave no stone unturned to have him punished, or at least to have it known what a villain he was. They sent the paper with the crest on it to Boston. Some people there wrote to England, and found out that it was the crest of a noble and highly esteemed family, and some earl was at the head of it. They were all honorable people in this family except one man, a nephew, not a son, of the late earl. He was the black sheep of them all. As a young man, he had led a wild and wicked life, and had ended by forging the name of one of his friends, so that he was obliged to leave England and take refuge in America. By the description of this man, Mr. Wood knew that he must be Mr. Barron, so he wrote to these English people, and told them what a wicked thing their relative had done in leaving his animals to starve. In a short time, he got an answer from them, which was, at the same time, very proud and very touching. It came from Mr. Barron's cousin, and he said quite frankly that he knew his relative was a man of evil habits, but it seemed as if nothing could be done to reform him. His family was accustomed to send a quarterly allowance to him, on condition that he led a quiet life in some retired place, but their last remittance to him was lying unclaimed in Boston, and they thought he must be dead. Could Mr. Wood tell them anything about him? Mr. Wood looked very thoughtful when he got this letter, then he said, "Harry, how long is it since Barron ran away?" "About eight weeks," said Mr. Harry. "That's strange," said Mr. Wood. "The money these English people sent him would get to Boston just a few days after he left here. He is not the man to leave it long unclaimed. Something must have happened to him. Where do you suppose he would go from Penhollow?" "I have no idea, sir," said Mr. Harry. "And how would he go?" said Mr. Wood. "He did not leave Riverdale Station, because he would have been spotted by some of his creditors." "Perhaps he would cut through the woods to the Junction," said Mr. Harry. "Just what he would do," said Mr. Wood, slapping his knee. "I'll be driving over there to-morrow to see Thompson, and I'll make inquiries." Mr. Harry spoke to his father the next night when he came home, and asked him if he had found out anything. "Only this," said Mr. Wood. "There's no one answering to Barron's description who has left Riverdale Junction within a twelvemonth. He must have struck some other station. We'll let him go. The Lord looks out for fellows like that." "We will look out for him if he ever comes back to Riverdale," said Mr. Harry, quietly. All through the village, and in the country it was known what a dastardly trick the Englishman had played, and he would have been roughly handled if he had dared return. Months passed away, and nothing was heard of him. Late in the autumn, after Miss Laura and I had gone back to Fairport, Mrs. Wood wrote her about the end of the Englishman. Some Riverdale lads were beating about the woods, looking for lost cattle, and in their wanderings came to an old stone quarry that had been disused for years. On one side there was a smooth wall of rock, many feet deep. On the other the ground and rock were broken away, and it was quite easy to get into it. They found that by some means or other, one of their cows had fallen into this deep pit, over the steep side of the quarry. Of course, the poor creature was dead, but the boys, out of curiosity, resolved to go down and look at her. They clambered down, found the cow, and, to their horror and amazement, discovered near-by the skeleton of a man. There was a heavy walking-stick by his side, which they recognized as one that the Englishman had carried. He was a drinking man, and perhaps he had taken something that he thought would strengthen him for his morning's walk, but which had, on the contrary, bewildered him, and made him lose his way and fall into the quarry. Or he might have started before daybreak, and in the darkness have slipped and fallen down this steep wall of rock. One leg was doubled under him, and if he had not been instantly killed by the fall, he must have been so disabled that he could not move. In that lonely place, he would call for help in vain, so he may have perished by the terrible death of starvation--the death he had thought to mete out to his suffering animals. Mrs. Wood said that there was never a sermon preached in Riverdale that had the effect that the death of this wicked man had, and it reminded her of a verse in the Bible: "He made a pit and he digged it, and is fallen into the ditch which he made." Mrs. Wood said that her husband had written about the finding of Mr. Barron's body to his English relatives, and had received a letter from them in which they seemed relieved to hear that he was dead. They thanked Mr. Wood for his plain speaking in telling them of their relative's misdeeds, and said that from all they knew of Mr. Barron's past conduct, his influence would be for evil and not for good, in any place that he choose to live in. They were having their money sent from Boston to Mr. Wood, and they wished him to expend it in the way he thought best fitted to counteract the evil effects of their namesake's doings in Riverdale. When this money came, it amounted to some hundreds of dollars. Mr. Wood would have nothing to do with it. He handed it over to the Band of Mercy, and they formed what they called the "Barron Fund," which they drew upon when they wanted money for buying and circulating humane literature. Mrs. Wood said that the fund was being added to, and the children were sending all over the State leaflets and little books which preached the gospel of kindness to God's lower creation. A stranger picking one of them up, and seeing the name of the wicked Englishman printed on the title-page, would think that he was a friend and benefactor to the Riverdale people--the very opposite of what he gloried in being. * * * * * CHAPTER XXIX A TALK ABOUT SHEEP Miss Laura was very much interested in the sheep on Dingley Farm. There was a flock in the orchard near the house that she often went to see. She always carried roots and vegetables to them, turnips particularly, for they were very fond of them; but they would not come to her to get them, for they did not know her voice. They only lifted their heads and stared at her when she called them. But when they heard Mr. Wood's voice, they ran to the fence, bleating with pleasure, and trying to push their noses through to get the carrot or turnip, or whatever he was handing to them. He called them his little Southdowns, and he said he loved his sheep, for they were the most gentle and inoffensive creatures that he had on his farm. One day when he came into the kitchen inquiring for salt, Miss Laura said: "Is it for the sheep?" "Yes," he replied; "I am going up to the woods pasture to examine my Shropshires." "You would like to go too, Laura," said Mrs. Wood. "Take your hands right away from that cake. I'll finish frosting it for you. Run along and get your broad-brimmed hat. It's very hot." Miss Laura danced out into the hall and back again, and soon we were walking up, back of the house, along a path that led us through the fields to the pasture. "What are you going to do, uncle?" she said; "and what are those funny things in your hands?" "Toe-clippers," he replied, "and I am going to examine the sheeps' hoofs. You know we've had warm, moist weather all through July, and I'm afraid of foot-rot. Then they're sometimes troubled with overgrown hoofs." "What do you do if they get foot-rot?" asked Miss Laura. "I've various cures," he said. "Paring and clipping, and dipping the hoof in blue vitriol and vinegar, or rubbing it on, as the English shepherds do. It destroys the diseased part, but doesn't affect the sound." "Do sheep have many diseases?" asked Miss Laura. "I know one of them myself--that is the scab." "A nasty thing that," said Mr. Wood, vigorously; "and a man that builds up a flock from a stockyard often finds it out to his cost." "What is it like?" asked Miss Laura. "The sheep get scabby from a microbe under the skin, which causes them to itch fearfully, and they lose their wool." "And can't it be cured?" "Oh, yes! with time and attention. There are different remedies. I believe petroleum is the best." By this time we had got to a wide gate that opened into the pasture. As Mr. Wood let Miss Laura go through and then closed it behind her, he said, "You are looking at that gate. You want to know why it is so long, don't you?" "Yes, uncle," she said; "but I can't bear to ask so many questions." "Ask as many as you like," he said, good-naturedly. "I don't mind answering them. Have you ever seen sheep pass through a gate or door?" "Oh, yes, often." "And how do they act?" "Oh, so silly, uncle. They hang back, and one waits for another; and, finally, they all try to go at once." "Precisely; when one goes they all want to go, if it was to jump into a bottomless pit. Many sheep are injured by overcrowding, so I have my gates and doors very wide. Now, let us call them up." There wasn't one in sight, but when Mr. Wood lifted up his voice and cried: "Ca nan, nan, nan!" black faces began to peer out from among the bushes; and little black legs, carrying white bodies, came hurrying up the stony paths from the cooler parts of the pasture. Oh, how glad they were to get the salt! Mr. Wood let Miss Laura spread it on some flat rocks, then they sat down on a log under a tree and watched them eating it and licking the rocks when it was all gone. Miss Laura sat fanning herself with her hat and smiling at them. "You funny, woolly things," she said; "You're not so stupid as some people think you are. Lie still, Joe. If you show yourself, they may run away." I crouched behind the log, and only lifted my head occasionally to see what the sheep were doing. Some of them went back into the woods, for it was very hot in this bare part of the pasture, but the most of them would not leave Mr. Wood, and stood staring at him. "That's a fine sheep, isn't it?" said Miss Laura, pointing to one with the blackest face, and the blackest legs, and largest body of those near us. "Yes; that's old Jessica. Do you notice how she's holding her head close to the ground?" "Yes; is there any reason for it?" "There is. She's afraid of the grub fly. You often see sheep holding their noses in that way in the summer time. It is to prevent the fly from going into their nostrils, and depositing an egg, which will turn into a grub and annoy and worry them. When the fly comes near, they give a sniff and run as if they were crazy, still holding their noses close to the ground. When I was a boy, and the sheep did that, we thought that they had colds in their heads, and used to rub tar on their noses. We knew nothing about the fly then, but the tar cured them, and is just what I use now. Two or three times a month during hot weather, we put a few drops of it on the nose of every sheep in the flock." "I suppose farmers are like other people, and are always finding out better ways of doing their work, aren't they, uncle?" said Miss Laura. "Yes, my child. The older I grow, the more I find out, and the better care I take of my stock. My grandfather would open his eyes in amazement; and ask me if I was an old women petting her cats, if he were alive, and could know the care I give my sheep. He used to let his flock run till the fields were covered with snow, and bite as close as they liked, till there wasn't a scrap of feed left. Then he would give them an open shed to run under, and throw down their hay outside. Grain they scarcely knew the taste of. That they would fall off in flesh, and half of them lose their lambs in the spring, was an expected thing. He would say I had them kennelled, if he could see my big, closed sheds, with the sunny windows that my flock spend the winter in. I even house them during the bad fall storms. They can run out again. Indeed, I like to get them in, and have a snack of dry food, to break them in to it. They are in and out of those sheds all winter. You must go in, Laura, and see the self-feeding racks. On bright, winter days they get a run in the cornfields. Cold doesn't hurt sheep. It's the heavy rain that soaks their fleeces. "With my way I seldom lose a sheep, and they're the most profitable stock I have. If I could not keep them, I think I'd give up farming. Last year my lambs netted me eight dollars each. The fleeces of the ewes average eight pounds, and sell for two dollars each. That's something to brag of in these days, when so many are giving up the sheep industry." "How many sheep have you, uncle?" asked Miss Laura. "Only fifty, now. Twenty-five here and twenty-five down below in the orchard. I've been selling a good many this spring." "These sheep are larger than those in the orchard, aren't they?" said Miss Laura. "Yes; I keep those few Southdowns for their fine quality. I don't make as much on them as I do on these Shropshires. For an all-around sheep I like the Shropshire. It's good for mutton, for wool, and for rearing lambs. There's a great demand for mutton nowadays, all through our eastern cities. People want more and more of it. And it has to be tender, and juicy, and finely flavored, so a person has to be particular about the feed the sheep get." "Don't you hate to have these creatures killed, that you have raised and tended so carefully?" said Miss Laura with a little shudder. "I do," said her uncle; "but never an animal goes off my place that I don't know just how it's going to be put to death. None of your sending sheep to market with their legs tied together, and jammed in a cart, and sweating and suffering for me. They've got to go standing comfortably on their legs, or go not at all. And I'm going to know the butcher that kills my animals, that have been petted like children. I said to Davidson, over there in Hoytville, 'If I thought you would herd my sheep and lambs and calves together, and take them one by one in sight of the rest, and stick your knife into them, or stun them, and have the others lowing, and bleating, and crying in their misery, this is the last consignment you would ever get from me.' "He said, 'Wood, I don't like my business, but on the word of an honest man, my butchering is done as well as it can be. Come and see for yourself.' "He took me to his slaughter-house, and though I didn't stay long, I saw enough to convince me that he spoke the truth. He has different pens and sheds, and the killing is done as quietly as possible; the animals are taken in one by one, and though the others suspect what is going on, they can't see it." "These sheep are a long way from the house," said Miss Laura; "don't the dogs that you were telling me about attack them?" "No; for since I had that brush with Windham's dog, I've trained them to go and come with the cows. It's a queer thing, but cows that will run from a dog when they are alone will fight him if he meddles with their calves or the sheep. There's not a dog around that would dare to come into this pasture, for he knows the cows would be after him with lowered horns, and a business look in their eyes. The sheep in the orchard are safe enough, for they're near the house, and if a strange dog came around, Joe would settle him, wouldn't you, Joe?" and Mr. Wood looked behind the log at me. I got up and put my head on his arm, and he went on: "By and by, the Southdowns will be changed up here, and the Shropshires will go down to the orchard. I like to keep one flock under my fruit trees. You know there is an old proverb, 'The sheep has a golden hoof.' They save me the trouble of ploughing. I haven't ploughed my orchard for ten years, and don't expect to plough it for ten years more. Then your Aunt Hattie's hens are so obliging that they keep me from the worry of finding ticks at shearing time. All the year round, I let them run among the sheep, and they nab every tick they see." "How closely sheep bite," exclaimed Miss Laura, pointing to one that was nibbling almost at his master's feet. "Very close, and they eat a good many things that cows don't relish--bitter weeds, and briars, and shrubs, and the young ferns that come up in the spring." "I wish I could get hold of one of those dear little lambs," said Miss Laura. "See that sweet little blackie back in the alders. Could you not coax him up?" "He wouldn't come here," said her uncle, kindly; "but I'll try and get him for you." He rose, and after several efforts succeeded in capturing the black-faced creature, and bringing him up to the log. He was very shy of Miss Laura, but Mr. Wood held him firmly, and let her stroke his head as much as she liked. "You call him little," said Mr. Wood; "if you put your arm around him, you'll find he's a pretty substantial lamb. He was born in March. This is the last of July; he'll be shorn the middle of next month, and think he's quite grown up. Poor little animal! he had quite a struggle for life. The sheep were turned out to pasture in April. They can't bear confinement as well as the cows, and as they bite closer they can be turned out earlier, and get on well by having good rations of corn in addition to the grass, which is thin and poor so early in the spring. This young creature was running by his mother's side, rather a weak-legged, poor specimen of a lamb. Every night the flock was put under shelter, for the ground was cold, and though the sheep might not suffer from lying out-doors, the lambs would get chilled. One night this fellow's mother got astray, and as Ben neglected to make the count, she wasn't missed. I'm always anxious about my lambs in the spring, and often get up in the night to look after them. That night I went out about two o'clock. I took it into my head, for some reason or other, to count them. I found a sheep and lamb missing, took my lantern and Bruno, who was some good at tracking sheep, and started out. Bruno barked and I called, and the foolish creature came to me, the little lamb staggering after her. I wrapped the lamb in my coat, took it to the house, made a fire, and heated some milk. Your Aunt Hattie heard me and got up. She won't let me give brandy even to a dumb beast, so I put some ground ginger, which is just as good, in the milk, and forced it down the lamb's throat. Then we wrapped an old blanket round him, and put him near the stove, and the next evening he was ready to go back to his mother. I petted him all through April, and gave him extras--different kinds of meal, till I found what suited him best; now he does me credit." "Dear little lamb," said Miss Laura, patting him. "How can you tell him from the others, uncle?" "I know all their faces, Laura. A flock of sheep is just like a crowd of people. They all have different expressions, and have different dispositions." "They all look alike to me," said Miss Laura. "I dare say. You are not accustomed to them. Do you know how to tell a sheep's age?" "No, uncle." "Here, open your mouth, Cosset," he said to the lamb that he still held. "At one year they have two teeth in the centre of the jaw. They get two teeth more every year up to five years. Then we say they have 'a full mouth.' After that you can't tell their age exactly by the teeth. Now, run back to your mother," and he let the lamb go. "Do they always know their own mothers?" asked Miss Laura. "Usually. Sometimes a ewe will not own her lamb. In that case we tie them up in a separate stall till she recognizes it. Do you see that sheep over there by the blueberry bushes--the one with the very pointed ears?" "Yes, uncle," said Miss Laura. "That lamb by her side is not her own. Hers died and we took its fleece and wrapped it around a twin lamb that we took from another ewe, and gave to her. She soon adopted it. Now, come this way, and I'll show you our movable feeding troughs." He got up from the log, and Miss Laura followed him to the fence. "These big troughs are for the sheep," sad Mr. Wood; "and those shallow ones in the enclosure are for the lambs. See, there is just room enough for them to get under the fence. You should see the small creatures rush to them whenever we appear with their oats, and wheat, or bran, or whatever we are going to give them. If they are going to the butcher, they get corn meal and oil meal. Whatever it is, they eat it up clean. I don't believe in cramming animals. I feed them as much as is good for them, and not any more. Now, you go sit down over there behind those bushes with Joe, and I'll attend to business." Miss Laura found a shady place, and I curled myself up beside her. We sat there a long time, but we did not get tired, for it was amusing to watch the sheep and lambs. After a while, Mr. Wood came and sat down beside us. He talked some more about sheep-raising; then he said, "You may stay here longer if you like, but I must get down to the house. The work must be done, if the weather is hot." "What are you going to do now?" asked Miss Laura, jumping up. "Oh! more sheep business. I've set out some young trees in the orchard, and unless I get chicken wire around them, my sheep will be barking them for me." "I've seen them," said Miss Laura, "standing up on their hind legs and nibbling at the trees, taking off every shoot they can reach." "They don't hurt the old trees," said Mr. Wood; "but the young ones have to be protected. It pays me to take care of my fruit trees, for I get a splendid crop from them, thanks to the sheep." "Good-bye, little lambs and dear old sheep," said Miss Laura, as her uncle opened the gate for her to leave the pasture. "I'll come and see you again some time. Now, you had better go down to the brook in the dingle and have a drink. You look hot in your warm coats." "You've mastered one detail of sheep-keeping," said Mr. Wood, as he slowly walked along beside his niece. "To raise healthy sheep one must have pure water where they can get to it whenever they like. Give them good water, good food, and a variety of it, good quarters--cool in summer, comfortable in winter, and keep them quiet, and you'll make them happy and make money on them." "I think I'd like sheep-raising," said Miss Laura; "won't you have me for your flock mistress, uncle?" He laughed, and said he thought not, for she would cry every time any of her charge were sent to the butcher. After this Miss Laura and I often went up to the pasture to see the sheep and the lambs. We used to get into a shady place where they could not see us, and watch them. One day I got a great surprise about the sheep. I had heard so much about their meekness that I never dreamed that they would fight; but it turned out that they did, and they went about it in such a business-like way, that I could not help smiling at them. I suppose that like most other animals they had a spice of wickedness in them. On this day a quarrel arose between two sheep; but instead of running at each other like two dogs they went a long distance apart, and then came rushing at each other with lowered heads. Their object seemed to be to break each other's skull; but Miss Laura soon stopped them by calling out and frightening them apart. I thought that the lambs were more interesting than the sheep. Sometimes they fed quietly by their mothers' sides, and at other times they all huddled together on the top of some flat rock or in a bare place, and seemed to be talking to each other with their heads close together. Suddenly one would jump down, and start for the bushes or the other side of the pasture. They would all follow pell-mell; then in a few minutes they would come rushing back again. It was pretty to see them playing together and having a good time before the sorrowful day of their death came. * * * * * CHAPTER XXX A JEALOUS OX Mr. Wood had a dozen calves that he was raising, and Miss Laura sometimes went up to the stable to see them. Each calf was in a crib, and it was fed with milk. They had gentle, patient faces, and beautiful eyes, and looked very meek, as they stood quietly gazing about them, or sucking away at their milk. They reminded me of big, gentle dogs. I never got a very good look at them in their cribs, but one day when they were old enough to be let out, I went up with Miss Laura to the yard where they were kept. Such queer, ungainly, large-boned creatures they were, and such a good time they were having, running and jumping and throwing up their heels. Mrs. Wood was with us, and she said that it was not good for calves to be closely penned after they got to be a few weeks old. They were better for getting out and having a frolic. She stood beside Miss Laura for a long time, watching the calves, and laughing a great deal at their awkward gambols. They wanted to play, but they did not seem to know how to use their limbs. They were lean calves, and Miss Laura asked her aunt why all the nice milk they had taken had not made them fat. "The fat will come all in good time," said Mrs. Wood. "A fat calf makes a poor cow, and a fat, small calf isn't profitable to fit for sending to the butcher. It's better to have a bony one and fatten it. If you come here next summer, you'll see a fine show of young cattle, with fat sides, and big, open horns, and a good coat of hair. Can you imagine," she went on, indignantly, "that any one could be cruel enough to torture such a harmless creature as a calf?" "No, indeed," replied Miss Laura. "Who has been doing it?" "Who has been doing it?" repeated Mrs. Wood, bitterly; "they are doing it all the time. Do you know what makes the nice, white veal one gets in big cities? The calves are bled to death. They linger for hours, and moan their lives away. The first time I heard it, I was so angry that I cried for a day, and made John promise that he'd never send another animal of his to a big city to be killed. That's why all of our stock goes to Hoytville, and small country places. Oh, those big cities are awful places, Laura. It seems to me that it makes people wicked to huddle them together. I'd rather live in a desert than a city. There's Ch--o. Every night since I've been there I pray to the Lord either to change the hearts of some of the wicked people in it, or to destroy them off the face of the earth. You know three years ago I got run down, and your uncle said I'd got to have a change, so he sent me off to my brother's in Ch--o. I stayed and enjoyed myself pretty well, for it is a wonderful city, till one day some Western men came in, who had been visiting the slaughter houses outside the city. I sat and listened to their talk, and it seemed to me that I was hearing the description of a great battle. These men were cattle dealers, and had been sending stock to Ch--o, and they were furious that men, in their rage for wealth, would so utterly ignore and trample on all decent and humane feelings as to torture animals as the Ch--o men were doing. "It is too dreadful to repeat the sights they saw. I listened till they were describing Texan steers kicking in agony under the torture that was practised, and then I gave a loud scream, and fainted dead away. They had to send for your uncle, and he brought me home, and for days and days I heard nothing but shouting and swearing, and saw animals dripping with blood, and crying and moaning in their anguish, and now, Laura, if you'd lay down a bit of Ch------o meat, and cover it with gold, I'd spurn it from me. But what am I saying? you're as white as a sheet. Come and see the cow stable. John's just had it whitewashed." Miss Laura took her aunt's arm, and I walked slowly behind them. The cow stable was a long building, well-built, and with no chinks in the walls, as Jenkins's stable had. There were large windows where the afternoon sun came streaming in, and a number of ventilators, and a great many stalls. A pipe of water ran through the stalls from one end of the stable to the other. The floor was covered with sawdust and leaves, and the ceiling and tops of the walls were whitewashed. Mrs. Wood said that her husband would not have the walls a glare of white right down to the floor, because he thought it injured the animals' eyes. So the lower parts of the walls were stained a dark, brown color. There were doors at each end of the stable, and just now they stood open, and a gentle breeze was blowing through, but Mrs. Wood said that when the cattle stood in the stalls, both doors were never allowed to be open at the same time. Mr. Wood was most particular to have no drafts blowing upon his cattle. He would not have them chilled, and he would not have them overheated. One thing was as bad as the other. And during the winter they were never allowed to drink icy water. He took the chill off the water for his cows, just as Mrs. Wood did for her hens. "You know, Laura," Mrs. Wood went on, "that when cows are kept dry and warm, they eat less than when they are cold and wet. They are so warm-blooded that if they are cold, they have to eat a great deal to keep up the heat of their bodies, so it pays better to house and feed them well. They like quiet, too. I never knew that till I married your uncle. On our farm, the boys always shouted and screamed at the cows when they were driving them, and sometimes they made them run. They're never allowed to do that here." "I have noticed how quiet this farm seems," said Miss Laura. "You have so many men about, and yet there is so little noise." "Your uncle whistles a great deal," said Mrs. Wood. "Have you noticed that? He whistles when he's about his work, and then he has a calling whistle that nearly all of the animals know, and the men run when they hear it. You'd see every cow in this stable turn its head, if he whistled in a certain way outside. He says that he got into the way of doing it when he was a boy and went for his father's cows. He trained them so that he'd just stand in the pasture and whistle, and they'd come to him. I believe the first thing that inclined me to him was his clear, happy whistle. I'd hear him from our house away down on the road, jogging along with his cart, or driving in his buggy. He says there is no need of screaming at any animal. It only frightens and angers them. They will mind much better if you speak clearly and distinctly. He says there is only one thing an animal hates more than to be shouted at, and that's to be crept on--to have a person sneak up to it and startle it. John says many a man is kicked, because he comes up to his horse like a thief. A startled animal's first instinct is to defend itself. A dog will spring at you, and a horse will let his heels fly. John always speaks or whistles to let the stock know when he's approaching." "Where is uncle this afternoon?" asked Miss Laura. "Oh, up to his eyes in hay. He's even got one of the oxen harnessed to a hay cart." "I wonder whether it's Duke?" said Miss Laura. "Yes, it is. I saw the star on his forehead," replied Mrs. Wood. "I don't know when I have laughed at anything as much as I did at him the other day," said Miss Laura. "Uncle asked me if I had ever heard of such a thing as a jealous ox, and I said no. He said, 'Come to the barnyard, and I'll show you one.' The oxen were both there, Duke with his broad face, and Bright so much sharper and more intelligent looking. Duke was drinking at the trough there, and uncle said: 'Just look at him. Isn't he a great, fat, self-satisfied creature, and doesn't he look as if he thought the world owed him a living, and he ought to get it?' Then he got the card and went up to Bright, and began scratching him. Duke lifted his head from the trough, and stared at uncle, who paid no attention to him but went on carding Bright, and stroking and petting him. Duke looked so angry. He left the trough, and with the water dripping from his lips, went up to uncle, and gave him a push with his horns. Still uncle took no notice, and Duke almost pushed him over. Then uncle left off petting Bright, and turned to him. He said Duke would have treated him roughly, if he hadn't. I never saw a creature look as satisfied as Duke did, when uncle began to card him. Bright didn't seem to care, and only gazed calmly at them." "I've seen Duke do that again and again," said Mrs. Wood. "He's the most jealous animal that we have, and it makes him perfectly miserable to have your uncle pay attention to any animal but him. What queer creatures these dumb brutes are. They're pretty much like us in most ways. They're jealous and resentful, and they can love or hate equally well--and forgive, too, for that matter; and suffer--how they can suffer, and so patiently, too. Where is the human being that would put up with the tortures that animals endure and yet come out so patient?" "Nowhere," said Miss Laura, in a low voice; "we couldn't do it." "And there doesn't seem to be an animal," Mrs. Wood went on, "no matter how ugly and repulsive it is, but what has some lovable qualities. I have just been reading about some sewer rats, Louise Michel's rats----" "Who is she?" asked Miss Laura. "A celebrated Frenchwoman, my dear child, 'the priestess of pity and vengeance,' Mr. Stead calls her. You are too young to know about her, but I remember reading of her in 1872, during the Commune troubles in France. She is an anarchist, and she used to wear a uniform, and shoulder a rifle, and help to build barricades. She was arrested and sent as a convict to one of the French penal colonies. She has a most wonderful love for animals in her heart, and when she went home she took four cats with her. She was put into prison again in France and took the cats with her. Rats came about her cell and she petted them and taught her cats to be kind to them. Before she got the cats thoroughly drilled one of them bit a rat's paw. Louise nursed the rat till it got well, then let it down by a string from her window. It went back to its sewer, and, I suppose, told the other rats how kind Louise had been to it, for after that they came to her cell without fear. Mother rats brought their young ones and placed them at her feet, as if to ask her protection for them. The most remarkable thing about them was their affection for each other. Young rats would chew the crusts thrown to old toothless rats, so that they might more easily eat them, and if a young rat dared help itself before an old one, the others punished it." "That sounds very interesting, auntie," said Miss Laura. "Where did you read it?" "I have just got the magazine," said Mrs. Wood; "you shall have it as soon as you come into the house." "I love to be with you, dear auntie," said Miss Laura, putting her arm affectionately around her, as they stood in the doorway; "because you understand me when I talk about animals. I can't explain it," went on my dear young mistress, laying her hand on her heart, "the feeling I have here for them. I just love a dumb creature, and I want to stop and talk to every one I see. Sometimes I worry poor Bessie Drury, and I'm so sorry, but I can't help it. She says, 'What makes you so silly, Laura?'" Miss Laura was standing just where the sunlight shone through her light-brown hair, and made her face all in a glow. I thought she looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her before, and I think Mrs. Wood thought the same. She turned around and put both hands on Miss Laura's shoulders. "Laura," she said, earnestly, "there are enough cold hearts in the world. Don't you ever stifle a warm or tender feeling toward a dumb creature. That is your chief attraction, my child: your love for everything that breathes and moves. Tear out the selfishness from your heart, if there is any there, but let the love and pity stay. And now let me talk a little more to you about the cows. I want to interest you in dairy matters. This stable is new since you were here, and we've made a number of improvements. Do you see those bits of rock salt in each stall? They are for the cows to lick whenever they want to. Now, come here, and I'll show you what we call 'The Black Hole.'" It was a tiny stable off the main one, and it was very dark and cool. "Is this a place of punishment?" asked Miss Laura, in surprise. Mrs. Wood laughed heartily. "No, no; a place of pleasure. Sometimes when the flies are very bad and the cows are brought into the yard to be milked and a fresh swarm settles on them, they are nearly frantic; and though they are the best cows in New Hampshire, they will kick a little. "When they do, those that are the worst are brought in here to be milked where there are no flies. The others have big strips of cotton laid over their backs and tied under them, and the men brush their legs with tansy tea, or water with a little carbolic acid in it. That keeps the flies away, and the cows know just as well that it is done for their comfort, and stand quietly till the milking is over. I must ask John to have their nightdresses put on sometimes for you to see. Harry calls them 'sheeted ghosts,' and they do look queer enough standing all round the barnyard robed in white." * * * * * CHAPTER XXXI IN THE COW STABLE "Isn't it a strange thing," said Miss Laura, "that a little thing like a fly, can cause so much annoyance to animals as well as to people? Sometimes when I am trying to get more sleep in the morning, their little feet tickle me so that I am nearly frantic and have to fly out of bed." "You shall have some netting to put over your bed," said Mrs. Wood; "but suppose, Laura, you had no hands to brush away the flies. Suppose your whole body was covered with them, and you were tied up somewhere and could not get loose. I can't imagine more exquisite torture myself. Last summer the flies here were dreadful. It seems to me that they are getting worse and worse every year, and worry the animals more. I believe it is because the birds are getting thinned out all over the country. There are not enough of them to catch the flies. John says that the next improvements we make on the farm are to be wire gauze at all the stable windows and screen doors to keep the little pests from the horses and cattle. "One afternoon last summer, Mr. Maxwell's mother came for me to go for a drive with her. The heat was intense, and when we got down by the river, she proposed getting out of the phaeton and sitting under the trees, to see if it would be any cooler. She was driving a horse that she had got from the hotel in the village, a roan horse that was clipped, and check-reined, and had his tail docked. I wouldn't drive behind a tailless horse now. Then, I wasn't so particular. However, I made her unfasten the check-rein before I'd set foot in the carriage. Well, I thought that horse would go mad. He'd tremble and shiver, and look so pitifully at us. The flies were nearly eating him up. Then he'd start a little. Mrs. Maxwell had a weight at his head to hold him, but he could easily have dragged that. He was a good dispositioned horse, and he didn't want to run away, but he could not stand still. I soon jumped up and slapped him, and rubbed him till my hands were dripping wet. The poor brute was so grateful and would keep touching my arm with his nose. Mrs. Maxwell sat under the trees fanning herself and laughing at me, but I didn't care. How could I enjoy myself with a dumb creature writhing in pain before me? "A docked horse can neither eat nor sleep comfortably in the fly season. In one of our New England villages they have a sign up, 'Horses taken in to grass. Long tails, one dollar and fifty cents. Short tails, one dollar.' And it just means that the short-tailed ones are taken cheaper, because they are so bothered by the flies that they can't eat much, while the long-tailed ones are able to brush them away, and eat in peace. I read the other day of a Buffalo coal dealer's horse that was in such an agony through flies, that he committed suicide. You know animals will do that. I've read of horses and dogs drowning themselves. This horse had been clipped, and his tail was docked, and he was turned out to graze. The flies stung him till he was nearly crazy. He ran up to a picket fence, and sprang up on the sharp spikes. There he hung, making no effort to get down. Some men saw him, and they said it was a clear case of suicide. "I would like to have the power to take every man who cuts off a horse's tail, and tie his hands and turn him out in a field in the hot sun, with little clothing on, and plenty of flies about. Then we would see if he wouldn't sympathize with the poor, dumb beast. It's the most senseless thing in the world, this docking fashion. They've a few flimsy arguments about a horse with a docked tail being stronger-backed, like a short-tailed sheep, but I don't believe a word of it. The horse was made strong enough to do the work he's got to do, and man can't improve on him. Docking is a cruel, wicked thing. Now, there's a ghost of an argument in favor of check-reins, on certain occasions. A fiery, young horse can't run away, with an overdrawn check, and in speeding horses a tight check-rein will make them hold their heads up, and keep them from choking. "But I don't believe in raising colts in a way to make them fiery, and I wish there wasn't a race horse on the face of the earth, so if it depended on me, every kind of check-rein would go. It's a pity we women can't vote, Laura. We'd do away with a good many abuses." Miss Laura smiled, but it was a very faint, almost an unhappy smile, and Mrs. Wood said hastily, "Let us talk about something else. Did you ever hear that cows will give less milk on a dark day than on a bright one?" "No; I never did," said Miss Laura. "Well, they do. They are most sensitive animals. One finds out all manners of curious things about animals if he makes a study of them. Cows are wonderful creatures, I think, and so grateful for good usage that they return every scrap of care given them, with interest. Have you ever heard anything about dehorning, Laura?" "Not much, auntie. Does uncle approve of it?" "No, indeed. He'd just as soon think of cutting their tails off, as of dehorning them. He says he guesses the Creator knew how to make a cow better than he does. Sometimes I tell John that his argument doesn't hold good, for a man in some ways can improve on nature. In the natural course of things, a cow would be feeding her calf for half a year, but we take it away from her, and raise it as well as she could and get an extra quantity of milk from her in addition. I don't know what to think myself about dehorning. Mr. Windham's cattle are all polled, and he has an open space in his barn for them, instead of keeping them in stalls, and he says they're more comfortable and not so confined. I suppose in sending cattle to sea, it's necessary to take their horns off, but when they're going to be turned out to grass, it seems like mutilating them. Our cows couldn't keep the dogs away from the sheep if they didn't have their horns. Their horns are their means of defense." "Do your cattle stand in these stalls all winter?" asked Miss Laura. "Oh, yes, except when they're turned out in the barnyard, and then John usually has to send a man to keep them moving or they'd take cold. Sometimes on very fine days they get out all day. You know cows aren't like horses. John says they're like great milk machines. You've got to keep them quiet, only exercising enough to keep them in health. If a cow is hurried or worried, or chilled or heated, it stops her milk yield. And bad usage poisons it. John says you can't take a stick and strike a cow across the back, without her milk being that much worse, and as for drinking the milk that comes from a cow that isn't kept clean, you'd better throw it away and drink water. When I was in Chicago, my sister-in-law kept complaining to her milkman about what she called the 'cowy' smell to her milk. 'It's the animal odor, ma'am,' he said, 'and it can't be helped. All milk smells like that.' 'It's dirt,' I said, when she asked my opinion about it. 'I'll wager my best bonnet that that man's cows are kept dirty. Their skins are plastered up with filth, and as the poison in them can't escape that way it's coming out through the milk, and you're helping to dispose of it.' She was astonished to hear this, and she got her milkman's address, and one day dropped in upon him. She said that his cows were standing in a stable that was comparatively clean, but that their bodies were in just the state that I described them as living in. She advised the man to card and brush his cows every day, and said that he need bring her no more milk. "That shows how you city people are imposed upon with regard to your milk. I should think you'd be poisoned with the treatment your cows receive, and even when your milk is examined you can't tell whether it is pure or not. In New York the law only requires thirteen per cent. of solids in milk. That's absurd, for you can feed a cow on swill and still get fourteen per cent. of solids in it. Oh! you city people are queer." Miss Laura laughed heartily "What a prejudice you have against large towns, auntie." "Yes, I have," said Mrs. Wood, honestly. "I often wish we could break up a few of our cities, and scatter the people through the country. Look at the lovely farms all about here, some of them with only an old man and woman on them. The boys are off to the cities, slaving in stores and offices, and growing pale and sickly. It would have broken my heart if Harry had taken to city ways. I had a plain talk with your uncle when I married him, and said, 'Now, my boy's only a baby, and I want him to be brought up so that he will love country life. How are we going to manage it?' "Your uncle looked at me with a sly twinkle in his eye, and said I was a pretty fair specimen of a country girl, suppose we brought up Harry the way I'd been brought up. I knew he was only joking, yet I got quite excited. 'Yes,' I said, 'Do as my father and mother did. Have a farm about twice as large as you can manage. Don't keep a hired man. Get up at daylight and slave till dark. Never take a holiday. Have the girls do the housework, and take care of the hens, and help pick the fruit, and make the boys tend the colts and the calves, and put all the money they make in the bank. Don't take any papers, for they would waste their time reading them, and it's too far to go the postoffice oftener than once a week; and'--but, I don't remember the rest of what I said. Anyway your uncle burst into a roar of laughter. 'Hattie,' he said, 'my farm's too big. I'm going to sell some of it, and enjoy myself a little more.' That very week he sold fifty acres, and he hired an extra man, and got me a good girl, and twice a week he left his work in the afternoon, and took me for a drive. Harry held the reins in his tiny fingers, and John told him that Dolly, the old mare we were driving, should be called his, and the very next horse he bought should be called his, too, and he should name it and have it for his own; and he would give him five sheep, and he should have his own bank book and keep his accounts; and Harry understood, mere baby though he was, and from that day he loved John as his own father. If my father had had the wisdom that John has, his boys wouldn't be the one a poor lawyer and the other a poor doctor in two different cities; and our farm wouldn't be in the hands of strangers. It makes me sick to go there. I think of my poor mother lying with her tired hands crossed out in the churchyard, and the boys so far away, and my father always hurrying and driving us--I can tell you, Laura, the thing cuts both ways. It isn't all the fault of the boys that they leave the country." Mrs. Wood was silent for a little while after she made this long speech, and Miss Laura said nothing. I took a turn or two up and down the stable, thinking of many things. No matter how happy human beings seem to be, they always have something to worry them. I was sorry for Mrs. Wood, for her face had lost the happy look it usually wore. However, she soon forgot her trouble, and said: "Now, I must go and get the tea. This is Adele's afternoon out." "I'll come, too," said Miss Laura, "for I promised her I'd make the biscuits for tea this evening and let you rest." They both sauntered slowly down the plank walk to the house, and I followed them. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXII OUR RETURN HOME In October, the most beautiful of all the months, we were obliged to go back to Fairport. Miss Laura could not bear to leave the farm, and her face got very sorrowful when any one spoke of her going away. Still, she had gotten well and strong, and was as brown as a berry, and she said that she knew she ought to go home, and get back to her lessons. Mr. Wood called October the golden month. Everything was quiet and still, and at night and in the morning the sun had a yellow, misty look. The trees in the orchard were loaded with fruit, and some of the leaves were floating down, making a soft covering on the ground. In the garden there were a great many flowers in bloom, in flaming red and yellow colors. Miss Laura gathered bunches of them every day to put in the parlor. One day when she was arranging them, she said, regretfully, "They will soon be gone. I wish it could always be summer." "You would get tired of it," said Mr. Harry, who had come up softly behind her. "There's only one place where we could stand perpetual summer, and that's in heaven." "Do you suppose that it will always be summer there?" said Miss Laura, turning around, and looking at him. "I don't know. I imagine it will be, but I don't think anybody knows much about it. We've got to wait." Miss Laura's eyes fell on me. "Harry," she said, "do you think that dumb animals will go to heaven?" "I shall have to say again, I don't know," he replied. "Some people hold that they do. In a Michigan paper, the other day, I came across one writer's opinion on the subject. He says that among the best people of all ages have been some who believed in the future life of animals. Homer and the later Greeks, some of the Romans and early Christians held this view--the last believing that God sent angels in the shape of birds to comfort sufferers for the faith. St. Francis called the birds and beasts his brothers. Dr. Johnson believed in a future life for animals, as also did Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Jeremy Taylor, Agassiz, Lamartine, and many Christian scholars. It seems as if they ought to have some compensation for their terrible sufferings in this world. Then to go to heaven, animals would only have to take up the thread of their lives here. Man is a god to the lower creation. Joe worships you, much as you worship your Maker. Dumb animals live in and for their masters. They hang on our words and looks, and are dependent on us in almost every way. For my own part, and looking at it from an earthly point of view, I wish with all my heart that we may find our dumb friends in paradise." "And in the Bible," said Miss Laura, "animals are often spoken of. The dove and the raven, the wolf and the lamb, and the leopard, and the cattle that God says are his, and the little sparrow that can't fall to the ground without our Father's knowing it." "Still, there's nothing definite about their immortality," said Mr. Harry. "However, we've got nothing to do with that. If it's right for them to be in heaven, we'll find them there. All we have to do now is to deal with the present, and the Bible plainly tells us that 'a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.'" "I think I would be happier in heaven if dear old Joe were there," said Miss Laura, looking wistfully at me. "He has been such a good dog. Just think how he has loved and protected me. I think I should be lonely without him." "That reminds me of some poetry, or rather doggerel," said Mr. Harry, "that I cutout of a newspaper for you yesterday;" and he drew from his pocket a little slip of paper, and read this: "Do doggies gang to heaven, Dad? Will oor auld Donald gang? For noo to tak' him, faither wi' us, Wad be maist awfu' wrang." There was a number of other verses, telling how many kind things old Donald the dog had done for his master's family, and then it closed with these lines: "Withoot are dogs. Eh, faither, man, 'Twould be an awfu' sin To leave oor faithfu' doggie _there_, He's _certain_ to win in. "Oor Donald's no like ither dogs, He'll _no_ be lockit oot, If Donald's no let into heaven, I'll no gang there one foot." "My sentiments exactly," said a merry voice behind Miss Laura and Mr. Harry, and looking up they saw Mr. Maxwell. He was holding out one hand to them, and in the other kept back a basket of large pears that Mr. Harry promptly took from him, and offered to Miss Laura. "I've been dependent upon animals for the most part of my comfort in this life," said Mr. Maxwell, "and I sha'n't be happy without them in heaven. I don't see how you would get on without Joe, Miss Morris, and I want my birds, and my snake, and my horse--how can I live without them? They're almost all my life here." "If some animals go to heaven and not others, I think that the dog has the first claim," said Miss Laura. "He's the friend of man--the oldest and best. Have you ever heard the legend about him and Adam?" "No," said Mr. Maxwell. "Well, when Adam was turned out of paradise, all the animals shunned him, and he sat bitterly weeping with his head between his hands, when he felt the soft tongue of some creature gently touching him. He took his hands from his face, and there was a dog that had separated himself from all the other animals, and was trying to comfort him. He became the chosen friend and companion of Adam, afterward of all men." "There is another legend," said Mr. Harry, "about our Saviour and a dog. Have you ever heard it?" "We'll tell you that later," said Mr. Maxwell, "when we know what it is." Mr. Harry showed his white teeth in an amused smile, and began: "Once upon a time our Lord was going through a town with his disciples. A dead dog lay by the wayside, and every one that passed along flung some offensive epithet at him. Eastern dogs are not like our dogs, and seemingly there was nothing good about this loathsome creature, but as our Saviour went by, he said, gently, 'Pearls cannot equal the whiteness of his teeth.'" "What was the name of that old fellow," said Mr. Maxwell, abruptly, "who had a beautiful swan that came every day for fifteen years, to bury its head in his bosom and feed from his hand, and would go near no other human being?" "Saint Hugh, of Lincoln. We heard about him at the Band of Mercy the other day," said Miss Laura. "I should think that he would have wanted to have that swan in heaven with him," said Mr. Maxwell. "What a beautiful creature it must have been. Speaking about animals going to heaven, I dare say some of them would object to going, on account of the company that they would meet there. Think of the dog kicked to death by his master, the horse driven into his grave, the thousands of cattle starved to death on the plains--will they want to meet their owners in heaven?" "According to my reckoning, their owners won't be there," said Mr. Harry. "I firmly believe that the Lord will punish every man or woman who ill-treats a dumb creature just as surely as he will punish those who ill-treat their fellow-creatures. If a man's life has been a long series of cruelty to dumb animals, do you suppose that he would enjoy himself in heaven, which will be full of kindness to every one? Not he; he'd rather be in the other place, and there he'll go, I fully believe." "When you've quite disposed of all your fellow-creatures and the dumb creation, Harry, perhaps you will condescend to go out into the orchard and see how your father is getting on with picking the apples," said Mrs. Wood, joining Miss Laura and the two young men, her eyes twinkling and sparkling with amusement. "The apples will keep, mother," said Mr. Harry, putting his arm around her. "I just came in for a moment to get Laura. Come, Maxwell, we'll all go." "And not another word about animals," Mrs. Wood called after them. "Laura will go crazy some day, through thinking of their sufferings, if some one doesn't do something to stop her." Miss Laura turned around suddenly. "Dear Aunt Hattie," she said, "you must not say that. I am a coward, I know, about hearing of animals' pains, but I must get over it, I want to know how they suffer. I _ought_ to know, for when I get to be a woman, I am going to do all I can to help them." "And I'll join you," said Mr. Maxwell, stretching out his hand to Miss Laura. She did not smile, but looking very earnestly at him, she held it clasped in her own. "You will help me to care for them, will you?" she said. "Yes, I promise," he said, gravely. "I'll give myself to the service of dumb animals, if you will." "And I, too," said Mr. Harry, in his deep voice, laying his hand across theirs. Mrs. Wood stood looking at their three fresh, eager, young faces, with tears in her eyes. Just as they all stood silently for an instant, the old village clergyman came into the room from the hall. He must have heard what they said, for before they could move he had laid his hands on their three brown heads. "Bless you, my children," he said, "God will lift up the light of his countenance upon you, for you have given yourselves to a noble work. In serving dumb creatures, you are ennobling the human race." Then he sat down in a chair and looked at them. He was a venerable old man, and had long, white hair, and the Woods thought a great deal of him. He had come to get Mrs. Wood to make some nourishing dishes for a sick woman in the village, and while he was talking to her, Miss Laura and the two young men went out of the house. They hurried across the veranda and over the lawn, talking and laughing, and enjoying themselves as only happy young people can, and with not a trace of their seriousness of a few moments before on their faces. They were going so fast that they ran right into a flock of geese that were coming up the lane. They were driven by a little boy called Tommy, the son of one of Mr. Wood's farm laborers, and they were chattering and gabbling, and seemed very angry. "What's all this about?" said Mr. Harry, stopping and looking at the boy. "What's the matter with your feathered charges, Tommy, my lad?" "If it's the geese you mean," said the boy, half crying and looking very much put out, "it's all them nasty potatoes. They won't keep away from them." "So the potatoes chase the geese, do they," said Mr. Maxwell, teasingly. "No, no," said the child, pettishly; "Mr. Wood he sets me to watch the geese, and they runs in among the buckwheat and the potatoes, and I tries to drive them out, and they doesn't want to come, and," shamefacedly, "I has to switch their feet, and I hates to do it, 'cause I'm a Band of Mercy boy." "Tommy, my son," said Mr. Maxwell, solemnly, "you will go right to heaven when you die, and your geese will go with you." "Hush, hush," said Miss Laura; "don't tease him," and putting her arm on the child's shoulder, she said, "You are a good boy, Tommy, not to want to hurt the geese. Let me see your switch, dear." He showed her a little stick he had in his hand, and she said, "I don't think you could hurt them much with that, and if they will be naughty and steal the potatoes, you have to drive them out. Take some of my pears and eat them, and you will forget your trouble." The child took the fruit, and Miss Laura and the two young men went on their way, smiling, and looking over their shoulders at Tommy, who stood in the lane, devouring his pears and keeping one eye on the geese that had gathered a little in front of him, and were gabbling noisily and having a kind of indignation meeting, because they had been driven out of the potato field. Tommy's father and mother lived in a little house down near the road. Mr. Wood never had his hired men live in his own house. He had two small houses for them to live in, and they were required to keep them as neat as Mr. Wood's own house was kept. He said that he didn't see why he should keep a boarding house, if he was a farmer, nor why his wife should wear herself out waiting on strong, hearty men, that had just as soon take care of themselves. He wished to have his own family about him, and it was better for his men to have some kind of family life for themselves. If one of his men was unmarried, he boarded with the married one, but slept in his own house. On this October day we found Mr. Wood hard at work under the fruit trees. He had a good many different kind of apples. Enormous red ones, and long, yellow ones that they called pippins, and little brown ones, and smooth-coated sweet ones, and bright red ones, and others, more than I could mention. Miss Laura often pared one and cut off little bits for me, for I always wanted to eat whatever I saw her eating. Just a few days after this, Miss Laura and I returned to Fairport, and some of Mr. Wood's apples traveled along with us, for he sent a good many to the Boston market. Mr. and Mrs. Wood came to the station to see us off. Mr. Harry could not come, for he had left Riverdale the day before to go back to his college. Mrs. Wood said that she would be very lonely without her two young people, and she kissed Miss Laura over and over again, and made her promise to come back again the next summer. I was put in a box in the express car, and Mr. Wood told the agent that if he knew what was good for him he would speak to me occasionally, for I was a very knowing dog, and if he didn't treat me well, I'd be apt to write him up in the newspapers. The agent laughed, and quite often on the way to Fairport, he came to my box and spoke kindly to me. So I did not get so lonely and frightened as I did on my way to Riverdale. How glad the Morrises were to see us coming back. The boys had all gotten home before us, and such a fuss as they did make over their sister. They loved her dearly, and never wanted her to be long away from them. I was rubbed and stroked, and had to run about offering my paw to every one. Jim and little Billy licked my face, and Bella croaked out, "Glad to see you, Joe. Had a good time? How's your health?" We soon settled down for the winter. Miss Laura began going to school, and came home every day with a pile of books under her arm. The summer in the country had done her so much good that her mother often looked at her fondly, and said the white-faced child she sent away had come home a nut-brown maid. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXIII PERFORMING ANIMALS A week or two after we got home, I heard the Morris boys talking about an Italian who was coming to Fairport with a troupe of trained animals, and I could see for myself, whenever I went to town, great flaming pictures on the fences, of monkeys sitting at tables, dogs, and ponies, and goats climbing ladders, and rolling balls, and doing various tricks. I wondered very much whether they would be able to do all those extraordinary things, but it turned out that they did. The Italian's name was Bellini, and one afternoon the whole Morris family went to see him and his animals, and when they came home, I heard them talking about it. "I wish you could have been there, Joe," said Jack, pulling up my paws to rest on his knees. "Now listen, old fellow, and I'll tell you all about it. First of all, there was a perfect jam in the town hall. I sat up in front, with a lot of fellows, and had a splendid view. The old Italian came out dressed in his best suit of clothes--black broadcloth, flower in his buttonhole, and so on. He made a fine bow, and he said he was 'pleased too see ze fine audience, and he was going to show zem ze fine animals, ze finest animals in ze world.' Then he shook a little whip that he carried in his hand, and he said 'zat zat whip didn't mean zat he was cruel. He cracked it to show his animals when to begin, end, or change their tricks.' Some boy yelled, 'Rats! you do whip them sometimes,' and the old man made another bow, and said, 'Sairteenly, he whipped zem just as ze mammas whip ze naughty boys, to make zem keep still when zey was noisy or stubborn.' "Then everybody laughed at the boy, and the Italian said the performance would begin by a grand procession of all the animals, if some lady would kindly step up to the piano and play a march. Nina Smith--you know Nina, Joe, the girl that has black eyes and wears blue ribbons, and lives around the corner--stepped up to the piano, and banged out a fine loud march. The doors at the side of the platform opened, and out came the animals, two by two, just like Noah's ark. There was a pony with a monkey walking beside it and holding on to its mane, another monkey on a pony's back, two monkeys hand in hand, a dog with a parrot on his back, a goat harnessed to a little carriage, another goat carrying a birdcage in its mouth with two canaries inside, different kinds of cats, some doves and pigeons, half a dozen white rats with red harness, and dragging a little chariot with a monkey in it, and a common white gander that came in last of all, and did nothing but follow one of the ponies about. "The Italian spoke of the gander, and said it was a stupid creature, and could learn no tricks, and he only kept it on account of its affection for the pony. He had got them both on a Vermont farm, when he was looking for show animals. The pony's master had made a pet of him, and had taught him to come whenever he whistled for him. Though the pony was only a scrub of a creature, he had a gentle disposition, and every other animal on the farm liked him. A gander, in particular, had such an admiration for him that he followed him wherever he went, and if he lost him for an instant, he would mount one of the knolls on the farm and stretch out his neck looking for him. When he caught sight of him, he gabbled with delight, and running to him, waddled up and down beside him. Every little while the pony put his nose down, and seemed to be having a conversation with the goose. If the farmer whistled for the pony and he started to run to him, the gander, knowing he could not keep up, would seize the pony's tail in his beak, and flapping his wings, would get along as fast as the pony did. And the pony never kicked him. The Italian saw that this pony would be a good one to train for the stage, so he offered the farmer a large price for him, and took him away. "Oh, Joe, I forgot to say, that by this time all the animals had been sent off the stage except the pony and the gander, and they stood looking at the Italian while he talked. I never saw anything as human in dumb animals as that pony's face. He looked as if he understood every word that his master was saying. After this story was over, the Italian made another bow, and then told the pony to bow. He nodded his head at the people, and they all laughed. Then the Italian asked him to favor us with a waltz, and the pony got up on his hind legs and danced. You should have seen that gander skirmishing around, so as to be near the pony and yet keep out of the way of his heels. We fellows just roared, and we would have kept him dancing all the afternoon if the Italian hadn't begged 'ze young gentlemen not to make ze noise, but let ze pony do ze rest of his tricks.' Pony number two came on the stage, and it was too queer for anything to see the things the two of them did. They helped the Italian on with his coat, they pulled off his rubbers, they took his coat away and brought him a chair, and dragged a table up to it. They brought him letters and papers, and rang bells, and rolled barrels, and swung the Italian in a big swing, and jumped a rope, and walked up and down steps--they just went around that stage as handy with their teeth as two boys would be with their hands, and they seemed to understand every word their master said to them. "The best trick of all was telling the time and doing questions in arithmetic. The Italian pulled his watch out of his pocket and showed it to the first pony, whose name was Diamond, and said, 'What time is it?' The pony looked at it, then scratched four times with his forefoot on the platform. The Italian said, 'Zat's good--four o'clock. But it's a few minutes after four--how many?' The pony scratched again five times. The Italian showed his watch to the audience, and said that it was just five minutes past four. Then he asked the pony how old he was. He scratched four times. That meant four years. He asked him how many days in a week there were; how many months in a year; and he gave him some questions in addition and subtraction, and the pony answered them all correctly. Of course, the Italian was giving him some sign; but, though we watched him closely, we couldn't make out what it was. At last, he told the pony that he had been very good, and had done his lessons well; if it would rest him, he might be naughty a little while. All of a sudden a wicked look came into the creature's eyes. He turned around, and kicked up his heels at his master, he pushed over the table and chairs, and knocked down a blackboard where he had been rubbing out figures with a sponge held in his mouth. The Italian pretended to be cross, and said, 'Come, come; this won't do,' and he called the other pony to him, and told him to take that troublesome fellow off the stage. The second one nosed Diamond, and pushed him about, finally bit him by the ear, and led him squealing off the stage. The gander followed, gabbling as fast as he could, and there was a regular roar of applause. "After that, there were ladders brought in, Joe, and dogs came on; not thoroughbreds, but curs something like you. The Italian says he can't teach tricks to pedigree animals as well as to scrubs. Those dogs jumped the ladders, and climbed them, and went through them, and did all kinds of things. The man cracked his whip once, and they began; twice, and they did backward what they had done forward; three times, and they stopped, and every animal, dogs, goats, ponies, and monkeys, after they had finished their tricks, ran up to their master, and he gave them a lump of sugar. They seemed fond of him, and often when they weren't performing went up to him, and licked his hands or his sleeve. There was one boss dog, Joe, with a head like yours. Bob, they called him, and he did all his tricks alone. The Italian went off the stage, and the dog came on and made his bow, and climbed his ladders, and jumped his hurdles, and went off again. The audience howled for an encore, and didn't he come out alone, make another bow, and retire. I saw old Judge Brown wiping the tears from his eyes, he'd laughed so much. One of the last tricks was with a goat, and the Italian said it was the best of all, because the goat is such a hard animal to teach. He had a big ball, and the goat got on it and rolled it across the stage without getting off. He looked as nervous as a cat, shaking his old beard, and trying to keep his four hoofs close enough together to keep him on the ball. "We had a funny little play at the end of the performance. A monkey dressed as a lady in a white satin suit and a bonnet with a white veil, came on the stage. She was Miss Green and the dog Bob was going to elope with her. He was all rigged out as Mr. Smith, and had on a light suit of clothes, and a tall hat on the side of his head, high collar, long cuffs, and he carried a cane. He was a regular dude. He stepped up to Miss Green on his hind legs, and helped her on to a pony's back. The pony galloped off the stage; then a crowd of monkeys, chattering and wringing their hands, came on. Mr. Smith had run away with their child. They were all dressed up, too. There were the father and mother, with gray wigs and black clothes, and the young Greens in bibs and tuckers. They were a queer-looking crowd. While they were going on in this way, the pony trotted back on the stage; and they all flew at him and pulled off their daughter from has back, and laughed and chattered, and boxed her ears, and took off her white veil and her satin dress, and put on an old brown thing, and some of them seized the dog, and kicked his hat, and broke his cane, and stripped his clothes off, and threw them in a corner, and bound his legs with cords. A goat came on, harnessed to a little cart, and they threw the dog in it, and wheeled him around the stage a few times. Then they took him out and tied him to a hook in the wall, and the goat ran off the stage, and the monkeys ran to one side, and one of them pulled out a little revolver, pointed it at the dog, fired, and he dropped down as if he was dead. "The monkeys stood looking at him, and then there was the most awful hullabaloo you ever heard. Such a barking and yelping, and half a dozen dogs rushed on the stage, and didn't they trundle those monkeys about. They nosed them, and pushed them, and shook them, till they all ran away, all but Miss Green, who sat shivering in a corner. After a while, she crept up to the dead dog, pawed him a little, and didn't he jump up as much alive as any of them? Everybody in the room clapped and shouted, and then the curtain dropped, and the thing was over. I wish he'd give another performance. Early in the morning he has to go to Boston." Jack pushed my paws from his knees and went outdoors, and I began to think that I would very much like to see those performing animals. It was not yet tea time, and I would have plenty of time to take a run down to the hotel where they were staying; so I set out. It was a lovely autumn evening. The sun was going down in a haze, and it was quite warm. Earlier in the day I had heard Mr. Morris say that this was our Indian summer, and that we should soon have cold weather. Fairport was a pretty little town, and from the principal street one could look out upon the blue water of the bay and see the island opposite, which was quite deserted now, for all the summer visitors had gone home, and the Island House was shut op. I was running down one of the steep side streets that led to the water when I met a heavily-laden cart coming up. It must have been coming from one of the vessels, for it was full of strange-looking boxes and packages. A fine-looking nervous horse was drawing it, and he was straining every nerve to get it up the steep hill. His driver was a burly, hard-faced man, and instead of letting his horse stop a minute to rest he kept urging him forward. The poor horse kept looking at his master, his eyes almost starting from his head in terror. He knew that the whip was about to descend on his quivering body. And so it did, and there was no one by to interfere. No one but a woman in a ragged shawl who would have no influence with the driver. There was a very good humane society in Fairport, and none of the teamsters dared ill-use their horses if any of the members were near. This was a quiet out-of-the-way street, with only poor houses on it, and the man probably knew that none of the members of the society would be likely to be living in them. He whipped his horse, and whipped him, till every lash made my heart ache, and if I had dared I would have bitten him severely. Suddenly, there was a dull thud in the street. The horse had fallen down. The driver ran to his head, but he was quite dead. "Thank God!" said the poorly-dressed woman, bitterly; "one more out of this world of misery." Then she turned and went down the street. I was glad for the horse. He would never be frightened or miserable again, and I went slowly on, thinking that death is the best thing that can happen to tortured animals. The Fairport hotel was built right in the centre of the town, and the shops and houses crowded quite close about it. It was a high, brick building, and it was called the Fairport House. As I was running along the sidewalk, I heard some one speak to me, and looking up I saw Charlie Montague. I had heard the Morrises say that his parents were staying at the hotel for a few weeks, while their house was being repaired. He had his Irish setter, Brisk, with him, and a handsome dog he was, as he stood waving his silky tail in the sunlight. Charlie patted me, and then he and his dog went into the hotel. I turned into the stable yard. It was a small, choked-up place, and as I picked my way under the cabs and wagons standing in the yard, I wondered why the hotel people didn't buy some of the old houses near by, and tear them down, and make a stable yard worthy of such a nice hotel. The hotel horses were just getting rubbed down after their day's work, and others were coming in. The men were talking and laughing, and there was no sign of strange animals, so I went around to the back of the yard. Here they were, in an empty cow stable, under a hay loft. There were two little ponies tied up in a stall, two goats beyond them, and dogs and monkeys in strong traveling cages. I stood in the doorway and stared at them. I was sorry for the dogs to be shut up on such a lovely evening, but I suppose their master was afraid of their getting lost, or being stolen, if he let them loose. They all seemed very friendly. The ponies turned around and looked at me with their gentle eyes, and then went on munching their hay. I wondered very much where the gander was, and went a little farther into the stable. Something white raised itself up out of the brownest pony's crib, and there was the gander close up beside the open mouth of his friend. The monkeys make a jabbering noise, and held on to the bars of their cage with their little black hands, while they looked out at me. The dogs sniffed the air, and wagged their tails, and tried to put their muzzles through the bars of their cage. I liked the dogs best, and I wanted to see the one they called Bob, so I went up quite close to them. There were two little white dogs, something like Billy, two mongrel spaniels, an Irish terrier, and a brown dog asleep in the corner, that I knew must be Bob. He did look a little like me, but he was not quite so ugly, for he had his ears and his tail. While I was peering through the bars at him, a man came in the stable. He noticed me the first thing, but instead of driving me out, he spoke kindly to me, in a language that I did not understand. So I knew that he was the Italian. How glad the animals were to see him! The gander fluttered out of his nest, the ponies pulled at their halters, the dogs whined and tried to reach his hands to lick them, and the monkeys chattered with delight. He laughed and talked back to them in queer, soft-sounding words. Then he took out of a bag on his arm, bones for the dogs, nuts and cakes for the monkeys, nice, juicy carrots for the ponies, some green stuff for the goats, and corn for the gander. It was a pretty sight to see the old man feeding his pets, and it made me feel quite hungry, so I trotted home. I had a run down town again that evening with Mr. Morris, who went to get something from a shop for his wife. He never let his boys go to town after tea, so if there were errands to be done, he or Mrs. Morris went. The town was bright and lively that evening, and a great many people were walking about and looking into the shop windows. When we came home, I went into the kennel with Jim, and there I slept till the middle of the night. Then I started up and ran outside. There was a distant bell ringing, which we often heard in Fairport, and which always meant fire. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXIV A FIRE IN FAIRPORT I had several times run to a fire with the boys, and knew that there was always a great noise and excitement. There was a light in the house, so I knew that somebody was getting up. I don't think--indeed I know, for they were good boys--that they ever wanted anybody to lose property, but they did enjoy seeing a blaze, and one of their greatest delights, when there hadn't been a fire for some time, was to build a bonfire in the garden. Jim and I ran around to the front of the house and waited. In a few minutes, some one came rattling at the front door, and I was sure it was Jack. But it was Mr. Morris, and without a word to us, he set off almost running toward the town. We followed after him, and as we hurried along other men ran out from the houses along the streets, and either joined him, or dashed ahead. They seemed to have dressed in a hurry, and were thrusting their arms in their coats, and buttoning themselves up as they went. Some of them had hats and some of them had none, and they all had their faces toward the great red light that got brighter and brighter ahead of us. "Where's the fire?" they shouted to each other. "Don't know--afraid it's the hotel, or the town hall. It's such a blaze. Hope not. How's the water supply now? Bad time for a fire." It was the hotel. We saw that as soon as we got on to the main street. There were people all about, and a great noise and confusion, and smoke and blackness, and up above, bright tongues of flame were leaping against the sky, Jim and I kept close to Mr. Morris's heels, as he pushed his way among the crowd. When we got nearer the burning building, we saw men carrying ladders and axes, and others were shouting directions, and rushing out of the hotel, carrying boxes and bundles and furniture in their arms. From the windows above came a steady stream of articles, thrown among the crowd. A mirror struck Mr. Morris on the arm, and a whole package of clothes fell on his head and almost smothered him; but he brushed them aside and scarcely noticed them. There was something the matter with Mr. Morris--I knew by the worried sound of his voice when he spoke to any one, I could not see his face, though it was as light as day about us, for we had got jammed in the crowd, and if I had not kept between his feet, I should have been trodden to death. Jim, being larger than I was, had got separated from us. Presently Mr. Morris raised his voice above the uproar, and called, "Is every one out of the hotel?" A voice shouted back, "I'm going up to see." "It's Jim Watson, the fireman," cried some one near. "He's risking his life to go into that pit of flame. Don't go, Watson." I don't think that the brave fireman paid any attention to this warning, for an instant later the same voice said, "He's planting his ladder against the third story. He's bound to go. He'll not get any farther than the second, anyway." "Where are the Montagues?" shouted Mr. Morris. "Has any one seen the Montagues?" "Mr. Morris! Mr. Morris!" said a frightened voices and young Charlie Montague pressed through the people to us. "Where's papa?" "I don't know. Where did you leave him?" said Mr. Morris, taking his hand and drawing him closer to him. "I was sleeping in his room," said the boy, "and a man knocked at the door, and said, 'Hotel on fire. Five minutes to dress and get out,' and papa told me to put on my clothes and go downstairs, and he ran up to mamma." "Where was she?" asked Mr. Morris, quickly. "On the fourth flat. She and her maid Blanche were up there. You know, mamma hasn't been well and couldn't sleep, and our room was so noisy that she moved upstairs where it was quiet." Mr. Morris gave a kind of groan. "Oh, I'm so hot, and there's such a dreadful noise," said the little boy, bursting into tears, "and I want mamma." Mr. Morris soothed him as best he could, and drew him a little to the edge of the crowd. While he was doing this, there was a piercing cry. I could not see the person making it, but I knew it was the Italian's voice. He was screaming, in broken English that the fire was spreading to the stables, and his animals would be burned. Would no one help him to get his animals out? There was a great deal of confused language Some voices shouted, "Look after the people first Let the animals go." And others said, "For shame. Get the horses out." But no one seemed to do anything, for the Italian went on crying for help, I heard a number of people who were standing near us say that it had just been found out that several persons who had been sleeping in the top of the hotel had not got out. They said that at one of the top windows a poor housemaid was shrieking for help. Here in the street we could see no one at the upper windows, for smoke was pouring from them. The air was very hot and heavy, and I didn't wonder that Charlie Montague felt ill. He would have fallen on the ground if Mr. Morris hadn't taken him in his arms, and carried him out of the crowd. He put him down on the brick sidewalk, and unfastened his little shirt, and left me to watch him, while he held his hands under a leak in a hose that was fastened to a hydrant near us. He got enough water to dash on Charlie's face and breast, and then seeing that the boy was reviving, he sat down on the curbstone and took him on his knee, Charlie lay in his arms and moaned. He was a delicate boy, and he could not stand rough usage as the Morris boys could. Mr. Morris was terribly uneasy. His face was deathly white, and he shuddered whenever there was a cry from the burning building. "Poor souls--God help them. Oh, this is awful," he said; and then he turned his eyes from the great sheets of flame and strained the little boy to his breast. At last there were wild shrieks that I knew came from no human throats. The fire must have reached the horses. Mr. Morris sprang up, then sank back again. He wanted to go, yet he could be of no use. There were hundreds of men standing about, but the fire had spread so rapidly, and they had so little water to put on it, that there was very little they could do. I wondered whether I could do anything for the poor animals. I was not afraid of fire, as most dogs, for one of the tricks that the Morris boys had taught me was to put out a fire with my paws. They would throw a piece of lighted paper on the floor, and I would crush it with my forepaws; and If the blaze was too large for that, I would drag a bit of old carpet over it and jump on it. I left Mr, Morris, and ran around the corner of the street to the back of the hotel. It was not burned as much here as in the front, and in the houses all around, people were out on their roofs with wet blankets, and some were standing at the windows watching the fire, or packing up their belongings ready to move if it should spread to them. There was a narrow lane running up a short distance toward the hotel, and I started to go up this, when in front of me I heard such a wailing, piercing noise, that it made me shudder and stand still. The Italian's animals were going to be burned up and they were calling to their master to come and let them out. Their voices sounded like the voices of children in mortal pain. I could not stand it. I was seized with such an awful horror of the fire, that I turned and ran, feeling so thankful that I was not in it. As I got into the street I stumbled over something. It was a large bird--a parrot, and at first I thought it was Bella. Then I remembered hearing Jack say that the Italian had a parrot. It was not dead, but seemed stupid with the smoke. I seized it in my mouth, and ran and laid it at Mr. Morris's feet. He wrapped it in his handkerchief, and laid it beside him. I sat, and trembled, and did not leave him again. I shall never forget that dreadful night. It seemed as if we were there for hours, but in reality it was only a short time. The hotel soon got to be all red flames, and there was very little smoke. The inside of the building had burned away, and nothing more could be gotten out. The firemen and all the people drew back, and there was no noise. Everybody stood gazing silently at the flames. A man stepped quietly up to Mr. Morris, and looking at him, I saw that it was Mr. Montague. He was usually a well-dressed man, with a kind face, and a head of thick, grayish-brown hair. Now his face was black and grimy, his hair was burnt from the front of his head, and his clothes were half torn from his back. Mr. Morris sprang up when he saw him, and said, "Where is your wife?" The gentleman did not say a word, but pointed to the burning building. "Impossible!" cried Mr. Morris. "Is there no mistake? Your beautiful young wife, Montague. Can it be so?" Mr. Morris was trembling from head to foot. "It is true," said Mr. Montague, quietly. "Give me the boy." Charlie had fainted again, and his father took him in his arms, and turned away. "Montague!" cried Mr. Morris, "my heart is sore for you. Can I do nothing?" "No, thank you," said the gentleman, without turning around; but there was more anguish in his voice than in Mr. Morris's, and though I am only a dog, I knew that his heart was breaking. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXV BILLY AND THE ITALIAN Mr. Morris stayed no longer. He followed Mr. Montague along the sidewalk a little way, and then exchanged a few hurried words with some men who were standing near, and hastened home through streets that seemed dark and dull after the splendor of the fire. Though it was still the middle of the night, Mrs. Morris was up and dressed and waiting for him. She opened the hall door with one hand and held a candle in the other. I felt frightened and miserable, and didn't want to leave Mr. Morris, so I crept in after him. "Don't make a noise," said Mrs. Morris. "Laura and the boys are sleeping, and I thought it better not to wake them. It has been a terrible fire, hasn't it? Was it the hotel?" Mr. Morris threw himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands. "Speak to me, William!" said Mrs. Morris, in a startled tone. "You are not hurt, are you?" and she put her candle on the table and came and sat down beside him. He dropped his hands from his face, and tears were running down his cheeks. "Ten lives lost," he said; "among them Mrs. Montague." Mrs. Morris looked horrified, and gave a little cry, "William, it can't be so!" It seemed as if Mr. Morris could not sit still. He got up and walked to and fro on the floor. "It was an awful scene, Margaret. I never wish to look upon the like again. Do you remember how I protested against the building of that deathtrap? Look at the wide, open streets around it, and yet they persisted in running it up to the sky. God will require an account of those deaths at the hands of the men who put up that building. It is terrible--this disregard of human lives. To think of that delicate woman and her death agony." He threw himself in a chair and buried his face in his hands. "Where was she? How did it happen? Was her husband saved, and Charlie?" said Mrs. Morris, in a broken voice. "Yes; Charlie and Mr. Montague are safe. Charlie will recover from it. Montague's life is done. You know his love for his wife. Oh, Margaret! when will men cease to be fools? What does the Lord think of them when they say, 'Am I my brother's keeper?' And the other poor creatures burned to death--their lives are as precious in his sight as Mrs. Montague's." Mr. Morris looked so weak and ill that Mrs. Morris, like a sensible woman, questioned him no further, but made a fire and got him some hot tea. Then she made him lie down on the sofa, and she sat by him till day-break, when she persuaded him to go to bed. I followed her about, and kept touching her dress with my nose. It seemed so good to me to have this pleasant home after all the misery I had seen that night. Once she stopped and took my head between her hands, "Dear old Joe," she said, tearfully, "this a suffering world. It's well there's a better one beyond it." In the morning the boys went down town before breakfast and learned all about the fire. It started in the top story of the hotel, in the room of some fast young men, who were sitting up late playing cards. They had smuggled wine into their room and had been drinking till they were stupid. One of them upset the lamp, and when the flames began to spread so that they could not extinguish them, instead of rousing some one near them, they rushed downstairs to get some one there to come up and help them put out the fire. When they returned with some of the hotel people, they found that the flames had spread from their room, which was in an "L" at the back of the house, to the front part, where Mrs. Montague's room was, and where the housemaids belonging to the hotel slept. By this time Mr. Montague had gotten upstairs; but he found the passageway to his wife's room so full of flames and smoke, that, though he tried again and again to force his way through, he could not. He disappeared for a time, then he came to Mr. Morris and got his boy, and took him to some rooms over his bank, and shut himself up with him. For some days he would let no one in; then he came out with the look of an old man on his face, and his hair as white as snow, and went out to his beautiful house in the outskirts of the town. Nearly all the horses belonging to the hotel were burned. A few were gotten out by having blankets put over their heads, but the most of them were so terrified that they would not stir. The Morris boys said that they found the old Italian sitting on an empty box, looking at the smoking ruins of the hotel. His head was hanging on his breast, and his eyes were full of tears. His ponies were burned up, he said, and the gander, and the monkeys, and the goats, and his wonderful performing dogs. He had only his birds left, and he was a ruined man. He had toiled all his life to get this troupe of trained animals together, and now they were swept from him. It was cruel and wicked, and he wished he could die. The canaries, and pigeons, and doves, the hotel people had allowed him to take to his room, and they were safe. The parrot was lost--an educated parrot that could answer forty questions, and, among other things, could take a watch and tell the time of day. Jack Morris told him that they had it safe at home, and that it was very much alive, quarreling furiously with his parrot Bella. The old man's face brightened at this, and then Jack and Carl, finding that he had had no breakfast, went off to a restaurant near by, and got him some steak and coffee. The Italian was very grateful, and as he ate, Jack said the tears ran into his coffee cup. He told them how much he loved his animals, and, how it "made ze heart bitter to hear zem crying to him to deliver zem from ze raging fire." The boys came home, and got their breakfast and went to school. Miss Laura did not go out. She sat all day with a very quiet, pained face. She could neither read nor sew, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris were just as unsettled. They talked about the fire in low tones, and I could see that they felt more sad about Mrs. Montague's death than if she had died in an ordinary way. Her dear little canary, Barry, died with her. She would never be separated from him, and his cage had been taken up to the top of the hotel with her. He probably died an easier death than his poor mistress. Charley's dog escaped, but was so frightened that he ran out to their house, outside the town. At tea time, Mr. Morris went down town to see that the Italian got a comfortable place for the night. When he came back, he said that he had found out that the Italian was by no means so old a man as he looked, and that he had talked to him about raising a sum of money for him among the Fairport people, till he had become quite cheerful, and said that if Mr. Morris would do that, he would try to gather another troupe of animals together and train them. "Now, what can we do for this Italian?" asked Mrs. Morris. "We can't give him much money, but we might let him have one or two of our pets. There's Billy, he's a bright, little dog, and not two years old yet. He could teach him anything." There was a blank silence among the Morris children. Billy was such a gentle, lovable, little dog, that he was a favorite with every one in the house. "I suppose we ought to do it," said Miss Laura, at last; "but how can we give him up?" There was a good deal of discussion, but the end of it was that Billy was given to the Italian. He came up to get him, and was very grateful, and made a great many bows, holding his hat in his hand. Billy took to him at once, and the Italian spoke so kindly to him, that we knew he would have a good master. Mr. Morris got quite a large sum of money for him, and when he handed it to him, the poor man was so pleased that he kissed his hand, and promised to send frequent word as to Billy's progress and welfare. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXVI DANDY THE TRAMP About a week after Billy left us, the Morris family, much to its surprise, became the owner of a new dog. He walked into the house one cold, wintry afternoon and lay calmly down by the fire. He was a brindled bull-terrier, and he had on a silver-plated collar with "Dandy" engraved on it. He lay all the evening by the fire, and when any of the family spoke to him, he wagged his tail, and looked pleased. I growled a little at him at first, but he never cared a bit, and just dozed off to sleep, so I soon stopped. He was such a well-bred dog, that the Morrises were afraid that some one had lost him. They made some inquiries the next day, and found that he belonged to a New York gentleman who had come to Fairport in the summer in a yacht. This dog did not like the yacht. He came ashore in a boat whenever he got a chance, and if he could not come in a boat, he would swim. He was a tramp, his master said, and he wouldn't stay long in any place, The Morrises were so amused with his impudence, that they did not send him away, but said every day, "Surely he will be gone to-morrow." However, Mr. Dandy had gotten into comfortable quarters, and he had no intention of changing them, for a while at least. Then he was very handsome, and had such a pleasant way with him, that the family could not help liking him. I never cared for him. He fawned on the Morrises, and pretended he loved them, and afterward turned around and laughed and sneered at them in a way that made me very angry. I used to lecture him sometimes, and growl about him to Jim, but Jim always said, "Let him alone. You can't do him any good. He was born bad. His mother wasn't good. He tells me that she had a bad name among all the dogs in her neighborhood. She was a thief and a runaway." Though he provoked me so often, yet I could not help laughing at some of his stories, they were so funny. We were lying out in the sun, on the platform at the back of the house, one day, and he had been more than usually provoking, so I got up to leave him. He put himself in my way, however, and said, coaxingly, "Don't be cross, old fellow. I'll tell you some stories to amuse you, old boy. What shall they be about?" "I think the story of your life would be about as interesting as anything you could make up," I said, dryly. "All right, fact or fiction, whichever you like. Here's a fact, plain and unvarnished. Born and bred in New York. Swell stable. Swell coachman. Swell master. Jewelled fingers of ladies poking at me, first thing I remember. First painful experience--being sent to vet. to have ears cut." "What's a vet.?" I said. "A veterinary--animal doctor. Vet. didn't cut ears enough. Master sent me back. Cut ears again. Summer time, and flies bad. Ears got sore and festered, flies very attentive. Coachman set little boy to brush flies off, but he'd run out in yard and leave me. Flies awful. Thought they'd eat me up, or else I'd shake out brains trying to get rid of them. Mother should have stayed home and licked my ears, but was cruising about neighborhood. Finally coachman put me in dark place, powdered ears, and they got well." "Why didn't they cut your tail, too?" I said, looking at his long, slim tail, which was like a sewer rat's. "'Twasn't the fashion, Mr. Wayback; a bull-terrier's ears are clipped to keep them from getting torn while fighting." "You're not a fighting dog," I said. "Not I. Too much trouble. I believe in taking things easy." "I should think you did," I said, scornfully. "You never put yourself out for any one, I notice; but, speaking of cropping ears, what do you think of it?" "Well," he said, with a sly glance at my head, "it isn't a pleasant operation; but one might as well be out of the world as out of the fashion. I don't care, now my ears are done." "But," I said, "think of the poor dogs that will come after you." "What difference does that make to me?" he said. "I'll be dead and out of the way. Men can cut off their ears, and tails, and legs, too, if they want to." "Dandy," I said, angrily, "you're the most selfish dog that I ever saw." "Don't excite yourself," he said, coolly. "Let me get on with my story. When I was a few months old, I began to find the stable yard narrow, and wondered what there was outside of it. I discovered a hole in the garden wall, and used to sneak out nights. Oh, what fun it was. I got to know a lot of street dogs, and we had gay times, barking under people's windows and making them mad, and getting into back yards and chasing cats. We used to kill a cat nearly every night. Policeman would chase us, and we would run and run till the water just ran off our tongues, and we hadn't a bit of breath left. Then I'd go home and sleep all day, and go out again the next night. When I was about a year old, I began to stay out days as well as nights. They couldn't keep me home. Then I ran away for three months. I got with an old lady on Fifth Avenue, who was very fond of dogs. She had four white poodles, and her servants used to wash them, and tie up their hair with blue ribbons, and she used to take them for drives in her phaeton in the park, and they wore gold and silver collars. The biggest poodle wore a ruby in his collar worth five hundred dollars. I went driving, too, and sometimes we met my master. He often smiled, and shook his head at me. I heard him tell the coachman one day that I was a little blackguard, and he was to let me come and go as I liked." "If they had whipped you soundly," I said, "it might have made a good dog of you." "I'm good enough now," said Dandy, airily. "The young ladies who drove with my master used to say that it was priggish and tiresome to be too good. To go on with my story: I stayed with Mrs. Judge Tibbett till I got sick of her fussy ways. She made a simpleton of herself over those poodles. Each one had a high chair at the table, and a plate, and they always sat in these chairs and had meals with her, and the servants all called them Master Bijou, and Master Tot, and Miss Tiny, and Miss Fluff. One day they tried to make me sit in a chair, and I got cross and bit Mrs. Tibbett, and she beat me cruelly, and her servants stoned me away from the house." "Speaking about fools, Dandy," I said, "if it is polite to call a lady one, I should say that that lady was one. Dogs shouldn't be put out of their place. Why didn't she have some poor children at her table, and in her carriage, and let the dogs run behind?" "Easy to see you don't know New York," said Dandy, with a laugh. "Poor children don't live with rich, old ladies. Mrs. Tibbett hated children, anyway. Then dogs like poodles would get lost in the mud, or killed in the crowd if they ran behind a carriage. Only knowing dogs like me can make their way about." I rather doubted this speech; but I said nothing, and he went on, patronizingly: "However, Joe, thou hast reason, as the French say. Mrs. Judge Tibbett 'didn't' give her dogs exercise enough. Their claws were as long as Chinamen's nails, and the hair grew over their pads, and they had red eyes and were always sick, and she had to dose them with medicine, and call them her poor, little, 'weeny-teeny, sicky-wicky doggies.' Bah! I got disgusted with her. When I left her, I ran away to her niece's, Miss Ball's. She was a sensible young lady, and she used to scold her aunt for the way in which she brought up her dogs. She was almost too sensible, for her pug and I were rubbed and scrubbed within an inch of our lives, and had to go for such long walks that I got thoroughly sick of them. A woman, whom the servants called Trotsey, came every morning, and took the pug and me by our chains, and sometimes another dog or two, and took us for long tramps in quiet streets. That was Trotsey's business, to walk dogs, and Miss Ball got a great many fashionable young ladies who could not exercise their dogs, to let Trotsey have them, and they said that it made a great difference in the health and appearance of their pets. Trotsey got fifteen cents an hour for a dog. Goodness, what appetites those walks gave us, and didn't we make the dog biscuits disappear? But it was a slow life at Miss Ball's. We only saw her for a little while every day. She slept till noon. After lunch she played with us for a little while in the greenhouse, then she was off driving or visiting, and in the evening she always had company, or went to a dance, or to the theatre. I soon made up my mind that I'd run away. I jumped out of a window one fine morning, and ran home. I stayed there for a long time. My mother had been run over by a cart and killed, and I wasn't sorry. My master never bothered his head about me, and I could do as I liked. One day when I was having a walk, and meeting a lot of dogs that I knew, a little boy came behind me, and before I could tell what he was doing, he had snatched me up, and was running off with me. I couldn't bite him, for he had stuffed some of his rags in my mouth. He took me to a tenement house, in a part of the city that I had never been in before. He belonged to a very poor family. My faith, weren't they badly off--six children, and a mother and father, all living in two tiny rooms. Scarcely a bit of meat did I smell while I was there. I hated their bread and molasses, and the place smelled so badly that I thought I should choke. "They kept me shut up in their dirty rooms for several days; and the brat of a boy that caught me slept with his arm around me at night. The weather was hot and sometimes we couldn't sleep, and they had to go up on the roof. After a while, they chained me up in a filthy yard at the back of the house, and there I thought I should go mad. I would have liked to bite them all to death, if I had dared. It's awful to be chained, especially for a dog like me that loves his freedom. The flies worried me, and the noises distracted me, and my flesh would fairly creep from getting no exercise. I was there nearly a month, while they were waiting for a reward to be offered. But none came; and one day, the boy's father, who was a street peddler, took me by my chain and led me about the streets till he sold me. A gentleman got me for his little boy, but I didn't like the look of him, so I sprang up and bit his hand, and he dropped the chain, and I dodged boys and policemen, and finally got home more dead than alive, and looking like a skeleton. I had a good time for several weeks, and then I began to get restless and was off again. But I'm getting tired; I want to go to sleep." "You're not very polite," I said, "to offer to tell a story, and then go to sleep before you finish it." "Look out for number one, my boy," said Dandy, with a yawn; "for if you don't, no one else will," and he shut his eyes and was fast asleep in a few minutes. I sat and looked at him. What a handsome, good-natured, worthless dog he was. A few days later, he told me the rest of his history. After a great many wanderings, he happened home one day just as his master's yacht was going to sail, and they chained him up till they went on board, so that he could be an amusement on the passage to Fairport. It was in November that Dandy came to us, and he stayed all winter. He made fun of the Morrises all the time, and said they had a dull, poky, old house, and he only stayed because Miss Laura was nursing him. He had a little sore on his back that she soon found out was mange. Her father said it was a bad disease for dogs to have, and Dandy had better be shot; but she begged so hard for his life, and said she would cure him in a few weeks, that she was allowed to keep him. Dandy wasn't capable of getting really angry, but he was as disturbed about having this disease as he could be about anything. He said that he had got it from a little, mangy dog, that he had played with a few weeks before. He was only with the dog a little while, and didn't think he would take it, but it seemed he knew what an easy thing it was to get. Until he got well he was separated from us. Miss Laura kept him up in the loft with the rabbits, where we could not go; and the boys ran him around the garden for exercise. She tried all kind of cures for him, and I heard her say that though it was a skin disease, his blood must be purified. She gave him some of the pills that she made out of sulphur and butter for Jim, and Billy, and me, to keep our coats silky and smooth. When they didn't cure him, she gave him a few drops of arsenic every day, and washed the sore, and, indeed his whole body, with tobacco water or carbolic soap. It was the tobacco water that cured him. Miss Laura always put on gloves when she went near him, and used a brush to wash him, for if a person takes mange from a dog, they may lose their hair and their eyelashes. But if they are careful, no harm comes from nursing a mangy dog, and I have never known of any one taking the disease. After a time, Dandy's sore healed, and he was set free. He was right glad, he said, for he had got heartily sick of the rabbits. He used to bark at them and make them angry, and they would run around the loft, stamping their hind feet at him, in the funny way that rabbits do. I think they disliked him as much as he disliked them. Jim and I did not get the mange. Dandy was not a strong dog, and I think his irregular way of living made him take diseases readily. He would stuff himself when he was hungry, and he always wanted rich food. If he couldn't get what he wanted at the Morrises', he went out and stole, or visited the dumps at the back of the town. When he did get ill, he was more stupid about doctoring himself than any dog that I have ever seen. He never seemed to know when to eat grass or herbs, or a little earth, that would have kept him in good condition. A dog should never be without grass. When Dandy got ill he just suffered till he got well again, and never tried to cure himself of his small troubles. Some dogs even know enough to amputate their limbs. Jim told me a very interesting story of a dog the Morrises once had, called Gyp, whose leg became paralyzed by a kick from a horse. He knew the leg was dead, and gnawed it off nearly to the shoulder, and though he was very sick for a time, yet in the end he got well. To return to Dandy. I knew he was only waiting for the spring to leave us, and I was not sorry. The first fine day he was off, and during the rest of the spring and summer we occasionally met him running about the town with a set of fast dogs. One day I stopped and asked him how he contented himself in such a quiet place as Fairport, and he said he was dying to get back to New York, and was hoping that his master's yacht would come and take him away. Poor Dandy never left Fairport. After all, he was not such a bad dog. There was nothing really vicious about him, and I hate to speak of his end. His master's yacht did not come, and soon the summer was over, and the winter was coming, and no one wanted Dandy, for he had such a bad name. He got hungry and cold, and one day sprang upon a little girl, to take away a piece of bread and butter that she was eating. He did not see the large house-dog on the door sill, and before he could get away, the dog had seized him, and bitten and shaken him till he was nearly dead. When the dog threw him aside, he crawled to the Morrises, and Miss Laura bandaged his wounds, and made him a bed in the stable. One Sunday morning she washed and fed him very tenderly, for she knew he could not live much longer. He was so weak that he could scarcely eat the food that she put in his mouth, so she let him lick some milk from her finger. As she was going to church, I could not go with her, but I ran down the lane and watched her out of sight. When I came back, Dandy was gone. I looked till I found him. He had crawled into the darkest corner of the stable to die, and though he was suffering very much, he never uttered a sound. I sat by him and thought of his master in New York. If he had brought Dandy up properly he might not now be here in his silent death agony. A young pup should be trained just as a child is, and punished when he goes wrong. Dandy began badly, and not being checked in his evil ways, had come to this. Poor Dandy! Poor, handsome dog of a rich master! He opened his dull eyes, gave me one last glance, then, with a convulsive shudder, his torn limbs were still. He would never suffer any more. When Miss Laura came home, she cried bitterly to know that he was dead. The boys took him away from her, and made him a grave in the corner of the garden. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXVII THE END OF MY STORY I have come now to the last chapter of my story. I thought when I began to write, that I would put down the events of each year of my life, but I fear that would make my story too long, and neither Miss Laura nor any boys and girls would care to read it. So I will stop just here, though I would gladly go on, for I have enjoyed so much talking over old times, that I am very sorry to leave off. Every year that I have been at the Morrises', something pleasant has happened to me, but I cannot put all these things down, nor can I tell how Miss Laura and the boys grew and changed, year by year, till now they are quite grown up. I will just bring my tale down to the present time, and then I will stop talking, and go lie down in my basket, for I am an old dog now, and get tired very easily. I was a year old when I went to the Morrises, and I have been with them for twelve years. I am not living in the same house with Mr. and Mrs, Morris now, but I am with my dear Miss Laura, who is Miss Laura no longer, but Mrs. Gray. She married Mr. Harry four years ago, and lives with him and Mr. and Mrs. Wood, on Dingley Farm. Mr. and Mrs. Morris live in a cottage near by. Mr. Morris is not very strong, and can preach no longer. The boys are all scattered. Jack married pretty Miss Bessie Drury, and lives on a large farm near here. Miss Bessie says that she hates to be a farmer's wife, but she always looks very happy and contented, so I think that she must be mistaken. Carl is a merchant in New York, Ned is a clerk in a bank, and Willie is studying at a place called Harvard. He says that after he finishes his studies, he is going to live with his father and mother. The Morrises' old friends often come to see them. Mrs. Drury comes every summer on her way to Newport, and Mr. Montague and Charlie come every other summer. Charlie always brings with him his old dog Brisk, who is getting feeble, like myself. We lie on the veranda in the sunshine, and listen to the Morrises talking about old days, and sometimes it makes us feel quite young again. In addition to Brisk we have a Scotch collie. He is very handsome, and is a constant attendant of Miss Laura's. We are great friends, he and I, but he can get about much better than I can. One day a friend of Miss Laura's came with a little boy and girl, and "Collie" sat between the two children, and their father took their picture with a "kodak." I like him so much that I told him I would get them to put his picture in my book. When the Morris boys are all here in the summer we have gay times. All through the winter we look forward to their coming, for they make the old farmhouse so lively. Mr. Maxwell never misses a summer in coming to Riverdale. He has such a following of dumb animals now, that he says he can't move them any farther away from Boston than this, and he doesn't know what he will do with them, unless he sets up a menagerie. He asked Miss Laura the other day, if she thought that the old Italian would take him into partnership. He did not know what had happened to poor Bellini, so Miss Laura told him. A few years ago the Italian came to Riverdale, to exhibit his new stock of performing animals. They were almost as good as the old ones, but he had not quite so many as he had before. The Morrises and a great many of their friends went to his performance, and Miss Laura said afterward, that when cunning little Billy came on the stage, and made his bow, and went through his antics of jumping through hoops, and catching balls, that she almost had hysterics. The Italian had made a special pet of him for the Morrises' sake, and treated him more like a human being than a dog. Billy rather put on airs when he came up to the farm to see us, but he was such a dear, little dog, in spite of being almost spoiled by his master, that Jim and I could not get angry with him. In a few days they went away, and we heard nothing but good news from them, till last winter. Then a letter came to Miss Laura from a nurse in a New York hospital. She said that the Italian was very near his end, and he wanted her to write to Mrs. Gray to tell her that he had sold all his animals but the little dog that she had so kindly given him. He was sending him back to her, and with his latest breath he would pray for heaven's blessing on the kind lady and her family that had befriended him when he was in trouble. The next day Billy arrived, a thin, white scarecrow of a dog. He was sick and unhappy, and would eat nothing, and started up at the slightest sound. He was listening for the Italian's footsteps, but he never came, and one day Mr. Harry looked up from his newspaper and said, "Laura, Bellini is dead." Miss Laura's eyes filled with tears, and Billy, who had jumped up when he heard his master's name, fell back again. He knew what they meant, and from that instant he ceased listening for footsteps, and lay quite still till he died. Miss Laura had him put in a little wooden box, and buried him in a corner of the garden, and when she is working among her flowers, she often speaks regretfully of him, and of poor Dandy, who lies in the garden at Fairport. Bella, the parrot, lives with Mrs. Morris, and is as smart as ever. I have heard that parrots live to a very great age. Some of them even get to be a hundred years old. If that is the case, Bella will outlive all of us. She notices that I am getting blind and feeble, and when I go down to call on Mrs. Morris, she calls out to me, "Keep a stiff upper lip, Beautiful Joe. Never say die, Beautiful Joe. Keep the game a-going, Beautiful Joe." Mrs. Morris says that she doesn't know where Bella picks up her slang words. I think it is Mr. Ned who teaches her, for when he comes home in the summer he often says, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "Come out into the garden, Bella," and he lies in a hammock under the trees, and Bella perches on a branch near him, and he talks to her by the hour. Anyway, it is in the autumn after he leaves Riverdale that Bella always shocks Mrs. Morris with her slang talk. I am glad that I am to end my days in Riverdale. Fairport was a very nice place, but it was not open and free like this farm. I take a walk every morning that the sun shines. I go out among the horses and cows, and stop to watch the hens pecking at their food. This is a happy place, and I hope my dear Miss Laura will live to enjoy it many years after I am gone. I have very few worries. The pigs bother me a little in the spring, by rooting up the bones that I bury in the fields in the fall, but that is a small matter, and I try not to mind it. I get a great many bones here, and I should be glad if I had some poor, city dogs to help me eat them. I don't think bones are good for pigs. Then there is Mr. Harry's tame squirrel out in one of the barns that teases me considerably. He knows that I can't chase him, now that my legs are so stiff with rheumatism, and he takes delight in showing me how spry he can be, darting around me and whisking his tail almost in my face, and trying to get me to run after him, so that he can laugh at me. I don't think that he is a very thoughtful squirrel, but I try not to notice him. The sailor boy who gave Bella to the Morrises has got to be a large, stout man, and is the first mate of a vessel. He sometimes comes here, and when he does, he always brings the Morrises presents of foreign fruits and curiosities of different kinds. Malta, the cat, is still living, and is with Mrs. Morris. Davy, the rat, is gone, so is poor old Jim. He went away one day last summer, and no one ever knew what became of him. The Morrises searched everywhere for him, and offered a large reward to any one who would find him, but he never turned up again. I think that he felt he was going to die, and went into some out-of-the-way place. He remembered how badly Miss Laura felt when Dandy died, and he wanted to spare her the greater sorrow of his death. He was always such a thoughtful dog, and so anxious not to give trouble. I am more selfish. I could not go away from Miss Laura even to die. When my last hour comes, I want to see her gentle face bending over me, and then I shall not mind how much I suffer. She is just as tender-hearted as ever, but she tries not to feel too badly about the sorrow and suffering in the world, because she says that would weaken her, and she wants all her strength to try to put a stop to some of it. She does a great deal of good in Riverdale, and I do not think that there is any one in all the country around who is as much beloved as she is. She has never forgotten the resolve that she made some years ago, that she would do all that she could to protect dumb creatures. Mr. Harry and Mr. Maxwell have helped her nobly. Mr. Maxwell's work is largely done in Boston, and Miss Laura and Mr. Harry have to do the most of theirs by writing, for Riverdale has got to be a model village in respect of the treatment of all kinds of animals. It is a model village not only in that respect, but in others. It has seemed as if all other improvements went hand in hand with the humane treatment of animals. Thoughtfulness toward lower creatures has made the people more and more thoughtful toward themselves, and this little town is getting to have quite a name through the State for its good schools, good society, and good business and religious standing. Many people are moving into it, to educate their children. The Riverdale people are very particular about what sort of strangers come to live among them. A man, who came here two years ago and opened a shop, was seen kicking a small kitten out of his house. The next day a committee of Riverdale citizens waited on him, and said they had had a great deal of trouble to root out cruelty from their village, and they didn't want any one to come there and introduce it again, and they thought he had better move on to some other place. The man was utterly astonished, and said he'd never heard of such particular people. He had had no thought of being cruel. He didn't think that the kitten cared; but now when he turned the thing over in his mind, he didn't suppose cats liked being kicked about any more than he would like it himself, and he would promise to be kind to them in future. He said, too, that if they had no objection, he would just stay on, for if the people there treated dumb animals with such consideration, they would certainly treat human beings better, and he thought it would be a good place to bring up his children in. Of course they let him stay, and he is now a man who is celebrated for his kindness to every living thing; and he never refuses to help Miss Laura when she goes to him for money to carry out any of her humane schemes. There is one most important saying of Miss Laura's that comes out of her years of service for dumb animals that I must put in before I close, and it is this. She says that cruel and vicious owners of animals should be punished; but to merely thoughtless people, don't say "Don't" so much. Don't go to them and say, "Don't overfeed your animals, and don't starve them, and don't overwork them, and don't beat them," and so on through the long list of hardships that can be put upon suffering animals, but say simply to them, "Be kind. Make a study of your animals' wants, and see that they are satisfied. No one can tell you how to treat your animal as well as you should know yourself, for you are with it all the time, and know its disposition, and just how much work it can stand, and how much rest and food it needs, and just how it is different from every other animal. If it is sick or unhappy, you are the one to take care of it; for nearly every animal loves its own master better than a stranger, and will get well quicker under his care." Miss Laura says that if men and women are kind in every respect to their dumb servants, they will be astonished to find how much happiness they will bring into their lives, and how faithful and grateful their dumb animals will be to them. Now, I must really close my story. Good-bye to the boys and girls who may read it; and if it is not wrong for a dog to say it, I should like to add, "God bless you all." If in my feeble way I have been able to impress you with the fact that dogs and many other animals love their masters and mistresses, and live only to please them, my little story will not be written in vain. My last words are, "Boys and girls, be kind to dumb animals, not only because you will lose nothing by it, but because you ought to; for they were placed on the earth by the same Kind Hand that made all living creatures." END OF TEXT 
21728	----	THE DOG CRUSOE AND HIS MASTER, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. THE BACKWOODS SETTLEMENT--CRUSOE'S PARENTAGE AND EARLY HISTORY--THE AGONISING PAINS AND SORROWS OF HIS PUPPYHOOD, AND OTHER INTERESTING MATTERS. The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss your head contemptuously, and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told _you_ that." You know very well that you have often seen a man above six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggy visage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, or thought, or heard others say, "It is scarcely possible to believe that such a man was once a squalling baby." If you had seen our hero in all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would have experienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you--as we now repeat-- that the dog Crusoe was once a pup--a soft, round, sprawling, squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind as a bat. But we draw particular attention to the fact of Crusoe's having once been a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood there hangs a tale. This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two tails--one in connection with his body, the other with his career. This tale, though short, is very harrowing, and, as it is intimately connected with Crusoe's subsequent history, we will relate it here. But before doing so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the civilised portions of the United States of America--beyond the frontier settlements of the "far west," into those wild prairies which are watered by the great Missouri river--the Father of Waters--and his numerous tributaries. Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawares, the Crows, the Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are gradually retreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancing white man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here, too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, and the badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamed and ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that sweeps over their mighty plains. There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of one of the tributaries above referred to--a long stretch of mingled woodland and meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green bosom--which goes by the name of the Mustang Valley. This remote vale, even at the present day, is but thinly peopled by white men, and is still a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowl curiously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. At the period of which we write the valley had just been taken possession of by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and the squabbles of the then frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have "elbow room," regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in unknown lands and of the Red-skins who dwelt there. The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Most of the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicit reliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to protect them--and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men than these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had been trained to the use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many of them had spent so much of their lives in the woods, that they were more than a match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of hunting and war. When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering the valley, an immense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain. These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men, than, uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breeze and dashed away like a whirlwind. This incident procured the valley its name. The newcomers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and then set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while the occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were catering successfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang Valley began to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with cottages and waving fields clustered together in the midst of it. Of course the savages soon found it out, and paid it occasional visits. These dark-skinned tenants of the woods brought furs of wild animals with them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, and beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the "Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had at this time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting grounds, and nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters prevented these savages from butchering and scalping them all. The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman whose love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to exchange barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was a first-rate shot, a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist. He was past the prime of life, and, being a bachelor, was unencumbered with a family. His first act on reaching the site of the new settlement was to commence the erection of a block-house, to which the people might retire in case of a general attack by the Indians. In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of the settlement,--and here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in the early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his shaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood, and from the wooden portals of this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the fire, and strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood. Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There was no doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope had received them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had brought them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name was Crusoe; the mother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so called no one could tell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained the pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of the celebrated "Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan had been named after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend, who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had received him as a marriage gift from a friend of _his_; and that each had said to the other that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons being asked or given on either side. On arriving at New York the major's friend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not being much of a dog fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him away to a gentleman, who took him down to Florida, and that was the end of him. He was never heard of more. When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, of course, without a name. That was given to him afterwards in honour of his father. He was also born in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drowned themselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, by falling into the river which flowed past the block-house,--a calamity which occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out without their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother and sisters at the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved from sharing their fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed with an agonised howl into the water, and, seizing him in her mouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards brought the others ashore one by one, but the poor little things were dead. And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the proper understanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful. One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American year called the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to the Mustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A young hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades, watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finished a long "palaver" or "talk" with Major Hope, were now in the act of preparing supper. A fire had been kindled on the green sward in front of the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large tin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or squaw, who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffs and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing with several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The master of the family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes, smoking their stone pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing peculiar in their appearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse in expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which formed a striking contrast to the countenance of the young hunter, who seemed an amused spectator of their proceedings. The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we are accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did not possess that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often characterise these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no one would have called him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and agility rather than strength. But the point about him which rendered him different from his companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of spirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitary wandering in the woods. None seemed so well fitted for social enjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, or expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet for days together he went off alone into the forest, and wandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silent as an Indian warrior. After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followed implicitly the dictates of nature within him. He was amiable, straightforward, sanguine, and intensely _earnest_. When he laughed he let it out, as sailors have it, "with a will." When there was good cause to be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We have called him boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period of life when a youth is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was good-looking (_every_ earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hair was reddish-brown, and his eye bright blue. He was costumed in the deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins, and leathern shirt common to the western hunter. "You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley," said a man who at that moment issued from the block-house. "That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the youth, turning with a broad grin to his companion. "Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much. They soon take offence; an' them Red-skins never forgive." "But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing to the child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing with a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate rushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave anxiety as the pup returned at full gallop. "It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such a queer pictur' o' itself." He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw the Indian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg with one hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it several violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill the poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body over the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the pot to be cooked. The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup, and it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although they had often heard others speak of and describe it. Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the two hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, it would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But the instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks. Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle, while Dick Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position, scowled angrily in the woman's face, and, turning on his heel, walked up to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms. Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground and shook his head. Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in appearance and in fact--broad, tall, massive, lion-like,--gifted with the hunting, stalking, running, and trail--following powers of the savage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers, the daring and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too seldom smiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was a compound of seriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he was a good, steady shot; but by no means a "crack" one. _His_ ball never failed to _hit_, but it often failed to kill. After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and muttered to himself; "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for a hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all." Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage. Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone, which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom. Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks, Crusoe was as well, and sleek, and fat as ever. CHAPTER TWO. A SHOOTING MATCH AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--NEW FRIENDS INTRODUCED TO THE READER--CRUSOE AND HIS MOTHER CHANGE MASTERS. Shortly after the incident narrated in the last chapter, the squatters of the Mustang Valley lost their leader. Major Hope suddenly announced his intention of quitting the settlement, and returning to the civilised world. Private matters, he said, required his presence there--matters which he did not choose to speak of but which would prevent his returning again to reside among them. Go he must, and, being a man of determination, go he did; but before going he distributed all his goods and chattels among the settlers. He even gave away his rifle, and Fan, and Crusoe. These last, however, he resolved should go together; and as they were well worth having, he announced that he would give them to the best shot in the valley. He stipulated that the winner should escort him to the nearest settlement eastward, after which he might return with the rifle on his shoulder. Accordingly, a long level piece of ground on the river's bank, with a perpendicular cliff at the end of it, was selected as the shooting ground, and, on the appointed day, at the appointed hour, the competitors began to assemble. "Well, lad, first as usual," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as he reached the ground and found Dick Varley there before him. "I've bin here more than an hour lookin' for a new kind o' flower that Jack Morgan told me he'd seen. And I've found it too. Look here; did you ever see one like it before?" Blunt leaned his rifle against a tree, and carefully examined the flower. "Why, yes, I've seed a-many o' them up about the Rocky Mountains, but never one here-away. It seems to have gone lost itself. The last I seed, if I remimber rightly, wos near the head-waters o' the Yellowstone River, it wos--jest where I shot a grizzly bar." "Was that the bar that gave you the wipe on the cheek?" asked Varley, forgetting the flower in his interest about the bear. "It was. I put six balls in that bar's carcase, and stuck my knife into its heart ten times afore it gave out; an' it nearly ripped the shirt off my back afore I was done with it." "I would give my rifle to get a chance at a grizzly!" exclaimed Varley, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Whoever got it wouldn't have much to brag of," remarked a burly young backwoodsman, as he joined them. His remark was true, for poor Dick's weapon was but a sorry affair. It missed fire, and it hung fire, and even when it did fire it remained a matter of doubt in its owner's mind whether the slight deviations from the direct line made by his bullets were the result of _his_ or _its_ bad shooting. Further comment upon it was checked by the arrival of a dozen or more hunters on the scene of action. They were a sturdy set of bronzed, bold, fearless men, and one felt, on looking at them, that they would prove more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in open fight. A few minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize rifle on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels--the latter tumbling, scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been nearly roasted alive only a few weeks before. Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed with animation. And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before been seen on the western frontier. It was shorter in the barrel and larger in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted. But the grand peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the mystery of mysteries to the savages, was, that it had two sets of locks--one percussion, the other flint--so that, when caps failed, by taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others, it was converted into a flint-rifle. The major, however, took care never to run short of caps, so that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve in case of need. "Now, lads," cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they were to shoot, "remember the terms. He who first drives the nail obtains the rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest settlements. Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the chance." "Agreed," cried the men. "Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail. Here it is." The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong--nay, more, he was gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot. Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw him frown. Even when fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes compelled to do in self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial rage that was almost laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution, and frequently _soundless_ motion, were essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he must have been born under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything with safety, often with success, and sometimes with credit. To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day's journey. Joe Blunt used to say he was "all jints together, from the top of his head to the sole of his moccasin." He threw his immense form into the most inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of work was so much against his plunging nature, that he took long to learn it, but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the valley. This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo or a barn door. Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged, could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post. No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken. Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to insure a somersault--yet he always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the settlement, when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and could only make up for it by _plunging_. This habit got him into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power as often got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian, and a particularly bad speaker of the English language. We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special notice. But to return. The sort of rifle practice called "driving the nail," by which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is, common among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this,--an ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the major resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy yards. Some of the older men shook their heads. "It's too far," said one; "ye might as well try to snuff the nose o' a mosquito." "Jim Scraggs is the only man as'll hit that," said another. The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow with a cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy, Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance. In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular _measure_ among them. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not "hang" on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the object, and, the instant the sight covered it, the ball sped to its mark. In a few minutes the nail was encircled by bullet-holes, scarcely two of which were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one--fired by Joe Blunt--entered the tree close beside it. "Ah, Joe!" said the major, "I thought you would have carried off the prize." "So did not I, sir," returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. "Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I'd ha' done better, but I never _could_ hit the nail. It's too small to _see_." "That's cos ye've got no eyes," remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as he stepped forward. All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it. "That wins if there's no better," said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment. "Who comes next?" To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions, he said--"Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!" "Can ye `behold' the _tree_?" shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat abated. "Oh! oui," replied Henri quite coolly; "I can see _him_, an' a goot small bit of de forest beyond." "Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle--leastwise ye ought to get the pup." Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim. The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail! "It's more be good luck than good shootin'," remarked Jim Scraggs. "Possiblement," answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; "mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck." "Bravo! Henri," said Major Hope as he passed; "you _deserve_ to win, anyhow. Who's next?" "Dick Varley," cried several voices; "where's Varley? Come on, youngster, an' take yer shot." The youth came forward with evident reluctance. "It's of no manner o' use," he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, "I can't depend on my old gun." "Never give in," whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley's want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire. "Lend him another gun," cried several voices. "'Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope," said Scraggs. "Well, so it is; try again." Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge. Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two. "There are others to shoot yet," cried the major. "Make way. Look out." The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer the mark. It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the two best shots, should try over again; and it was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt's rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat hastily, and fired. "Hit again!" shouted those who had run forward to examine the mark. "_Half_ the bullet cut off by the nail-head!" Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick's friends cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim's powers, and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle. At that moment our friend Crusoe--tired of tormenting his mother-- waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and, in so doing, received Henri's heel and the full weight of his elephantine body on its fore-paw. The horrible and electric yell that instantly issued from his agonised throat could only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, "to the last dyin' screech o' a bustin' steam biler!" We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so used to them that a "bustin' steam biler" itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a hair's-breadth. Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that remarkable dog on the spot, but quick as lightning Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim's shin met it with a violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain. "Oh! pardon me, broder," cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and glee. Jim's discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of anger and left the ground. Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young Varley. "It couldn't have fallen into better hands," he said. "You'll do it credit, lad, I know that full well, and let me assure you it will never play you false. Only keep it clean, don't overcharge it, aim true, and it will never miss the mark." While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good fortune. Recovering himself suddenly he seized his old rifle, and, dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd, while the men were still busy handling and discussing the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the shoulder. "Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new one. Take it _now_, lad. It's come to ye sooner than either o' us expected." "Dick," said the boy, grasping his friend's hand warmly, "yer true as heart of oak. It's good of 'ee, that's a fact." "Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin' to give away an old gun that I've no use for, an's worth little, but it makes me right glad to have the chance to do it." Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could walk, but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did not at that moment experience as much joy in handling the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize. A difficulty now occurred which had not before been thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal of Dick Varley's canine property to follow him. Fan had no idea of changing masters without her consent being asked, or her inclination being consulted. "You'll have to tie her up for a while, I fear," said the major. "No fear," answered the youth. "Dog natur's like human natur'!" Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting shirt, and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his shoulder. Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute, gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a melancholy howl. The mother's love instantly prevailed. For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound, and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin of the lake. CHAPTER THREE. SPECULATIVE REMARKS WITH WHICH THE READER MAY OR MAY NOT AGREE--AN OLD WOMAN--HOPES AND WISHES COMMINGLED WITH HARD FACTS--THE DOG CRUSOE'S EDUCATION BEGUN. It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble face. On such a face did Richard Varley look every night when he entered his mother's cottage. Mrs Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her husband. Love for her only brother induced her to forsake the peaceful village of Maryland, and enter upon the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick's mother was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was stamped with a species of beauty which _never_ fades--the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man for a time, but the _loving look_ alone can forge that adamantine chain that time, age, eternity, shall never break. Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt to analyse this look which characterised Mrs Varley. A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even when one is in a hurry! The brightest jewel in the human heart is worth a thought or two! By a _loving look_, we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a beloved object. That is common enough, and thankful should we be that it is so common in a world that's over-full of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile and look of intense affection with which some people--good people too--greet friends and foe alike, and by which effort to work out their _beau ideal_ of the expression of Christian love, they do signally damage their cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay. Much less do we mean that _perpetual_ smile of good-will which argues more of personal comfort and self-love than anything else. No, the loving look we speak of is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very much on the face through which it beams. And it cannot be counterfeited. Its _ring_ defies imitation. Like the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it can gleam in depths of woe--but it is always the same, modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to others, according to the natural amiability of him or her who bestows it. No one can put it on. Still less can any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces all mankind, though, _of course_, it is intensified on a few favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed heart, and its foundation lies in love to God. Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort. It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it into two rooms. One of these was subdivided by a thin partition, the inner room being Mrs Varley's bedroom, the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's dormitory was a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as a parlour. The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind have literally got a sort of _expression_ on--if we may use the word--their countenances. _Square_ windows give the appearance of easy-going placidity; _longish_ ones, that of surprise. Mrs Varley's was a surprised cottage, and this was in keeping with the scene in which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene so surprisingly beautiful that it never failed to call forth an expression of astonished admiration from every new visitor to the Mustang Valley. "My boy," exclaimed Mrs Varley, as her son entered the cottage with a bound, "why so hurried to-day? Deary me! where got you the grand gun?" "Won it, mother!" "Won it, my son?" "Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail _almost_, and would ha' druve it _altogether_ had I bin more used to Joe Blunt's rifle." Mrs Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of the match. "Deary me! now that was good; that was cliver. But what's that scraping at the door?" "Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan! Come in, good dog," he cried rising and opening the door. Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable. "My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?" "Won her too, mother!" "Won her, my son?" "Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and he plucked Crusoe from his bosom. Crusoe, having found his position to be one of great comfort, had fallen into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened, he gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic sympathy to his side. "There you are, Fan, take it to a corner and make yourself at home. Ay, that's right, mother, give her somethin' to eat; she's hungry, I know by the look o' her eye." "Deary me, Dick," said Mrs Varley, who now proceeded to spread the youth's mid-day meal before him, "did ye drive the nail three times?" "No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em all down at one shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!" "Well, well, now that was cliver; but--" Here the old woman paused and looked grave. "But what, mother?" "You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy." "Wantin' _now_!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm _always_ wantin'. I've bin wantin' ever since I could walk; but I won't go till you let me, mother, that I won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly that the platters rung again. "You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit to ventur' among the Red-skins." "An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur' at all. You know, mother dear, I don't want to leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in the kitchen you know, mother!" At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl. "Hist! mother; that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered, opening the door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came. Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the forest showed the advancing cavalcade to be a party of white men. In another moment they were in full view--a band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern costume, and armed with the long rifle of the far west. Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress which gave to them a brilliant, dashing look. They came on straight for the block-house, and saluted the Varleys with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed. Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and calling out, "They're trappers, mother, I'll be back in an hour," bounded off like a deer through the woods, taking a short cut in order to reach the block-house before them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the river, dashed up the slope, and came to a sudden halt on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds they tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which they entered in a body. Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They were trappers, they said, on their way to the Rocky Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But one of their number had been treacherously murdered and scalped by a Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his death by an attack on one of the Pawnee villages. They would teach these "red reptiles" to respect white men, they would, come of it what might; and they had turned aside here to procure an additional supply of powder and lead. In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these reckless men from their purpose. They scoffed at the idea of returning good for evil, and insisted on being supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place of defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no refusing their request--at least so the major thought. The ammunition was therefore given to them, and in half an hour they were away again at full gallop over the plains on their mission of vengeance. "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, saith the Lord." But these men knew not what God said, because they never read His Word, and did not own His sway. Young Varley's enthusiasm was considerably damped when he learned the errand on which the trappers were bent. From that time forward he gave up all desire to visit the mountains in company with such men, but he still retained an intense longing to roam at large among their rocky fastnesses, and gallop out upon the wide prairies. Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother's cattle and sheep, and contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt in the neighbouring forests. He devoted himself also to the training of his dog Crusoe--an operation which at first cost him many a deep sigh. Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning capabilities of the Newfoundland dog. Indeed, some have even gone the length of saying that what is called instinct in these animals is neither more nor less than reason. And, in truth, many of the noble, heroic, and sagacious deeds that have actually been performed by Newfoundland dogs incline us almost to believe that, like man, they are gifted with reasoning powers. But every one does not know the trouble and patience that is required in order to get a juvenile dog to understand what its master means when he is endeavouring to instruct it. Crusoe's first lesson was an interesting, but not a very successful one. We may remark here that Dick Varley had presented Fan to his mother to be her watch-dog, resolving to devote all his powers to the training of the pup. We may also remark, in reference to Crusoe's appearance (and we did not remark it sooner, chiefly because up to this period in his eventful history he was little better than a ball of fat and hair), that his coat was mingled jet-black and pure white, and remarkably glossy, curly, and thick. A week after the shooting match Crusoe's education began. Having fed him for that period with his own hand, in order to gain his affection, Dick took him out one sunny forenoon to the margin of the lake to give him his first lesson. And here again we must pause to remark that, although a dog's heart is generally gained in the first instance through his mouth, yet, after it is thoroughly gained, his affection is noble and disinterested. He can scarcely be driven from his master's side by blows, and even when thus harshly repelled is always ready, on the shortest notice and with the slightest encouragement, to make it up again. Well, Dick Varley began by calling out, "Crusoe! Crusoe! come here, pup." Of course Crusoe knew his name by this time, for it had been so often used as a prelude to his meals, that he naturally expected a feed whenever he heard it. This portal to his brain had already been open for some days; but all the other doors were fast locked, and it required a great deal of careful picking to open them. "Now, Crusoe, come here." Crusoe bounded clumsily to his master's side, cocked his ears, and wagged his tail--so far his education was perfect. We say he bounded _clumsily_, for it must be remembered that he was still a very young pup, with soft, flabby muscles. "Now, I'm goin' to begin yer edication, pup; think o' that." Whether Crusoe thought of that or not we cannot say, but he looked up in his master's face as he spoke, cocked his ears very high, and turned his head slowly to one side, until it could not turn any further in that direction; then he turned it as much to the other side, whereat his master burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Crusoe immediately began barking vociferously. "Come, come," said Dick, suddenly checking his mirth, "we mustn't play, pup, we must work." Drawing a leathern mitten from his belt, the youth held it to Crusoe's nose, and then threw it a yard away, at the same time exclaiming in a loud, distinct tone, "_Fetch it_." Crusoe entered at once into the spirit of this part of his training; he dashed gleefully at the mitten, and proceeded to worry it with intense gratification. As for "_Fetch it_," he neither understood the words nor cared a straw about them. Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the mitten, resumed his seat on a rock. "Come here, Crusoe," he repeated. "Oh! certainly, by all means," said Crusoe--no! he didn't exactly _say_ it, but really he _looked_ these words so evidently, that we think it right to let them stand as they are written. If he could have finished the sentence he would certainly have said, "Go on with that game over again, old boy; it's quite to my taste--the jolliest thing in life, I assure you!" At least, if we may not positively assert that he would have said that, no one else can absolutely affirm that he wouldn't. Well, Dick Varley did do it over again, and Crusoe worried the mitten over again--utterly regardless of "_Fetch it_." Then they did it again, and again, and again, but without the slightest apparent advancement in the path of canine knowledge,--and then they went home. During all this trying operation Dick Varley never once betrayed the slightest feeling of irritability or impatience. He did not expect success at first; he was not, therefore, disappointed at failure. Next day he had him out again--and the next--and the next--and the next again, with the like unfavourable result. In short, it seemed at last as if Crusoe's mind had been deeply imbued with the idea that he had been born expressly for the purpose of worrying that mitten, and he meant to fulfil his destiny to the letter. Young Varley had taken several small pieces of meat in his pocket each day, with the intention of rewarding Crusoe when he should at length be prevailed on to fetch the mitten, but as Crusoe was not aware of the treat that awaited him, of course the mitten never was "fetched." At last Dick Varley saw that this system would never do, so he changed his tactics, and the next morning gave Crusoe no breakfast, but took him out at the usual hour to go through his lesson. This new course of conduct seemed to perplex Crusoe not a little, for on his way down to the beach he paused frequently and looked back at the cottage, and then expressively up at his master's face. But the master was inexorable; he went on and Crusoe followed, for _true_ love had now taken possession of the pup's young heart, and he preferred his master's company to food. Varley now began by letting the learner smell a piece of meat which he eagerly sought to devour, but was prevented, to his immense disgust. Then the mitten was thrown as heretofore, and Crusoe made a few steps towards it, but being in no mood for play he turned back. "_Fetch it_," said the teacher. "I won't," replied the learner mutely, by means of that expressive sign--_not doing it_. Hereupon Dick Varley rose, took up the mitten, and put it into the pup's mouth. Then, retiring a couple of yards, he held out the piece of meat and said, "_Fetch it_." Crusoe instantly spat out the glove and bounded towards the meat--once more to be disappointed. This was done a second time, and Crusoe came forward _with the mitten in his mouth_. It seemed as if it had been done accidentally, for he dropped it before coming quite up. If so it was a fortunate accident, for it served as the tiny fulcrum on which to place the point of that mighty lever which was destined ere long to raise him to the pinnacle of canine erudition. Dick Varley immediately lavished upon him the tenderest caresses and gave him a lump of meat. But he quickly tried it again lest he should lose the lesson. The dog evidently felt that if he did not fetch that mitten he should have no meat or caresses. In order, however, to make sure that there was no mistake, Dick laid the mitten down beside the pup, instead of putting it into his mouth, and, retiring a few paces, cried, "_Fetch it_." Crusoe looked uncertain for a moment, then he _picked up_ the mitten and laid it at his master's feet. The lesson was learned at last! Dick Varley tumbled all the meat out of his pocket on the ground, and, while Crusoe made a hearty breakfast, he sat down on a rock and whistled with glee at having fairly picked the lock, and opened _another_ door into one of the many chambers of his dog's intellect! CHAPTER FOUR. OUR HERO ENLARGED UPON--GRUMPS. Two years passed away--the Mustang Valley settlement advanced prosperously, despite one or two attacks made upon it by the savages, who were, however, firmly repelled; Dick Varley had now become a man, and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog. The "silver rifle," as Dick's weapon had come to be named, was well-known among the hunters and the Red-skins of the border-lands, and in Dick's hands its bullets were as deadly as its owner's eye was quick and true. Crusoe's education, too, had been completed. Faithfully and patiently had his young master trained his mind, until he fitted him to be a meet companion in the hunt. To "carry" and "fetch" were now but trifling portions of the dog's accomplishments. He could dive a fathom deep in the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped or thrown in. His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his muscles, that he seemed to spurn the water while passing through it, with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a speed that neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment. His intellect now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a second bidding. When Dick went out hunting he used frequently to drop a mitten or a powder-horn unknown to the dog, and, after walking miles away from it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle face of his companion. "Crusoe," he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have addressed a human friend, "I've dropped my mitten, go fetch it, pup." Dick continued to call it "pup" from habit. One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe's eye, and in a moment he was away at full gallop; nor did he rest until the lost article was lying at his master's feet. Dick was loath to try how far back on his track Crusoe would run if desired. He had often gone back five and six miles at a stretch; but his powers did not stop here. He could carry articles back to the spot from which they had been taken and leave them there. He could head the game that his master was pursuing and turn it back; and he would guard any object he was desired to "watch" with unflinching constancy. But it would occupy too much space and time to enumerate all Crusoe's qualities and powers. His biography will unfold them. In personal appearance he was majestic, having grown to an immense size even for a Newfoundland. Had his visage been at all wolfish in character, his aspect would have been terrible. But he possessed in an eminent degree that mild, humble expression of face peculiar to his race. When roused or excited, and especially when bounding through the forest with the chase in view, he was absolutely magnificent. At other times his gait was slow, and he seemed to prefer a _quiet_ walk with Dick Varley to anything else under the sun. But when Dick was inclined to be boisterous Crusoe's tail and ears rose at a moment's notice, and he was ready for _anything_. Moreover, he obeyed commands instantly and implicitly. In this respect he put to shame most of the _boys_ of the settlement, who were by no means famed for their habits of prompt obedience. Crusoe's eye was constantly watching the face of his master. When Dick said "Go" he went, when he said "Come" he came. If he had been in the midst of an excited bound at the throat of a stag, and Dick had called out, "Down, Crusoe," he would have sunk to the earth like a stone. No doubt it took many months of training to bring the dog to this state of perfection; but Dick accomplished it by patience, perseverance, and _love_. Besides all this, Crusoe could speak! He spoke by means of the dog's dumb alphabet in a way that defies description. He conversed, so to speak, with his extremities--his head and his tail. But his eyes, his soft brown eyes, were the chief medium of communication. If ever the language of the eyes was carried to perfection, it was exhibited in the person of Crusoe. But, indeed, it would be difficult to say which part of his expressive face expressed most. The cocked ears of expectation; the drooped ears of sorrow; the bright, full eye of joy; the half-closed eye of contentment; and the frowning eye of indignation accompanied with a slight, a very slight, pucker of the nose and a gleam of dazzling ivory--ha! no enemy ever saw this last piece of canine language without a full appreciation of what it meant. Then as to the tail--the modulations of meaning in the varied wag of that expressive member! Oh! it's useless to attempt description. Mortal man cannot conceive of the delicate shades of sentiment expressible by a dog's tail, unless he has studied the subject--the wag, the waggle, the cock, the droop, the slope, the wriggle! Away with description--it is impotent and valueless here! As we have said, Crusoe was meek and mild. He had been bitten, on the sly, by half the ill-natured curs in the settlement, and had only shown his teeth in return. He had no enmities--though several enemies--and he had a thousand friends, particularly among the ranks of the weak and the persecuted, whom he always protected and avenged when opportunity offered. A single instance of this kind will serve to show his character. One day Dick and Crusoe were sitting on a rock beside the lake--the same identical rock near which, when a pup, the latter had received his first lesson. They were conversing as usual, for Dick had elicited such a fund of intelligence from the dog's mind, and had injected such wealth of wisdom into it, that he felt convinced it understood every word he said. "This is capital weather, Crusoe; ain't it pup?" Crusoe made a motion with his head which was quite as significant as a nod. "Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and have a slap at the grizzly bars and a look at the Rocky Mountains. Wouldn't it be nuts, pup?" Crusoe looked dubious. "What, you don't agree with me! Now, tell me, pup, wouldn't ye like to grip a bar?" Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion with his tail, as though he would have said, "I've seen neither Rocky Mountains nor grizzly bars, and know nothin' about 'em, but I'm open to conviction." "You're a brave pup," rejoined Dick, stroking the dog's huge head affectionately. "I wouldn't give you for ten times your weight in golden dollars--if there be sich things." Crusoe made no reply whatever to this. He regarded it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous. At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into the water, which was deep there. Whether it did so for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it. "Punish him, Crusoe," said Dick quickly. Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air--at the same time casting a look towards his master for further instructions. "Pitch him in," said Dick, making a sign with his hand. Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the lake. Having regarded his struggles there for a few moments with grave severity of countenance, he walked slowly back and sat down beside his master. The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three legs would carry it, and the surly dog, having swam ashore, retired sulkily, with his tail very much between his legs. Little wonder, then, that Crusoe was beloved by great and small among the well-disposed of the canine tribes of the Mustang Valley. But Crusoe was not a mere machine. When not actively engaged in Dick Varley's service, he busied himself with private little matters of his own. He undertook modest little excursions into the woods or along the margin of the lake, sometimes alone, but more frequently with a little friend whose whole heart and being seemed to be swallowed up in admiration of his big companion. Whether Crusoe botanised or geologised on these excursions we will not venture to say. Assuredly he seemed as though he did both, for he poked his nose into every bush and tuft of moss, and turned over the stones, and dug holes in the ground--and, in short, if he did not understand these sciences, he behaved very much as if he did. Certainly he knew as much about them as many of the human species do. In these walks he never took the slightest notice of Grumps (that was the little dog's name), but Grumps made up for this by taking excessive notice of _him_. When Crusoe stopped, Grumps stopped and sat down to look at him. When Crusoe trotted on, Grumps trotted on too. When Crusoe examined a bush Grumps sat down to watch him, and when he dug a hole Grumps looked into it to see what was there. Grumps never helped him; his sole delight was in looking on. They didn't converse much, these two dogs. To be in each other's company seemed to be happiness enough--at least Grumps thought so. There was one point at which Grumps stopped short, however, and ceased to follow his friend; and that was when he rushed headlong into the lake and disported himself for an hour at a time in its cool waters. Crusoe was, both by nature and training, a splendid water-dog. Grumps, on the contrary, held water in abhorrence, so he sat on the shores of the lake disconsolate when his friend was bathing, and waited till he came out. The only time when Grumps was thoroughly nonplussed, was when Dick Varley's whistle sounded faintly in the far distance. Then Crusoe would prick up his ears, and stretch out at full gallop, clearing ditch, and fence, and brake with his strong elastic bound, and leaving Grumps to patter after him as fast as his four-inch legs would carry him. Poor Grumps usually arrived at the village, to find both dog and master gone, and would betake himself to his own dwelling, there to lie down and sleep, and dream, perchance, of rambles and gambols with his gigantic friend. CHAPTER FIVE. A MISSION OF PEACE--UNEXPECTED JOYS--DICK AND CRUSOE SET OFF FOR THE LAND OF THE RED-SKINS, AND MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY AS A MATTER OF COURSE--NIGHT IN THE WILD WOODS. One day the inhabitants of Mustang Valley were thrown into considerable excitement by the arrival of an officer of the United States army and a small escort of cavalry. They went direct to the block-house, which, since Major Hope's departure, had become the residence of Joe Blunt-- that worthy having, by general consent, been deemed the fittest man in the settlement to fill the major's place. Soon it began to be noised abroad that the strangers had been sent by Government to endeavour to bring about, if possible, a more friendly state of feeling between the whites and the Indians, by means of presents, and promises, and fair speeches. The party remained all night in the block-house, and ere long it was reported that Joe Blunt had been requested, and had consented, to be the leader and chief of a party of three men who should visit the neighbouring tribes of Indians, to the west and north of the valley, as Government agents. Joe's knowledge of two or three different Indian dialects, and his well-known sagacity, rendered him a most fitting messenger on such an errand. It was also whispered that Joe was to have the choosing of his comrades in this mission, and many were the opinions expressed and guesses made as to who would be chosen. That same evening Dick Varley was sitting in his mother's kitchen cleaning his rifle; his mother was preparing supper and talking quietly about the obstinacy of a particular hen that had taken to laying her eggs in places where they could not be found; Fan was coiled up in a corner sound asleep, and Crusoe was sitting at one side of the fire looking on at things in general. "I wonder," remarked Mrs Varley, as she spread the table with a pure white napkin; "I wonder what the sodgers are doin' wi' Joe Blunt." As often happens when an individual is mentioned, the worthy referred to opened the door at that moment and stepped into the room. "Good-e'en t'ye, dame," said the stout hunter, doffing his cap, and resting his rifle in a corner, while Dick rose and placed a chair for him. "The same to you, Master Blunt," answered the widow; "you've jist comed in good time for a cut o' venison." "Thanks, mistress, I s'pose we're beholden to the silver rifle for that." "To the hand that aimed it, rather," suggested the widow. "Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it," said Dick Varley. "But for Crusoe that buck would ha' bin couched in the woods this night." "Oh! if it comes to that," retorted Joe, "I'd lay it to the door o' Fan, for if she'd niver bin born nother would Crusoe. But it's good an' tender meat, whativer ways ye got it. Howsiver, I've other things to talk about jist now. Them sodgers that are eatin' buffalo tongues up at the block-house as if they'd niver ate meat before, and didn't hope to eat agin for a twelve-month--" "Ay, what o' them?" interrupted Mrs Varley; "I've bin wonderin' what was their errand." "Of coorse ye wos, Dame Varley; and I've comed here a' purpis to tell ye. They want me to go to the Red-skins to make peace between them and us; and they've brought a lot o' goods to make them presents withal,-- beads, an' knives, an' lookin'-glasses, an vermilion paint, an' sich-like, jist as much as'll be a light load for one horse--for, ye see, nothin' can be done wi' the Red-skins without gifts." "'Tis a blessed mission," said the widow, "I wish it may succeed. D'ye think ye'll go?" "Go? ay, that will I." "I only wish they'd made the offer to me," said Dick with a sigh. "An' so they do make the offer, lad. They've gin me leave to choose the two men I'm to take with me, and I've comed straight to ask _you_. Ay or no, for we must up an' away by break o' day to-morrow." Mrs Varley started. "So soon?" she said, with a look of anxiety. "Ay; the Pawnees are at the Yellow Creek jist at this time, but I've heer'd they're 'bout to break up camp an' away west; so we'll need to use haste." "May I go, mother?" asked Dick, with a look of anxiety. There was evidently a conflict in the widow's breast, but it quickly ceased. "Yes, my boy," she said in her own low, quiet voice, "an' God go with ye. I knew the time must come soon, an' I thank Him that your first visit to the Red-skins will be on an errand o' peace. `Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.'" Dick grasped his mother's hand and pressed it to his cheek in silence. At the same moment Crusoe, seeing that the deeper feelings of his master were touched, and deeming it his duty to sympathise, rose up and thrust his nose against him. "Ah! pup," cried the young man hastily, "you must go too. Of course Crusoe goes, Joe Blunt?" "Hum! I don't know that. There's no dependin' on a dog to keep his tongue quiet in times o' danger." "Believe me," exclaimed Dick, flashing with enthusiasm, "Crusoe's more trustworthy than I am myself. If ye can trust the master yer safe to trust the pup." "Well, lad, ye may be right. We'll take him." "Thanks, Joe. And who else goes with us?" "I've bin castin' that in my mind for some time, an' I've fixed to take Henri. He's not the safest man in the valley, but he's the truest, that's a fact. And now, younker, get yer horse an' rifle ready, and come to the block-house at daybreak to-morrow. Good luck to ye, mistress, till we meet agin." Joe Blunt rose, and taking up his rifle,--without which he scarcely ever moved a foot from his own door,--left the cottage with rapid strides. "My son," said Mrs Varley, kissing Dick's cheek as he resumed his seat, "put this in the little pocket I made for it in your hunting shirt." She handed him a small pocket Bible. "Dear mother," he said, as he placed the book carefully within the breast of his coat, "the Red-skin that takes that from me must take my scalp first. But don't fear for me. You've often said the Lord would protect me. So He will, mother, for sure it's an errand o' peace!" "Ay, that's it, that's it," murmured the widow in a half-soliloquy. Dick Varley spent that night in converse with his mother, and next morning at daybreak he was at the place of meeting mounted on his sturdy little horse, with the "silver rifle" on his shoulder, and Crusoe by his side. "That's right, lad, that's right. Nothin' like keepin' yer time," said Joe, as he led out a pack-horse from the gate of the block-house, while his own charger was held ready saddled by a man named Daniel Brand, who had been appointed to the charge of the block-house in his absence. "Where's Henri?--oh! here he comes," exclaimed Dick, as the hunter referred to came thundering up the slope at a charge, on a horse that resembled its rider in size, and not a little in clumsiness of appearance. "Ah! mes boy. Him is a goot one to go," cried Henri, remarking Dick's smile as he pulled up. "No hoss on de plain can beat dis one, surement." "Now then, Henri, lend a hand to fix this pack, we've no time to palaver." By this time they were joined by several of the soldiers and a few hunters who had come to see them start. "Remember, Joe," cried one, "if you don't come back in three months we'll all come out in a band to seek you." "If we don't come back in less than that time, what's left o' us won't be worth seekin' for," said Joe, tightening the girth of his saddle. "Put a bit in yer own mouth, Henri," cried another, as the Canadian arranged his steed's bridle; "ye'll need it more than yer horse when ye git 'mong the red reptiles." "Vraiment, if mon mout' needs one bit yours will need one padlock." "Now, lads, mount!" cried Joe Blunt as he vaulted into the saddle. Dick Varley sprang lightly on his horse, and Henri made a rush at his steed and hurled his huge frame across its back with a violence that _ought_ to have brought it to the ground; but the tall, raw-boned, broad-chested roan was accustomed to the eccentricities of its master, and stood the shock bravely. Being appointed to lead the pack-horse, Henri seized its halter; then the three cavaliers shook their reins, and, waving their hands to their comrades, they sprang into the woods at full gallop, and laid their course for the "far west." For some time they galloped side by side in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, Crusoe keeping close beside his master's horse. The two elder hunters evidently ruminated on the object of their mission and the prospects of success, for their countenances were grave and their eyes cast on the ground. Dick Varley, too, thought upon the Red-men, but his musings were deeply tinged with the bright hues of a _first_ adventure. The mountains, the plains, the Indians, the bears, the buffaloes, and a thousand other objects, danced wildly before his mind's eye, and his blood careered through his veins and flushed his forehead as he thought of what he should see and do, and felt the elastic vigour of youth respond in sympathy to the light spring of his active little steed. He was a lover of nature, too, and his flashing eyes glanced observantly from side to side as they swept along,--sometimes through glades of forest trees; sometimes through belts of more open ground and shrubbery; anon by the margin of a stream, or along the shores of a little lake, and often over short stretches of flowering prairie-land,-- while the firm, elastic turf sent up a muffled sound from the tramp of their mettlesome chargers. It was a scene of wild, luxuriant beauty, that might almost (one could fancy) have drawn involuntary homage to its bountiful Creator from the lips even of an infidel. After a time Joe Blunt reined up, and they proceeded at an easy ambling pace. Joe and his friend Henri were so used to these beautiful scenes that they had long ceased to be _enthusiastically_ affected by them, though they never ceased to delight in them. "I hope," said Joe, "that them sodgers 'll go their ways soon. I've no notion o' them chaps when they're left at a place wi' nothin' to do but whittle sticks." "Why, Joe!" exclaimed Dick Varley in a tone of surprise, "I thought you were admirin' the beautiful face o' nature all this time, and yer only thinkin' about the sodgers. Now, that's strange!" "Not so strange after all, lad," answered Joe. "When a man's used to a thing he gits to admire an' enjoy it without speakin' much about it. But it _is_ true, boy, that mankind gits in coorse o' time to think little o' the blissins he's used to." "Oui, c'est _vrai_!" murmured Henri emphatically. "Well, Joe Blunt, it may be so; but I'm thankful _I'm_ not used to this sort o' thing yet," exclaimed Varley. "Let's have another gallop--so ho! come along, Crusoe!" shouted the youth, as he shook his reins, and flew over a long stretch of prairie on which at that moment they entered. Joe smiled as he followed his enthusiastic companion, but after a short run he pulled up. "Hold on, youngster," he cried, "ye must larn to do as yer bid, lad; it's trouble enough to be among wild Injuns and wild buffaloes, as I hope soon to be, without havin' wild comrades to look after." Dick laughed and reined in his panting horse. "I'll be as obedient as Crusoe," he said, "and no one can beat him." "Besides," continued Joe, "the horses won't travel far if we begin by runnin' all the wind out o' them." "Wah!" exclaimed Henri, as the led horse became restive; "I think we must give to him de pack-hoss for to lead, eh!" "Not a bad notion, Henri. We'll make that the penalty of runnin' off again; so look out, Master Dick." "I'm down," replied Dick with a modest air, "obedient as a baby, and won't run off again--till--the next time. By the way, Joe, how many days' provisions did ye bring?" "Two. That's 'nough to carry us to the Great Prairie, which is three weeks distant from this; our own good rifles must make up the difference, and keep us when we git there." "And s'pose we neither find deer nor buffalo," suggested Dick. "I s'pose we'll have to starve." "Dat is cumfer'able to tink upon," remarked Henri. "More comfortable to think o' than to undergo," said Dick, "but I s'pose there's little chance o' that." "Well, not much," replied Joe Blunt, patting his horse's neck; "but d'ye see, lad, ye niver can count for sartin on anythin'. The deer and buffalo ought to be thick in them plains at this time--and when the buffalo _are_ thick they covers the plains till ye can hardly see the end o' them; but, ye see, sometimes the rascally Red-skins takes it into their heads to burn the prairies, and sometimes ye find the place that should ha' bin black wi' buffalo, black as a coal wi' fire for miles an' miles on end. At other times the Red-skins go huntin' in 'ticlar places, and sweeps them clean o' every hoof that don't git away. Sometimes, too, the animals seems to take a scunner at a place and keeps out o' the way. But one way or another men gin'rally manage to scramble through." "Look yonder, Joe," exclaimed Dick, pointing to the summit of a distant ridge, where a small black object was seen moving against the sky, "that's a deer, ain't it?" Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed earnestly at the object in question. "Yer right, boy; and by good luck we've got the wind of him. Cut in an' take your chance now. There's a long strip o' wood as'll let ye git close to him." Before the sentence was well finished, Dick and Crusoe were off at full gallop. For a few hundred yards they coursed along the bottom of a hollow; then turning to the right they entered the strip of wood, and in a few minutes gained the edge of it. Here Dick dismounted. "You can't help me here, Crusoe. Stay where you are, pup, and hold my horse." Crusoe seized the end of the line, which was fastened to the horse's nose, in his mouth, and lay down on a hillock of moss, submissively placing his chin on his fore-paws, and watching his master as he stepped noiselessly through the wood. In a few minutes Dick emerged from among the trees, and, creeping from bush to bush, succeeded in getting to within six hundred yards of the deer, which was a beautiful little antelope. Beyond the bush behind which he now crouched all was bare open ground, without a shrub or hillock large enough to conceal the hunter. There was a slight undulation in the ground, however, which enabled him to advance about fifty yards further, by means of lying down quite flat and working himself forward like a serpent. Further than this he could not move without being seen by the antelope, which browsed on the ridge before him in fancied security. The distance was too great even for a long shot, but Dick knew of a weak point in this little creature's nature which enabled him to accomplish his purpose--a weak point which it shares in common with animals of a higher order,--namely, curiosity. The little antelope of the North American prairies is intensely curious about everything that it does not quite understand, and will not rest satisfied until it has endeavoured to clear up the mystery. Availing himself of this propensity, Dick did what both Indians and hunters are accustomed to do on these occasions,--he put a piece of rag on the end of his ramrod, and, keeping his person concealed and perfectly still, waved this miniature flag in the air. The antelope noticed it at once, and, pricking up its ears, began to advance, timidly and slowly, step by step, to see what remarkable phenomenon it could be. In a few seconds the flag was lowered, a sharp crack followed, and the antelope fell dead upon the plain. "Ha, boy! that's a good supper, anyhow," cried Joe, as he galloped up and dismounted. "Goot! dat is better nor dried meat," added Henri. "Give him to me; I will put him on my hoss, vich is strongar dan yourn. But ver is your hoss?" "He'll be here in a minute," replied Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth and giving forth a shrill whistle. The instant Crusoe heard the sound he made a savage and apparently uncalled-for dash at the horse's heels. This wild act, so contrary to the dog's gentle nature, was a mere piece of acting. He knew that the horse would not advance without getting a fright, so he gave him one in this way which sent him off at a gallop. Crusoe followed close at his heels, so as to bring the line alongside of the nag's body, and thereby prevent its getting entangled; but despite his best efforts the horse got on one side of a tree and he on the other, so he wisely let go his hold of the line, and waited till more open ground enabled him to catch it again. Then he hung heavily back, gradually checked the horse's speed, and finally trotted him up to his master's side. "'Tis a cliver cur, good sooth," exclaimed Joe Blunt in surprise. "Ah, Joe! you haven't seen much of Crusoe yet. He's as good as a man any day. I've done little else but train him for two years gone by, and he can do most anything but shoot--he can't handle the rifle nohow." "Ha! then, I tink perhaps hims could if he wos try," said Henri, plunging on to his horse with a laugh, and arranging the carcase of the antelope across the pommel of his saddle. Thus they hunted and galloped, and trotted and ambled on through wood and plain all day, until the sun began to descend below the tree-tops of the bluffs on the west--then Joe Blunt looked about him for a place on which to camp, and finally fixed on a spot under the shadow of a noble birch by the margin of a little stream. The carpet of grass on its banks was soft like green velvet, and the rippling waters of the brook were clear as crystal--very different from the muddy Missouri into which it flowed. While Dick Varley felled and cut up firewood, Henri unpacked the horses and turned them loose to graze, and Joe kindled the fire and prepared venison steaks and hot tea for supper. In excursions of this kind it is customary to "hobble" the horses; that is, to tie their fore-legs together, so that they cannot run either fast or far, but are free enough to amble about with a clumsy sort of hop in search of food. This is deemed a sufficient check on their tendency to roam, although some of the knowing horses sometimes learn to hop so fast with their hobbles as to give their owners much trouble to recapture them. But when out in the prairies where Indians are known or supposed to be in the neighbourhood, the horses are picketed by means of a pin or stake attached to the ends of their long laryats, as well as hobbled-- for Indians deem it no disgrace to steal or tell lies, though they think it disgraceful to be found out in doing either. And so expert are these dark-skinned natives of the western prairies, that they will creep into the midst of an enemy's camp, cut the laryats and hobbles of several horses, spring suddenly on their backs, and gallop away. They not only steal from white men, but tribes that are at enmity steal from each other, and the boldness with which they do this is most remarkable. When Indians are travelling in a country where enemies are prowling, they guard their camps at night with jealous care. The horses in particular are both hobbled and picketed, and sentries are posted all round the camp. Yet, in spite of these precautions, hostile Indians manage to elude the sentries, and creep into the camp. When a thief thus succeeds in effecting an entrance, his chief danger is past. He rises boldly to his feet, and, wrapping his blanket or buffalo robe round him, he walks up and down as if he were a member of the tribe. At the same time he dexterously cuts the laryats of such horses as he observes are not hobbled. He dare not stoop to cut the hobbles, as the action would be observed, and suspicion would be instantly aroused. He then leaps on the best horse he can find, and uttering a terrific war-whoop darts away into the plains, driving the loosened horses before him. No such dark thieves were supposed to be near the camp under the birch-tree, however, so Joe, and Dick, and Henri ate their supper in comfort, and let their horses browse at will on the rich pasturage. A bright ruddy fire was soon kindled, which created, as it were, a little ball of light in the midst of surrounding darkness for the special use of our hardy hunters. Within this magic circle all was warm, comfortable, and cheery. Outside all was dark, and cold, and dreary by contrast. When the substantial part of supper was disposed of, tea and pipes were introduced, and conversation began to flow. Then the three saddles were placed in a row; each hunter wrapped himself in his blanket, and, pillowing his head on his saddle, stretched his feet towards the fire and went to sleep, with his loaded rifle by his side and his hunting-knife handy in his belt. Crusoe mounted guard by stretching himself out _couchant_ at Dick Varley's side. The faithful dog slept lightly and never moved all night, but had any one observed him closely he would have seen that every fitful flame that burst from the sinking fire, every unusual puff of wind, and every motion of the horses that fed or rested hard by, had the effect of revealing a speck of glittering white in Crusoe's watchful eye. CHAPTER SIX. THE GREAT PRAIRIES OF THE "FAR WEST"--A REMARKABLE COLONY DISCOVERED, AND A MISERABLE NIGHT ENDURED. Of all the hours of the night or day the hour that succeeds the dawn is the purest, the most joyous and the best. At least so think we; and so think hundreds and thousands of the human family; and so thought Dick Varley, as he sprung suddenly into a sitting posture next morning, and threw his arms with an exulting feeling of delight round the neck of Crusoe, who instantly sat up to greet him. This was an unusual piece of enthusiasm on the part of Dick, but the dog received it with marked satisfaction, rubbed his big hairy cheek against that of his young master, and arose from his sedentary position in order to afford free scope for the use of his tail. "Ho! Joe Blunt! Henri! Up, boys, up! The sun will have the start o' us. I'll catch the nags." So saying Dick bounded away into the woods with Crusoe gambolling joyously at his heels. Dick soon caught his own horse and Crusoe caught Joe's. Then the former mounted and quickly brought in the other two. Returning to the camp he found everything packed and ready to strap on the back of the pack-horse. "That's the way to do it, lad," cried Joe. "Here Henri, look alive and git yer beast ready. I do believe yer goin' to take another snooze!" Henri was indeed, at that moment, indulging in a gigantic stretch and a cavernous yawn, but he finished both hastily, and rushed at his poor horse as if he intended to slay it on the spot. He only threw the saddle on its back, however, and then threw himself on the saddle. "Now then, all ready?" "Ay,--oui, yis!" And away they went at full stretch again on their journey. Thus day after day they travelled, and night after night they laid them down to sleep under the trees of the forest, until at length they reached the edge of the Great Prairie. It was a great, a memorable day in the life of Dick Varley, that on which he first beheld the prairie,--the vast boundless prairie. He had heard of it, talked of it, dreamed about it, but he had never,--no, he had never realised it. 'Tis always thus. Our conceptions of things that we have not seen are almost invariably wrong. Dick's eyes glittered, and his heart swelled, and his cheeks flushed, and his breath came thick and quick. "There it is," he gasped, as the great rolling plain broke suddenly on his enraptured gaze; "that's it--oh!--" Dick uttered a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest chief of the Pawnees, and, being unable to utter another word, he swung his cap in the air and sprang like an arrow from a bow over the mighty ocean of grass. The sun had just risen to send a flood of golden glory over the scene; the horses were fresh, so the elder hunters, gladdened by the beauty of all around them, and inspired by the irresistible enthusiasm of their young companion, gave the reins to the horses and flew after him. It was a glorious gallop, that first headlong dash over the boundless prairie of the "far west!" The prairies have often been compared, most justly, to the ocean. There is the same wide circle of space bounded on all sides by the horizon; there is the same swell, or undulation, or succession of long low unbroken waves that marks the ocean when it is calm; they are canopied by the same pure sky, and swept by the same untrammelled breezes. There are islands, too--clumps of trees and willow-bushes,--which rise out of this grassy ocean to break and relieve its uniformity; and these vary in size and numbers as do the isles of ocean--being numerous in some places, while in others they are so scarce that the traveller does not meet one in a long day's journey. Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the green sward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them. "Now, lads," said Joe Blunt, reining up, "our troubles begin to-day." "Our troubles! our joys, you mean!" exclaimed Dick Varley. "P'raps I don't mean nothin' o' the sort," retorted Joe. "Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur' o' troubles. I s'pose he couldn't stand 'em pure. Ye see we've got to the prairie now--" "One blind hoss might see dat!" interrupted Henri. "An' we may or may not diskiver buffalo. An' water's scarce, too, so we'll need to look out for it pretty sharp, I guess, else we'll lose our horses, in which case we may as well give out at once. Besides, there's rattlesnakes about in sandy places--we'll ha' to look out for them; an' there's badger holes--we'll need to look sharp for them lest the horses put their feet in 'em; an' there's Injuns, who'll look out pretty sharp for _us_ if they once get wind that we're in them parts." "Oui, yis, mes boys, and there's rain, and tunder, and lightin'," added Henri, pointing to a dark cloud which was seen rising on the horizon ahead of them. "It'll be rain," remarked Joe, "but there's no thunder in the air jist now; we'll make for yonder clump o' bushes and lay by till it's past." Turning a little to the right of the course they had been following, the hunters galloped along one of the hollows between the prairie waves before mentioned, in the direction of a clump of willows. Before reaching it however, they passed over a bleak and barren plain where there was neither flower nor bird. Here they were suddenly arrested by a most extraordinary sight--at least it was so to Dick Varley, who had never seen the like before. This was a colony of what Joe called "prairie-dogs." On first beholding them Crusoe uttered a sort of half growl, half bark of surprise, cocked his tail and ears, and instantly prepared to charge, but he glanced up at his master first for permission. Observing that his finger and his look commanded "silence" he dropped his tail at once and stepped to the rear. He did not, however, cease to regard the prairie-dogs with intense curiosity. These remarkable little creatures have been egregiously misnamed by the hunters of the west, for they bear not the slightest resemblance to dogs, either in formation or habits. They are, in fact, the marmot, and in size are little larger than squirrels, which animals they resemble in some degree. They burrow under the light soil and throw it up in mounds like moles. Thousands of them were running about among their dwellings when Dick first beheld them, but the moment they caught sight of the horsemen rising over the ridge, they set up a tremendous hubbub of consternation; each little beast instantly mounted guard on the top of his house and prepared, as it were, to "receive cavalry." The most ludicrous thing about them was, that although the most timid and cowardly creatures in the world, they seemed the most impertinent things that ever lived! Knowing that their holes afforded them a perfectly safe retreat they sat close beside them, and as the hunters slowly approached, they elevated their heads, wagged their little tails, showed their teeth, and chattered at them like monkeys. The nearer they came the more angry and furious did the prairie-dogs become, until Dick Varley almost fell off his horse with suppressed laughter. They let the hunters come close up, waxing louder and louder in their wrath; but the instant a hand was raised to throw a stone or point a gun, a thousand little heads dived into a thousand holes, and a thousand little tails wriggled for an instant in the air--then, a dead silence reigned over the deserted scene. "Bien, them's have dive into de bo'-els of de eart'," said Henri with a broad grin. Presently a thousand noses appeared, and nervously disappeared like the wink of an eye. Then they appeared again, and a thousand pairs of eyes followed. Instantly, like Jack in the box, they were all on the top of their hillocks again, chattering and wagging their little tails as vigorously as ever. You could not say that you _saw_ them jump out of their holes. Suddenly, as if by magic, they _were_ out; then Dick tossed up his arms, and, suddenly, as if by magic, they were gone! Their number was incredible, and their cities were full of riotous activity. What their occupations were the hunters could not ascertain, but it was perfectly evident that they visited a great deal and gossiped tremendously, for they ran about from house to house, and sat chatting in groups; but it was also observed that they never went far from their own houses. Each seemed to have a circle of acquaintance in the immediate neighbourhood of his own residence, to which in case of sudden danger he always fled. But another thing about these prairie-dogs (perhaps, considering their size, we should call them prairie-doggies), another thing about them, we say, was that each doggie lived with an owl, or, more correctly, an owl lived with each doggie! This is such an extraordinary _fact_, that we could scarce hope that men would believe us, were our statement not supported by dozens of trustworthy travellers who have visited and written about these regions. The whole plain was covered with these owls. Each hole seemed to be the residence of an owl and a doggie, and these incongruous couples lived together apparently in perfect harmony. We have not been able to ascertain from travellers _why_ the owls have gone to live with these doggies, so we beg humbly to offer our own private opinion to the reader. We assume, then, that owls find it absolutely needful to have holes. Probably prairie-owls cannot dig holes for themselves. Having discovered, however, a race of little creatures that could, they very likely determined to take forcible possession of the holes made by them. Finding, no doubt, that, when they did so, the doggies were too timid to object, and discovering, moreover, that they were sweet, innocent little creatures, the owls resolved to take them into partnership, and so the thing was settled-- that's how it came about, no doubt of it! There is a report that rattlesnakes live in these holes also; but we cannot certify our reader of the truth of this,--still it is well to be acquainted with a report that is current among the men of the backwoods. If it be true, we are of opinion that the doggie's family is the most miscellaneous and remarkable on the face of--or, as Henri said, in the bo'-els--of the earth. Dick and his friends were so deeply absorbed in watching these curious little creatures that they did not observe the rapid spread of the black clouds over the sky. _A_ few heavy drops of rain now warned them to seek shelter, so wheeling round they dashed off at speed for the clump of willows, which they gained just as the rain began to descend in torrents. "Now, lads, do it slick. Off packs and saddles," cried Joe Blunt, jumping from his horse. "I'll make a hut for ye, right off." "A hut, Joe! what sort o' hut can ye make here?" inquired Dick. "Ye'll see, boy, in a minute." "Ach! lend me hand here, Dick; de bockle am tight as de hosse's own skin. Ah! dere all right." "Hallo! what's this?" exclaimed Dick, as Crusoe advanced with something in his mouth. "I declare, it's a bird of some sort." "A prairie-hen," remarked Joe, as Crusoe laid the bird at Dick's feet; "capital for supper." "Ah! dat chien is superb! goot dog. Come here, I vill clap you." But Crusoe refused to be caressed. Meanwhile, Joe and Dick formed a sort of beehive-looking hut by bending down the stems of a tall bush and thrusting their points into the ground. Over this they threw the largest buffalo robe, and placed another on the ground below it, on which they laid their packs of goods. These they further secured against wet by placing several robes over them and a skin of parchment. Then they sat down on this pile to rest and consider what should be done next. "'Tis a bad look out," said Joe, shaking his head. "I fear it is," replied Dick in a melancholy tone. Henri said nothing, but he sighed deeply on looking up at the sky, which was now of a uniform watery grey, while black clouds drove athwart it. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the wind began to sweep it in broad sheets over the plains, and under their slight covering, so that in a short time they were wet to the skin. The horses stood meekly beside them, with their tails and heads equally pendulous, and Crusoe sat before his master, looking at him with an expression that seemed to say, "Couldn't you put a stop to this if you were to try?" "This'll never do. I'll try to git up a fire," said Dick, jumping up in desperation. "Ye may save yerself the trouble," remarked Joe, drily--at least as drily as was possible in the circumstances. However, Dick did try, but he failed signally. Everything was soaked and saturated. There were no large trees; most of the bushes were green, and the dead ones were soaked. The coverings were slobbery; the skins they sat on were slobbery; the earth itself was slobbery; so Dick threw his blanket (which was also slobbery) round his shoulders, and sat down beside his companions to grin and bear it. As for Joe and Henri, they were old hands, and accustomed to such circumstances. From the first they had resigned themselves to their fate, and wrapping their wet blankets round them sat down, side by side, wisely to endure the evils that they could not cure. There is an old rhyme, by whom composed we know not--and it matters little--which runs thus-- "For every evil under the sun There is a remedy--or there's none. If there is--try and find it; If there isn't--never mind it!" There is deep wisdom here in small compass. The principle involved deserves to be heartily recommended. Dick never heard of the lines, but he knew the principle well; so he began to "never mind it," by sitting down beside his companions and whistling vociferously. As the wind rendered this a difficult feat he took to singing instead. After that he said, "Let's eat a bite, Joe, and then go to bed." "Be all means," said Joe, who produced a mass of dried deer's meat from a wallet. "It's cold grub," said Dick, "and tough." But the hunters' teeth were sharp and strong, so they ate a hearty supper and washed it down with a drink of rain water collected from a pool on the top of their hut. They now tried to sleep, for the night was advancing, and it was so dark that they could scarce see their hands when held up before their faces. They sat back to back, and thus, in the form of a tripod, began to snooze. Joe's and Henri's seasoned frames would have remained stiff as posts till morning; but Dick's body was young and pliant, so he hadn't been asleep a few seconds when he fell forward into the mud and effectually awakened the others. Joe gave a grunt, and Henri exclaimed, "Hah!" but Dick was too sleepy and miserable to say anything. Crusoe, however, rose up to show his sympathy, and laid his wet head on his master's knee as he resumed his place. This catastrophe happened three times in the space of an hour, and by the third time they were all wakened up so thoroughly that they gave up the attempt to sleep, and amused each other by recounting their hunting experiences and telling stories. So engrossed did they become that day broke sooner than they had expected--and just in proportion as the grey light of dawn rose higher into the eastern sky did the spirits of these weary men rise within their soaking bodies. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE "WALLERING" PECULIARITIES OF BUFFALO BULLS--THE FIRST BUFFALO HUNT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--CRUSOE COMES TO THE RESCUE--PAWNEES DISCOVERED--A MONSTER BUFFALO HUNT--JOE ACTS THE PART OF AMBASSADOR. Fortunately the day that succeeded the dreary night described in the last chapter was warm and magnificent. The sun rose in a blaze of splendour and filled the atmosphere with steam from the moist earth. The unfortunates in the wet camp were not slow to avail themselves of his cheering rays. They hung up everything on the bushes to dry, and by dint of extreme patience and cutting out the comparatively dry hearts of several pieces of wood, they lighted a fire and boiled some rain water, which was soon converted into soup. This, and the exercise necessary for the performance of these several duties, warmed and partially dried them, so that when they once more mounted their steeds and rode away they were in a state of comparative comfort and in excellent spirits. The only annoyance was the clouds of mosquitoes and large flies that assailed men and horses whenever they checked their speed. "I tell ye wot it is," said Joe Blunt, one fine morning about a week after they had begun to cross the prairie, "it's my 'pinion that we'll come on buffaloes soon. Them tracks are fresh, an' yonder's one o' their wallers that's bin used not long agone." "I'll go have a look at it," cried Dick, trotting away as he spoke. Everything in these vast prairies was new to Dick Varley, and he was kept in a constant state of excitement during the first week or two of his journey. It is true he was quite familiar with the names and habits of all the animals that dwelt there, for many a time and oft had he listened to the "yarns" of the hunters and trappers of the Mustang Valley, when they returned laden with rich furs from their periodical hunting expeditions. But this knowledge of his only served to whet his curiosity and his desire to _see_ the denizens of the prairies with his own eyes, and now that his wish was accomplished, it greatly increased the pleasures of his journey. Dick had just reached the "wallow" referred to by Joe Blunt, and had reined up his steed to observe it leisurely, when a faint hissing sound reached his ear. Looking quickly back he observed his two companions crouching on the necks of their horses, and slowly descending into a hollow of the prairie in front of them, as if they wished to bring the rising ground between them and some object in advance. Dick instantly followed their example and was soon at their heels. "Ye needn't look at the waller," whispered Joe, "for a' t'other side o' the ridge there's a bull _wallerin'_." "Ye don't mean it!" exclaimed Dick, as they all dismounted and picketed their horses to the plain. "Oui," said Henri, tumbling off his horse, while a broad grin overspread his good-natured countenance; "it is one fact! One buffalo bull be wollerin' like a enormerous hog. Also, dere be t'ousands o' buffaloes farder on." "Can ye trust yer dog keepin' back?" inquired Joe, with a dubious glance at Crusoe. "Trust him! Ay, I wish I was as sure o' myself." "Look to your primin', then, an' we'll have tongues and marrow-bones for supper to-night, I'se warrant. Hist! down on yer knees, and go softly. We might ha' run them down on horseback, but its bad to wind yer beasts on a trip like this, if ye can help it; an' it's about as easy to stalk them. Leastways, we'll try. Lift yer head slowly, Dick, an' don't show more nor the half o't above the ridge." Dick elevated his head as directed, and the scene that met his view was indeed well calculated to send an electric shock to the heart of an ardent sportsman. The vast plain beyond was absolutely blackened with countless herds of buffaloes, which were browsing on the rich grass. They were still so far distant that their bellowing, and the trampling of their myriad hoofs, only reached the hunters like a faint murmur on the breeze. In the immediate foreground, however, there was a group of about half a dozen buffalo cows feeding quietly, and in the midst of them an enormous old bull was enjoying himself in his wallow. The animals, towards which our hunters now crept with murderous intent, are the fiercest and the most ponderous of the ruminating inhabitants of the western wilderness. The name of buffalo, however, is not correct. The animal is the _bison_, and bears no resemblance whatever to the buffalo proper; but as the hunters of the far west--and, indeed, travellers generally, have adopted the misnomer, we bow to the authority of custom and adopt it too. Buffaloes roam in countless thousands all over the North American prairies, from the Hudson's Bay territories, north of Canada, to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. The advance of white men to the west has driven them to the prairies between the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains, and has somewhat diminished their numbers; but even thus diminished, they are still innumerable in the more distant plains. Their colour is dark brown, but it varies a good deal with the seasons. The hair or fur, from its great length in winter and spring and exposure to the weather, turns quite light; but when the winter coat is shed off the new growth is a beautiful dark brown, almost approaching to jet-black. In form the buffalo somewhat resembles the ox, but its head and shoulders are much larger, and are covered with a profusion of long shaggy hair, which adds greatly to the fierce aspect of the animal. It has a large hump on the shoulder, and its fore-quarters are much larger, in proportion, than the hindquarters. The horns are short and thick; the hoofs are cloven, and the tail is short, with a tuft of hair at the extremity. It is scarcely possible to conceive a wilder or more ferocious and terrible monster than a buffalo bull. He often grows to the enormous weight of two thousand pounds. His lion-like mane falls in shaggy confusion quite over his head and shoulders, down to the ground. When he is wounded he becomes imbued with the spirit of a tiger; he stamps, bellows, roars, and foams forth his rage with glaring eyes and steaming nostrils; and charges furiously at man and horse with utter recklessness. Fortunately, however, he is not naturally pugnacious, and can be easily thrown into a sudden panic. Moreover, the peculiar position of his eye renders this creature not so terrible as he would otherwise be to the hunter. Owing to the stiff structure of the neck, and the sunken, downward-looking eyeball, the buffalo cannot, without an effort, see beyond the direct line of vision presented to the habitual carriage of his head. When, therefore, he is wounded, and charges, he does so in a straight line, so that his pursuer can leap easily out of his way. The pace of the buffalo is clumsy, and _apparently_ slow, yet, when chased, he dashes away over the plains in blind blundering terror, at a rate that leaves all but good horses far behind. He cannot keep the pace up, however, and is usually soon overtaken. Were the buffalo capable of the same alert and agile motions of head and eye peculiar to the deer or wild horse, in addition to his "bovine rage," he would be the most formidable brute on earth. There is no object, perhaps, so terrible as the headlong advance of a herd of these animals when thoroughly aroused by terror. They care not for their necks. All danger in front is forgotten, or not seen, in the terror of that from which they fly. No thundering cataract is more tremendously irresistible than the black bellowing torrent which sometimes pours through the narrow defiles of the Rocky Mountains, or sweeps like a roaring flood over the trembling plains. The wallowing, to which we have referred, is a luxury usually indulged in during the hot months of summer, when the buffaloes are tormented by flies, and heat, and drought. At this season they seek the low grounds in the prairies where there is a little stagnant water lying amongst the grass, and the ground underneath, being saturated, is soft. The leader of the herd, a shaggy old bull, usually takes upon himself to prepare the wallow. It was a rugged monster of the largest size that did so on the present occasion, to the intense delight of Dick Varley, who begged Joe to lie still and watch the operation before trying to shoot one of the buffalo cows. Joe consented with a nod, and the four spectators--for Crusoe was as much taken up with the proceedings as any of them--crouched in the grass, and looked on. Coming up to the swampy spot the old bull gave a grunt of satisfaction, and, going down on one knee, plunged his short thick horns into the mud, tore it up, and cast it aside. Having repeated this several times he plunged his head in, and brought it forth saturated with dirty water, and bedaubed with lumps of mud, through which his fierce eyes gazed, with a ludicrous expression of astonishment, straight in the direction of the hunters, as if he meant to say, "I've done it that time, and no mistake!" The other buffaloes seemed to think so too, for they came up and looked, on with an expression that seemed to say, "Well done, old fellow; try that again!" The old fellow did try it again, and again, and again, plunging, and ramming, and tearing up the earth, until he formed an excavation large enough to contain his huge body. In this bath he laid himself comfortably down, and began to roll and wallow about until he mixed up a trough full of thin soft mud, which completely covered him. When he came out of the hole there was scarcely an atom of his former self visible! The coat of mud thus put on by bulls is usually permitted by them to dry, and is not finally got rid of until long after, when oft-repeated rollings on the grass and washings by rain at length clear it away. When the old bull vacated this delectable bath, another bull, scarcely, if at all, less ferocious-looking, stepped forward to take his turn, but he was interrupted by a volley from the hunters, which scattered the animals right and left, and sent the mighty herds in the distance flying over the prairie in wild terror. The very turmoil of their own mad flight added to their panic, and the continuous thunder of their hoofs was heard until the last of them disappeared on the horizon. The family party which had been fired at, however, did not escape so well. Joe's rifle wounded a fat young cow, and Dick Varley brought it down. Henri had done his best, but, as the animals were too far distant for his limited vision, he missed the cow he fired at and hit the young bull whose bath had been interrupted. The others scattered and fled. "Well done, Dick," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as they all ran up to the cow that had fallen. "Your first shot at the buffalo was a good 'un. Come now an I'll show ye how to cut it up an' carry off the titbits." "Ah! mon dear ole bull," exclaimed Henri, gazing after the animal which he had wounded, and which was now limping slowly away. "You is not worth goin' after. Varewell,--adieu." "He'll be tough enough, I warrant," said Joe, "an' we've more meat here nor we can lift." "But wouldn't it be as well to put the poor brute out o' pain?" suggested Dick. "Oh, he'll die soon enough," replied Joe, tucking up his sleeves and drawing his long hunting-knife. Dick, however, was not satisfied with this way of looking at it. Saying that he would be back in a few minutes he re-loaded his rifle, and calling Crusoe to his side, walked quickly after the wounded bull, which was now hid from view in a hollow of the plain. In a few minutes he came in sight of it, and ran forward with his rifle in readiness. "Down, Crusoe," he whispered; "wait for me here." Crusoe crouched in the grass instantly, and Dick advanced. As he came on, the bull observed him, and turned round bellowing with rage and pain to receive him. The aspect of the brute on a near view was so terrible, that Dick involuntarily stopped too, and gazed with a mingled feeling of wonder and awe, while it bristled with passion, and blood-streaked foam dropped from its open jaws, and its eyes glared furiously. Seeing that Dick did not advance, the bull charged him with a terrific roar; but the youth had firm nerves, and although the rush of such a savage creature at full speed was calculated to try the courage of any man, especially one who had never seen a buffalo bull before, Dick did not lose presence of mind. He remembered the many stories he had listened to of this very thing that was now happening, so, crushing down his excitement as well as he could, he cocked his rifle and awaited the charge. He knew that it was of no use to fire at the head of the advancing foe, as the thickness of the skull, together with the matted hair on the forehead, rendered it impervious to a bullet. When the bull was within a yard of him he leaped lightly to one side and it passed. Just as it did so, Dick aimed at its heart and fired, but his knowledge of the creature's anatomy was not yet correct. The ball entered the shoulder too high, and the bull, checking himself as well as he could in his headlong rush, turned round and made at Dick again. The failure coupled with the excitement proved too much for Dick; he could not resist discharging his second barrel at the brute's head as it came on. He might as well have fired at a brick wall; it shook its shaggy front, and with a hideous bellow thundered forward. Again Dick sprang to one side, but in doing so a tuft of grass or a stone caught his foot, and he fell heavily to the ground. Up to this point Crusoe's admirable training had nailed him to the spot where he had been left, although the twitching of every fibre in his body and a low continuous whine showed how gladly he would have hailed permission to join in the combat; but the instant he saw his master down and the buffalo turning to charge again, he sprang forward with a roar that would have done credit to his bovine enemy, and seized him by the nose. So vigorous was the rush that he well-nigh pulled the bull down on its side. One toss of its head, however, sent Crusoe high into the air, but it accomplished this feat at the expense of its nose, which was torn and lacerated by the dog's teeth. Scarcely had Crusoe touched the ground, which he did with a sounding thump, than he sprang up and flew at his adversary again. This time, however, he adopted the plan of barking furiously and biting by rapid yet terrible snaps as he found opportunity, thus keeping the bull entirely engrossed, and affording Dick an opportunity of re-loading his rifle, which he was not slow to do. Dick then stepped close up, and, while the two combatants were roaring in each other's face; he shot the buffalo through the heart. It fell to the earth with a deep groan. Crusoe's rage instantly vanished on beholding this, and he seemed to be filled with tumultuous joy at his master's escape, for he gambolled round him, and whined and fawned upon him in a manner that could not be misunderstood. "Good dog; thank'ee, my pup," said Dick, patting Crusoe's head as he stooped to brush the dust from his leggings; "I don't know what would ha' become o' me but for your help, Crusoe." Crusoe turned his head a little to one side, wagged his tail, and looked at Dick with an expression that said quite plainly, "I'd die for you, I would--not once, or twice, but ten times, fifty times if need be--and that not merely to save your life, but even to please you." There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe felt something of this sort. The love of a Newfoundland dog to its master is beyond calculation or expression. He who once gains such love carries the dog's life in his hand. But let him who reads note well, and remember, that there is only one coin that can purchase such love, and that is _kindness_; the coin, too, must be genuine. Kindness merely _expressed_ will not do, it must be _felt_. "Hallo! boy, ye've bin i' the wars!" exclaimed Joe, raising himself from his task as Dick and Crusoe returned. "You look more like it than I do," retorted Dick, laughing. This was true, for cutting up a buffalo carcase with no other instrument than a large knife is no easy matter. Yet western hunters and Indians can do it without cleaver or saw, in a way that would surprise a civilised butcher not a little. Joe was covered with blood up to the elbows. His hair, happening to have a knack of getting into his eyes, had been so often brushed off with bloody hands, that his whole visage was speckled with gore, and his dress was by no means immaculate. While Dick related his adventure, or _mis-adventure_ with the bull, Joe and Henri completed the cutting out of the most delicate portions of the buffalo, namely, the hump on its shoulder--which is a choice piece, much finer than the best beef--and the tongue, and a few other parts. The tongues of buffaloes are superior to those of domestic cattle. When all was ready the meat was slung across the back of the pack-horse, and the party, remounting their horses, continued their journey, having first cleansed themselves as well as they could in the rather dirty waters of an old wallow. "See," said Henri, turning to Dick and pointing to a circular spot of green as they rode along, "that is one old _dry_ waller." "Ay," remarked Joe, "after the waller dries, it becomes a ring o' greener grass than the rest o' the plain, as ye see. 'Tis said the first hunters used to wonder greatly at these myster'ous circles, and they invented all sorts o' stories to account for 'em. Some said they wos fairy-rings, but at last they comed to know they wos nothin' more nor less than places where buffaloes wos used to waller in. It's often seemed to me that if we knowed the _raisons_ o' things we wouldn't be so much puzzled wi' them as we are." The truth of this last remark was so self-evident and incontrovertible that it elicited no reply, and the three friends rode on for a considerable time in silence. It was now past noon, and they were thinking of calling a halt for a short rest to the horses and a pipe to themselves, when Joe was heard to give vent to one of those peculiar hisses that always accompanied either a surprise or a caution. In the present case it indicated both. "What now, Joe?" "Injuns!" ejaculated Joe. "Eh! fat you say? ou is de?" Crusoe at this moment uttered a low growl. Ever since the day he had been partially roasted he had maintained a rooted antipathy to Red-men. Joe immediately dismounted, and placing his ear to the ground listened intently. It is a curious fact that by placing the ear close to the ground sounds can be heard distinctly which could not be heard at all if the listener were to maintain an erect position. "They're arter the buffalo," said Joe, rising, "an' I think it's likely they're a band o' Pawnees. Listen an' ye'll hear their shouts quite plain." Dick and Henri immediately lay down and placed their ears to the ground. "Now, me hear noting," said Henri, jumping up, "but me ear is like me eyes; ver' short-sighted." "I do hear something," said Dick as he got up, "but the beating o' my own heart makes row enough to spoil my hearin'." Joe Blunt smiled. "Ah! lad, yer young an' yer blood's too hot yet, but bide a bit; you'll cool down soon. I wos like you once. Now, lads, what think ye we should do?" "You know best, Joe." "Oui, nodoubtedly." "Then wot I advise is that we gallop to the broken sand hillocks ye see yonder, get behind them an' take a peep at the Red-skins. If they are Pawnees we'll go up to them at once; if not, we'll hold a council o' war on the spot." Having arranged this they mounted and hastened towards the hillocks in question, which they reached after ten minutes' gallop, at full stretch. The sandy mounds afforded them concealment, and enabled them to watch the proceedings of the savages in the plain below. The scene was the most curious and exciting that can be conceived. The centre of the plain before them was crowded with hundreds of buffaloes, which were dashing about in the most frantic state of alarm. To whatever point they galloped they were met by yelling savages on horseback, who could not have been fewer in numbers than a thousand--all being armed with lance, bow, and quiver, and mounted on active little horses. The Indians had completely surrounded the herd of buffaloes, and were now advancing steadily towards them, gradually narrowing the circle, and, whenever the terrified animals endeavoured to break through the line, they rushed to that particular spot in a body, and scared them back again into the centre. Thus they advanced until they closed in on their prey, and formed an unbroken circle round them, whilst the poor brutes kept eddying and surging to and fro in a confused mass, hooking and climbing upon each other, and bellowing furiously. Suddenly the horsemen made a rush, and the work of destruction began. The tremendous turmoil raised a cloud of dust that obscured the field in some places, and hid it from our hunters' view. Some of the Indians galloped round and round the circle, sending their arrows whizzing up to the feathers in the sides of the fattest cows. Others dashed fearlessly into the midst of the black heaving mass, and, with their long lances, pierced dozens of them to the heart. In many instances the buffaloes, infuriated by wounds, turned fiercely on their assailants and gored the horses to death, in which cases the men had to trust to their nimble legs for safety. Sometimes a horse got jammed in the centre of the swaying mass, and could neither advance nor retreat. Then the savage rider leaped upon the buffaloes' backs, and springing from one to another, like an acrobat, gained the outer edge of the circle, not failing, however, in his strange flight, to pierce with his lance several of the fattest of his stepping-stones as he sped along. A few of the herd succeeded in escaping from the blood and dust of this desperate battle, and made off over the plains, but they were quickly overtaken, and the lance or arrow brought them down on the green turf. Many of the dismounted riders were chased by bulls, but they stepped lightly to one side, and, as the animals passed, drove their arrows deep into their sides. Thus the tumultuous war went on, amid thundering tread, and yell, and bellow, till the green plain was transformed into a sea of blood and mire, and every buffalo of the herd was laid low. It is not to be supposed that such reckless warfare is invariably waged without damage to the savages. Many were the wounds and bruises received that day, and not a few bones were broken, but happily no lives were lost. "Now, lads, now's our time. A bold and fearless look's the best at all times. Don't look as if ye doubted their friendship; and mind, wotever ye do, don't use yer arms. Follow me." Saying this, Joe Blunt leaped on his horse, and, bounding over the ridge at full speed, galloped headlong across the plain. The savages observed the strangers instantly, and a loud yell announced the fact as they assembled from all parts of the field brandishing their bows and spears. Joe's quick eye soon distinguished their chief, towards whom he galloped, still at full speed, till within a yard or two of his horse's head; then he reined up suddenly. So rapidly did Joe and his comrades approach, and so instantaneously did they pull up, that their steeds were thrown almost on their haunches. The Indian chief did not move a muscle. He was a tall powerful savage, almost naked, and mounted on a coal-black charger, which he sat with the ease of a man accustomed to ride from infancy. He was, indeed, a splendid-looking savage, but his face wore a dark frown, for, although he and his band had visited the settlements and trafficked with the fur-traders on the Missouri, he did not love the "Pale-faces," whom he regarded as intruders on the hunting grounds of his fathers, and the peace that existed between them at that time was of a very fragile character. Indeed, it was deemed by the traders impossible to travel through the Indian country at that period except in strong force, and it was the very boldness of the present attempt that secured to our hunters anything like a civil reception. Joe, who could speak the Pawnee tongue fluently, began by explaining the object of his visit, and spoke of the presents which he had brought for the great chief; but it was evident that his words made little impression. As he discoursed to them the savages crowded round the little party, and began to handle and examine their dresses and weapons with a degree of rudeness that caused Joe considerable anxiety. "Mahtawa believes that the heart of the Pale-face is true," said the savage, when Joe paused, "but he does not choose to make peace. The Pale-faces are grasping. They never rest. They turn their eyes to the great mountains, and say, `There we will stop.' But even there they will not stop. They are never satisfied, Mahtawa knows them well." This speech sank like a death-knell into the hearts of the hunters, for they knew that if the savages refused to make peace, they would scalp them all and appropriate their goods. To make things worse, a dark-visaged Indian suddenly caught hold of Henri's rifle, and, ere he was aware, plucked it from his hand. The blood rushed to the gigantic hunter's forehead, and he was on the point of springing at the man, when Joe said in a deep, quiet voice-- "Be still, Henri. You will but hasten death." At this moment there was a movement in the outskirts of the circle of horsemen, and another chief rode into the midst of them. He was evidently higher in rank than Mahtawa, for he spoke authoritatively to the crowd, and stepped in before him. The hunters drew little comfort from the appearance of his face, however, for it scowled upon them. He was not so powerful a man as Mahtawa, but he was more gracefully formed, and had a more noble and commanding countenance. "Have the Pale-faces no wigwams on the great river that they should come to spy out the lands of the Pawnee?" he demanded. "We have not come to spy your country," answered Joe, raising himself proudly as he spoke, and taking off his cap. "We have come with a message from the great chief of the Pale-faces, who lives in the village far beyond the great river where the sun rises. He says, why should the Pale-face and the Red-man fight? They are brothers. The same Manitou [the Indian name for God] watches over both. The Pale-faces have more beads, and guns, and blankets, and knives, and vermilion than they require; they wish to give some of these things for the skins and furs which the Red-man does not know what to do with. The great chief of the Pale-faces has sent me to say, `Why should we fight? let us smoke the pipe of peace!'" At the mention of beads and blankets the face of the wily chief brightened for a moment. Then he said, sternly-- "The heart of the Pale-face is not true. He has come here to trade for himself. San-it-sa-rish has eyes that can see--they are not shut. Are not these your goods?" The chief pointed to the pack-horse as he spoke. "Trappers do not take their goods into the heart of an enemy's camp," returned Joe; "San-it-sa-rish is wise and will understand this. These are gifts to the chief of the Pawnees. There are more awaiting him when the pipe of peace is smoked. I have said,--What message shall we take back to the great chief of the Pale-faces?" San-it-sa-rish was evidently mollified. "The hunting field is not the council tent," he said. "The Pale-faces will go with us to our village." Of course Joe was only too glad to agree to this proposal, but he now deemed it politic to display a little firmness. "We cannot go till our rifle is restored. It will not do to go back and tell the great chief of the Pale-faces that the Pawnees are thieves." The chief frowned angrily. "The Pawnees are true--they are not thieves. They choose to _look_ at the rifle of the Pale-face. It shall be returned." The rifle was instantly restored, and then our hunters rode off with the Indians towards their camp. On the way they met hundreds of women and children going to the scene of the great hunt, for it was their special duty to cut up the meat and carry it into camp. The men, considering that they had done quite enough in killing it, returned to smoke and eat away the fatigues of the chase. As they rode along Dick Varley observed that some of the "braves," as Indian warriors are styled, were eating pieces of the bloody livers of the buffaloes in a raw state, at which he expressed not a little disgust. "Ah! boy, you're green yet," remarked Joe Blunt in an undertone. "Mayhap ye'll be thankful to do that same yerself some day." "Well, I'll not refuse to try when it is needful," said Dick with a laugh; "meanwhile I'm content to see the Red-skins do it, Joe Blunt." CHAPTER EIGHT. DICK AND HIS FRIENDS VISIT THE INDIANS AND SEE MANY WONDERS--CRUSOE, TOO, EXPERIENCES A FEW SURPRISES AND TEACHES INDIAN DOGS A LESSON--AN INDIAN DANDY--A FOOT-RACE. The Pawnee village, at which they soon arrived, was situated in the midst of a most interesting and picturesque scene. It occupied an extensive plain which sloped gently down to a creek, [In America small rivers or riverlets are termed "creeks"] whose winding course was marked by a broken line of wood, here and there interspersed with a fine clump of trees, between the trunks of which the blue waters of the lake sparkled in the distance. Hundreds of tents or "lodges" of buffalo skins covered the ground, and thousand of Indians--men, women, and children--moved about the busy scene. Some were sitting in their lodges, lazily smoking their pipes. But these were chiefly old and infirm veterans, for all the young men had gone to the hunt which we have just described. The women were stooping over their fires, busily preparing maize and meat for their husbands and brothers, while myriads of little brown and naked children romped about everywhere, filling the air with their yells and screams, which were only equalled, if not surpassed, by the yelping dogs that seemed innumerable. Far as the eye could reach were seen scattered herds of horses. These were tended by little boys who were totally destitute of clothing, and who seemed to enjoy with infinite zest the pastime of shooting-practice with little bows and arrows. No wonder that these Indians become expert bowmen. There were urchins there, scarce two feet high, with round bullets of bodies and short spindle-shanks, who could knock blackbirds off the trees at every shot, and cut the heads of the taller flowers with perfect certainty! There was much need, too, for the utmost proficiency they could attain, for the very existence of the Indian tribes of the prairies depends on their success in hunting the buffalo. There are hundreds and thousands of North American savages who would undoubtedly perish and their tribes become extinct if the buffaloes were to leave the prairies or die out. Yet, although animals are absolutely essential to their existence, they pursue and slay them with improvident recklessness, sometimes killing hundreds of them merely for the sake of the sport, the tongues, and the marrow-bones. In the bloody hunt described in the last chapter, however, the slaughter of so many was not wanton, because the village that had to be supplied with food was large, and, just previous to the hunt, they had been living on somewhat reduced allowance. Even the blackbirds, shot by the brown-bodied urchins before mentioned, had been thankfully put into the pot. Thus precarious is the supply of food among the Red-men, who on one day are starving, and the next are revelling in superabundance. But to return to our story. At one end of this village the creek sprang over a ledge of rock in a low cascade and opened out into a beautiful lake, the bosom of which was studded with small islands. Here were thousands of those smaller species of wild water-fowl which were either too brave or too foolish to be scared away by the noise of the camp. And here, too, dozens of children were sporting on the beach or paddling about in their light bark canoes. "Isn't it strange," remarked Dick to Henri, as they passed among the tents towards the centre of the village, "isn't it strange that them Injuns should be so fond o' fightin' when they've got all they can want--a fine country, lots o' buffalo, an' as far as I can see, happy homes?" "Oui, it is remarkaibel, vraiment. But dey do more love war to peace. Dey loves to be excited, I s'pose." "Humph! One would think the hunt we seed a little agone would be excitement enough. But, I say, that must be the chief's tent, by the look o't." Dick was right; the horsemen pulled up and dismounted opposite the principal chief's tent, which was a larger and more elegant structure than the others. Meanwhile an immense concourse of women, children, and dogs gathered round the strangers, and, while the latter yelped their dislike to white men, the former chattered continuously, as they discussed the appearance of the strangers and their errand, which latter soon became known. An end was put to this by San-it-sa-rish desiring the hunters to enter the tent, and spreading a buffalo robe for them to sit on. Two braves carried in their packs and then led away their horses. All this time Crusoe had kept as close as possible to his master's side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the midst of such a strange crowd, the more especially that the ill-looking Indian curs gave him expressive looks of hatred, and exhibited some desire to rush upon him in a body, so that he had to keep a sharp look out all round him. When, therefore, Dick entered the tent Crusoe endeavoured to do so along with him, but he was met by a blow on the nose from an old squaw, who scolded him in a shrill voice and bade him begone. Either our hero's knowledge of the Indian language was insufficient to enable him to understand the order, or he had resolved not to obey it, for instead of retreating he drew a deep gurgling breath, curled his nose, and displayed a row of teeth that caused the old woman to draw back in alarm. Crusoe's was a forgiving spirit. The instant that opposition ceased he forgot the injury, and was meekly advancing when Dick held up his finger. "Go outside, pup, and wait." Crusoe's tail drooped; with a deep sigh he turned and left the tent. He took up a position near the entrance, however, and sat down resignedly. So meek, indeed, did the poor dog look, that six mangy-looking curs felt their dastardly hearts emboldened to make a rush at him with boisterous yells. Crusoe did not rise. He did not even condescend to turn his head toward them, but he looked at them out of the corner of his dark eye, wrinkled--very slightly--the skin of his nose, exhibited two beautiful fangs, and gave utterance to a soft remark, that might be described as quiet, deep-toned gargling. It wasn't much, but it was more than enough for the valiant six, who paused and snarled violently. It was a peculiar trait of Crusoe's gentle nature, that, the moment any danger ceased, he resumed his expression of nonchalant gravity. The expression on this occasion was misunderstood, however, and, as about two dozen additional yelping dogs had joined the ranks of the enemy, they advanced in close order to the attack. Crusoe still sat quiet and kept his head high, but he _looked_ at them again and exhibited four fangs for their inspection. Among the pack there was one Indian dog of large size--almost as large as Crusoe himself--which kept well in the rear, and apparently urged the lesser dogs on. The little dogs didn't object, for little dogs are generally the most pugnacious. At this big dog Crusoe directed a pointed glance, but said nothing. Meanwhile a particularly small and vicious cur, with a mere rag of a tail, crept round by the back of the tent, and, coming upon Crusoe in the rear, snapped at his tail sharply, and then fled shrieking with terror and surprise, no doubt, at its own temerity. Crusoe did not bark; he seldom barked; he usually either said nothing, or gave utterance to a prolonged roar of indignation of the most terrible character with barks, as it were, mingled through it. It somewhat resembled that peculiar and well-known species of thunder, the prolonged roll of which is marked at short intervals in its course by cannon-like cracks. It was a continuous, but, so to speak, _knotted_ roar. On receiving the snap, Crusoe gave forth _the_ roar with a majesty and power that scattered the pugnacious front rank of the enemy to the winds. Those that still remained, half stupefied, he leaped over with a huge bound and alighted, fangs first, on the back of the big dog. There was one hideous yell, a muffled scramble of an instant's duration, and the big dog lay dead upon the plain! It was an awful thing to do; but Crusoe evidently felt that the peculiar circumstances of the case required that an example should be made--and to say truth, all things considered, we cannot blame him. The news must have been carried at once through the canine portion of the camp, for Crusoe was never interfered with again after that. Dick witnessed this little incident; but he observed that the Indian chief cared not a straw about it, and as his dog returned quietly and sat down in its old place, he took no notice of it either, but continued to listen to the explanations which Joe gave to the chief, of the desire of the Pale-faces to be friends with the Red-men. Joe's eloquence would have done little for him on this occasion had his hands been empty; but he followed it up by opening one of his packs, and displaying the glittering contents before the equally glittering eyes of the chief and his squaws. "These," said Joe, "are the gifts that the great chief of the Pale-faces sends to the great chief of the Pawnees, and he bids me say that there are many more things in his stores which will be traded for skins with the Red-men, when they visit him; and he also says that if the Pawnees will not steal horses any more from the Pale-faces they shall receive gifts of knives, and guns, and powder and blankets every year." "_Wah_!" grunted the chief; "it is good. The great chief is wise. We will smoke the pipe of peace." The things that afforded so much satisfaction to San-it-sa-rish were the veriest trifles. Penny looking-glasses in yellow gilt tin frames, beads of various colours, needles, cheap scissors, and knives, vermilion paint, and coarse scarlet cloth, etcetera. They were of priceless value, however, in the estimation of the savages, who delighted to adorn themselves with leggings made from the cloth, beautifully worked with beads by their own ingenious women. They were thankful, too, for knives even of the commonest description, having none but bone ones of their own; and they gloried in daubing their faces with intermingled streaks of charcoal and vermilion. To gaze at their visages, when thus treated, in the little penny looking-glasses is their summit of delight! Joe presented the chief with a portion of these coveted goods and tied up the remainder. We may remark here, that the only thing which prevented the savages from taking possession of the whole at once, without asking permission, was the promise of the annual gifts, which they knew would not be forthcoming were any evil to befall the deputies of the Pale-faces. Nevertheless, it cost them a severe struggle to restrain their hands on this occasion, and Joe and his companions felt that they would have to play their part well in order to fulfil their mission with safety and credit. "The Pale-faces may go now and talk with the braves," said San-it-sa-rish, after carefully examining everything that was given to him; "a council will be called soon, and we will smoke the pipe of peace." Accepting this permission to retire, the hunters immediately left the tent, and being now at liberty to do what they pleased, they amused themselves by wandering about the village. "He's a cute chap that," remarked Joe, with a sarcastic smile; "I don't feel quite easy about gettin' away. He'll bother the life out o' us to get all the goods we've got, and, ye see, as we've other tribes to visit, we must give away as little as we can here." "Ha! you is right," said Henri; "dat fellow's eyes twinkle at de knives and tings like two stars." "Fire-flies, ye should say. Stars are too soft an' beautiful to compare to the eyes o' yon savage," said Dick, laughing. "I wish we were well away from them. That rascal Mahtawa is an ugly customer." "True, lad," returned Joe; "had _he_ bin the great chief our scalps had bin dryin' in the smoke o' a Pawnee wigwam afore now. What now, lad?" Joe's question was put in consequence of a gleeful smile that overspread the countenance of Dick Varley, who replied by pointing to a wigwam towards which they were approaching. "Oh! that's only a dandy," exclaimed Joe. "There's lots o' them in every Injun camp. They're fit for nothin' but dress, poor contemptible critters." Joe accompanied his remark with a sneer, for of all pitiable objects, he regarded an unmanly man as the most despicable. He consented, however, to sit down on a grassy bank and watch the proceedings of this Indian dandy, who had just seated himself in front of his wigwam for the purpose of making his toilet. He began it by greasing his whole person carefully and smoothly over with buffalo-fat, until he shone like a patent leather boot; then he rubbed himself almost dry, leaving the skin sleek and glossy. Having proceeded thus far he took up a small mirror, a few inches in diameter, which he or some other member of the tribe must have procured during one of their few excursions to the trading forts of the Pale-faces, and examined himself, as well as he could, in so limited a space. Next, he took a little vermilion from a small parcel and rubbed it over his face until it presented the somewhat demoniac appearance of a fiery red. He also drew a broad red score along the crown of his head, which was closely shaved, with the exception of the usual tuft or scalp-lock on the top. This scalp-lock stood bristling straight up a few inches, and then curved over and hung down his back about two feet. Immense care and attention was bestowed on this lock. He smoothed it, greased it, and plaited it into the form of a pigtail. Another application was here made to the glass, and the result was evidently satisfactory, to judge from the beaming smile that played on his features. But, not content with the general effect, he tried the effect of expression--frowned portentously, scowled savagely, gaped hideously, and grinned horribly a ghastly smile. Then our dandy fitted into his ears, which were bored in several places, sundry ornaments, such as rings, wampum, etcetera, and hung several strings of beads round his neck. Besides these he affixed one or two ornaments to his arms, wrists, and ankles, and touched in a few effects with vermilion on the shoulders and breast. After this, and a few more glances at the glass, he put on a pair of beautiful moccasins, which, besides being richly wrought with beads, were soft as chamois leather, and fitted his feet like gloves; a pair of leggings of scarlet cloth were drawn on, attached to a waist-belt, and bound below the knee with broad garters of variegated bead-work. It was some time before this Adonis was quite satisfied with himself. He re-touched the paint on his shoulders several times, and modified the glare of that on his wide-mouthed, high-cheek-boned visage before he could tear himself away; but at last he did so, and, throwing a large piece of scarlet cloth over his shoulders, he thrust his looking-glass under his belt, and proceeded to mount his palfrey, which was held in readiness near to the tent door by one of his wives. The horse was really a fine animal, and seemed worthy of a more warlike master. His shoulders, too, were striped with red paint, and feathers were intertwined with his mane and tail, while the bridle was decorated with various jingling ornaments. Vaulting upon his steed, with a large fan of wild goose and turkey feathers in one hand, and a whip dangling at the wrist of the other, this incomparable dandy sallied forth for a promenade--that being his chief delight when there was no buffalo hunting to be done. Other men who were not dandies sharpened their knives, smoked, feasted, and mended their spears and arrows at such seasons of leisure, or played at athletic games. "Let's follow my buck," said Joe Blunt. "Oui. Come 'long," replied Henri, striding after the rider at a pace that almost compelled his comrades to run. "Hold on!" cried Dick, laughing; "we don't want to keep him company. A distant view is quite enough o' sich a chap as that." "Mais, you forgit, I cannot see far." "So much the better," remarked Joe; "it's my opinion we've seen enough o' him. Ah! he's goin' to look on at the games. Them's worth lookin' at." The games to which Joe referred were taking place on a green level plain close to the creek, and a little above the waterfall before referred to. Some of the Indians were horse-racing, some jumping, and others wrestling; but the game which proved most attractive was throwing the javelin, in which several of the young braves were engaged. This game is played by two competitors, each armed with a dart, in an arena about fifty yards long. One of the players has a hoop of six inches in diameter. At a signal they start off on foot at full speed, and on reaching the middle of the arena the Indian with the hoop rolls it along before them, and each does his best to send a javelin through the hoop before the other. He who succeeds counts so many points--if both miss, the nearest to the hoop is allowed to count, but not so much as if he had "ringed" it. The Indians are very fond of this game, and will play at it under a broiling sun for hours together. But a good deal of the interest attaching to it is owing to the fact that they make it a means of gambling. Indians are inveterate gamblers, and will sometimes go on until they lose horses, bows, blankets, robes, and, in short, their whole personal property. The consequences are, as might be expected, that fierce and bloody quarrels sometimes arise in which life is often lost. "Try your hand at that," said Henri to Dick. "By all means," cried Dick, handing his rifle to his friend, and springing into the ring enthusiastically. A general shout of applause greeted the Pale-face, who threw off his coat and tightened his belt, while a young Indian presented him with a dart. "Now, see that ye do us credit, lad," said Joe. "I'll try," answered Dick. In a moment they were off. The young Indian rolled away the hoop, and Dick threw his dart with such vigour that it went deep into the ground, but missed the hoop by a foot at least. The young Indian's first dart went through the centre. "Ha!" exclaimed Joe Blunt to the Indians near him, "the lad's not used to that game, try him at a race. Bring out your best brave--he whose bound is like the hunted deer." We need scarcely remind the reader that Joe spoke in the Indian language, and that the above is a correct rendering of the sense of what he said. The name of Tarwicadia, or the little chief, immediately passed from lip to lip, and in a few minutes an Indian, a little below the medium size, bounded into the arena with an indiarubber-like elasticity that caused a shade of anxiety to pass over Joe's face. "Ah, boy!" he whispered, "I'm afeared you'll find him a tough customer." "That's just what I want," replied Dick. "He's supple enough, but he wants muscle in the thigh. We'll make it a long heat." "Right, lad, yer right." Joe now proceeded to arrange the conditions of the race with the chiefs around him. It was fixed that the distance to be run should be a mile, so that the race would be one of two miles, out and back. Moreover, the competitors were to run without any clothes, except a belt and a small piece of cloth round the loins. This to the Indians was nothing, for they seldom wore more in warm weather, but Dick would have preferred to keep on part of his dress. The laws of the course, however, would not permit of this, so he stripped and stood forth, the beau-ideal of a well-formed, agile man. He was greatly superior in size to his antagonist, and more muscular, the savage being slender and extremely lithe and springy. "Hah! I will run too," shouted Henri, bouncing forward with clumsy energy, and throwing off his coat just as they were going to start. The savages smiled at this unexpected burst and made no objection, considering the thing in the light of a joke. The signal was given, and away they went. Oh! it would have done you good to have seen the way in which Henri manoeuvred his limbs on this celebrated occasion! He went over the ground with huge elephantine bounds, runs, and jumps. He could not have been said to have one style of running; he had a dozen styles, all of which came into play in the course of half as many minutes. The other two ran like the wind; yet, although Henri _appeared_ to be going heavily over the ground, he kept up with them to the turning point. As for Dick, it became evident in the first few minutes that he could outstrip his antagonist with ease, and was hanging back a little all the time. He shot ahead like an arrow when they came about half-way back, and it was clear that the real interest of the race was to lie in the competition between Henri and Tarwicadia. Before they were two-thirds of the way back, Dick walked in to the winning point, and turned to watch the others. Henri's wind was about gone, for he exerted himself with such violence that he wasted half his strength. The Indian, on the contrary, was comparatively fresh, but he was not so fleet as his antagonist, whose tremendous strides carried him over the ground at an incredible pace. On they came neck and neck, till close on the score that marked the winning point. Here the value of enthusiasm came out strongly in the case of Henri. He _felt_ that he could not gain an inch on Tarwicadia to save his life; but, just as he came up, he observed the anxious faces of his comrades and the half-sneering countenances of the savages. His heart thumped against his ribs, every muscle thrilled with a gush of conflicting feelings, and he _hurled_ himself over the score like a cannon shot, full six inches ahead of the little chief! But the thing did not by any means end here. Tarwicadia pulled up the instant he had passed. Not so our Canadian. Such a clumsy and colossal frame was not to be checked in a moment. The crowd of Indians opened up to let him pass, but unfortunately a small tent that stood in the way was not so obliging. Into it he went, head-foremost, like a shell, carried away the corner-post with his shoulder, and brought the whole affair down about his own ears, and those of its inmates, among whom were several children and two or three dogs. It required some time to extricate them all from the ruins, but when this was effected, it was found that no serious damage had been done to life or limb! CHAPTER NINE. CRUSOE ACTS A CONSPICUOUS AND HUMANE PART--A FRIEND GAINED--A GREAT FEAST. When the foot-race was concluded, the three hunters hung about, looking on at the various games for some time, and then strolled towards the lake. "Ye may be thankful yer neck's whole," said Joe, grinning, as Henri rubbed his shoulder with a rueful look. "An' we'll have to send that Injun and his family a knife and some beads to make up for the fright they got." "Hah! an' fat is to be give to me for my broke shoulder?" "Credit, man, credit," said Dick Varley, laughing. "Credit! fat is dat?" "Honour and glory, lad, and the praises of them savages." "Ha! de praise? more probeebale de ill-vill of de rascale. I seed dem scowl at me not ver' pritty." "That's true, Henri, but sich as it is it's all ye'll git." "I vish," remarked Henri after a pause--"I vish I could git de vampum belt de leetle chief had on. It vas superb. Fat place do vampums come from?" "They're shells--" "Oui," interrupted Henri. "I know _fat_ de is. Dey is shells, and de Injuns tink dem goot monish; mais, I ask you _fat place_ de come from." "They are thought to be gathered on the shores o' the Pacific," said Joe; "the Injuns on the west o' the Rocky Mountains picks them up and exchanges them wi' the fellows here-away for horses and skins--so I'm told." At this moment there was a wild cry of terror heard a short distance ahead of them. Rushing forward they observed an Indian woman flying frantically down the river's bank towards the waterfall, a hundred yards above which an object was seen struggling in the water. "'Tis her child," cried Joe, as the mother's frantic cry reached his ear. "It'll be over the fall in a minute! Run, Dick, you're quickest." They had all started forward at speed, but Dick and Crusoe were far ahead, and abreast of the spot in a few seconds. "Save it, pup," cried Dick, pointing to the child, which had been caught in an eddy, and was for a few moments hovering on the edge of the stream that rushed impetuously towards the fall. The noble Newfoundland did not require to be told what to do. It seems a natural instinct in this sagacious species of dog to save man or beast that chances to be struggling in the water, and many are the authentic stories related of Newfoundland dogs saving life in cases of shipwreck. Indeed, they are regularly trained to the work in some countries, and nobly, fearlessly, disinterestedly, do they discharge their trust, often in the midst of appalling dangers. Crusoe sprang from the bank with such impetus that his broad chest ploughed up the water like the bow of a boat, and the energetic workings of his muscles were indicated by the force of each successive propulsion as he shot ahead. In a few seconds he reached the child and caught it by the hair. Then he turned to swim back, but the stream had got hold of him. Bravely he struggled, and lifted the child breast-high out of the water in his powerful efforts to stem the current. In vain. Each moment he was carried inch by inch down until he was on the brink of the fall, which, though not high, was a large body of water and fell with a heavy roar. He raised himself high out of the stream with the vigour of his last struggle, and then fell back into the abyss. By this time the poor mother was in a canoe as close to the fall as she could with safety approach, and the little bark danced like a cockle-shell on the turmoil of waters as she stood with uplifted paddle and staring eyeballs awaiting the rising of the child. Crusoe came up almost instantly, but _alone_, for the dash over the fall had wrenched the child from his teeth. He raised himself high up and looked anxiously round for a moment. Then he caught sight of a little hand raised above the boiling flood. In one moment he had the child again by the hair, and, just as the prow of the Indian woman's canoe touched the shore, he brought the child to land. Springing towards him, the mother snatched her child from the flood and gazed at its death-like face with eyeballs starting from their sockets; then she laid her cheek on its cold breast and stood like a statue of despair. There was one slight pulsation of the heart and a gentle motion of the hand! The child still lived. Opening up her blanket she laid her little one against her naked, warm bosom, drew the covering close around it, and, sitting down on the bank, wept aloud for joy. "Come,--come 'way quick," cried Henri, hurrying off to hide the emotion which he could not crush down. "Ay, she don't need our help now," said Joe, following his comrade. As for Crusoe, he walked along by his master's side with his usual quiet, serene look of good-will towards all mankind. Doubtless a feeling of gladness at having saved a human life filled his shaggy breast, for he wagged his tail gently, after each shake of his dripping sides, but his meek eyes were downcast, save when raised to receive the welcome and unusually fervent caress. Crusoe did not know that those three men loved him as though he had been a brother. On their way back to the village the hunters were met by a little boy, who said that a council was to be held immediately, and their presence was requested. The council was held in the tent of the principal chief, towards which all the other chiefs and many of the noted braves hurried. Like all Indian councils, it was preceded by smoking the "medicine pipe," and was followed by speeches from several of the best orators. The substance of the discourse differed little from what has been already related in reference to the treaty between the Pale-faces, and upon the whole it was satisfactory. But Joe Blunt could not fail to notice that Mahtawa maintained sullen silence during the whole course of the meeting. He observed, also, that there was a considerable change in the tone of the meeting when he informed them that he was bound on a similar errand of peace to several of the other tribes, especially to one or two tribes which were the Pawnees' bitter enemies at that time. These grasping savages having quite made up their minds that they were to obtain the entire contents of the two bales of goods, were much mortified on hearing that part was to go to other Indian tribes. Some of them even hinted that this would not be allowed, and Joe feared at one time that things were going to take an unfavourable turn. The hair of his scalp, as he afterwards said, "began to lift a little and feel oneasy." But San-it-sa-rish stood honestly to his word; said that it would be well that the Pale-faces and the Pawnees should be brothers, and hoped that they would not forget the promise of annual presents from the hand of the great chief who lived in the big village near the rising sun. Having settled this matter amicably, Joe distributed among the Indians the proportion of his goods designed for them, and then they all adjourned to another tent where a great feast was prepared for them. "Are ye hungry?" inquired Joe of Dick as they walked along. "Ay, that am I. I feel as if I could eat a buffalo alive. Why, it's my 'pinion we've tasted nothin' since daybreak this mornin'." "Well, I've often told ye that them Red-skins think it a disgrace to give in eatin' till all that's set before them at a feast is bolted. We'll ha' to stretch oursel's, we will." "I'se got a plenty room," remarked Henri. "Ye have, but ye'll wish ye had more in a little." "Bien, I not care!" In a quarter of an hour all the guests invited to this great _medicine_ feast were assembled. No women were admitted. They never are at Indian feasts. We may remark in passing, that the word "medicine," as used among the North American Indians, has a very much wider signification than it has with us. It is an almost inexplicable word. When asked, they cannot give a full or satisfactory explanation of it themselves. In the general, we may say that whatever is mysterious is "medicine." Jugglery and conjuring, of a noisy, mysterious, and, we must add, rather silly nature, is "medicine," and the juggler is a "medicine-man." These medicine-men undertake cures, but they are regular charlatans, and know nothing whatever of the diseases they pretend to cure, or their remedies. They carry bags containing sundry relics; these are "medicine bags." Every brave has his own private medicine bag. Everything that is incomprehensible, or supposed to be supernatural, religious, or medical, is "medicine." This feast, being an unusual one, in honour of strangers, and in connection with a peculiar and unexpected event, was "medicine." Even Crusoe, since his gallant conduct in saving the Indian child, was "medicine"; and Dick Varley's double-barrelled rifle, which had been an object of wonder ever since his arrival at the village, was tremendous "medicine!" Of course the Indians were arrayed in their best; several wore necklaces of the claws of the grizzly bear, of which they are extremely proud; and a gaudily picturesque group they were. The chief, however, had undergone a transformation that well-nigh upset the gravity of our hunters, and rendered Dick's efforts to look solemn quite abortive. San-it-sa-rish had once been to the trading forts of the Pale-faces, and while there had received the customary gift of a blue surtout with brass buttons, and an ordinary hat, such as gentlemen wear at home. As the coat was a good deal too small for him, a terrible length of dark, bony wrist appeared below the cuffs. The waist was too high, and it was with great difficulty that he managed to button the garment across his broad chest. Being ignorant of the nature of a hat, the worthy savage had allowed the paper and string with which it had been originally covered, to remain on, supposing them to be part and parcel of the hat; and this, together with the high collar of the coat, which gave him a crushed-up appearance, the long black naked legs, and the painted visage, gave to him a _tout ensemble_ which we can compare to nothing, as there was nothing in nature comparable to it. Those guests who assembled first passed their time in smoking the medicine pipe until the others should arrive; for so long as a single invited guest is absent the feast cannot begin. Dignified silence was maintained while the pipe thus circulated from hand to hand. When the last guest arrived they began. The men were seated in two rows, face to face. Feasts of this kind usually consist of but one species of food, and on the present occasion it was an enormous cauldron full of maize which had to be devoured. About fifty sat down to eat a quantity of what may be termed thick porridge, that would have been ample allowance for a hundred ordinary men. Before commencing, San-it-sa-rish desired an aged medicine-man to make an oration, which he did fluently and poetically. Its subject was the praise of the giver of the feast. At the end of each period there was a general "Hou! hou!" of assent--equivalent to the hear! hear! of civilised men. Other orators then followed, all of whom spoke with great ease and fluency, and some in the most impassioned strains, working themselves and their audience up to the highest pitch of excitement, now shouting with frenzied violence till their eyes glared from their sockets, and the veins of their foreheads swelled almost to bursting as they spoke of war and chase--anon breaking into soft modulated and pleasing tones, while they dilated upon the pleasures of peace and hospitality. After these had finished, a number of wooden bowls full of maize porridge were put down between the guests--one bowl to each couple facing each other. But before commencing, a portion was laid aside and dedicated to their gods, with various mysterious ceremonies; for here, as in other places where the gospel is not known, the poor savages fancied that they could propitiate God with sacrifices. They had never heard of the "sacrifice of a broken spirit and a contrite heart." This offering being made, the feast began in earnest. Not only was it a rule in this feast that every mouthful should be swallowed by each guest, however unwilling and unable he should be to do so, but he who could dispose of it with greatest speed was deemed the greatest man--at least on that occasion--while the last to conclude his supper was looked upon with some degree of contempt! It seems strange that such a custom should ever have arisen, and one is not a little puzzled in endeavouring to guess at the origin of it. There is one fact that occurs to us as the probable cause. The Indian is, as we have before hinted, frequently reduced to a state bordering on starvation, and in a day after he may be burdened with superabundance of food. He oftentimes, therefore, eats as much as he can stuff into his body when he is blessed with plenty, so as to be the better able to withstand the attacks of hunger that may possibly be in store for him. The amount that an Indian will thus eat at a single meal is incredible. He seems to have the power of distending himself for the reception of a quantity that would kill a civilised man. Children, in particular, become like tightly inflated little balloons after a feast, and as they wear no clothing, the extraordinary rotundity is very obvious, not to say ridiculous. We conclude, therefore, that unusual powers of gormandising, being useful, come at last to be cultivated as praiseworthy. By good fortune Dick and Joe Blunt happened to have such enormous gluttons as _vis-a-vis_, that the portions of their respective bowls which they could not devour were gobbled up for them. By good capacity and digestion, with no small amount of effort, Henri managed to dispose of his own share; but he was last of being done, and fell in the savages' esteem greatly. The way in which that sticky compost of boiled maize went down was absolutely amazing. The man opposite Dick, in particular, was a human boa-constrictor. He well-nigh suffocated Dick with suppressed laughter. He was a great raw-boned savage, with a throat of indiarubber, and went quickly and quietly on swallowing mass after mass, with the solemn gravity of an owl. It mattered not a straw to him that Dick took comparatively small mouthfuls, and nearly choked on them too for want of liquid to wash them down. Had Dick eaten none at all he would have uncomplainingly disposed of the whole. Jack the Giant-Killer's feats were nothing to his, and when at last the bowl was empty, he stopped short like a machine from which the steam had been suddenly cut off, and laid down his buffalo horn spoon _without_ a sigh. Dick sighed, though, with relief and gratitude when his bowl was empty. "I hope I may never have to do it again," said Joe that night as they wended their way back to the chief's tent after supper. "I wouldn't be fit for anything for a week arter it." Dick could only laugh, for any allusion to the feast instantly brought back that owl-like gourmand to whom he was so deeply indebted. Henri groaned. "Oh! mes boy, I am speechless! I am ready for bust! Oui,--hah! I veesh it vas to-morrow." Many a time that night did Henri "veesh it vas to-morrow," as he lay helpless on his back, looking up through the roof of the chief's tent at the stars, and listening enviously to the plethoric snoring of Joe Blunt. He was entertained, however, during those waking hours with a serenade such as few civilised ears ever listen to. This was nothing else than a vocal concert performed by all the dogs of the village, and as they amounted to nearly two thousand, the orchestra was a pretty full one. These wretches howled as if they had all gone mad. Yet there was "method in their madness," for they congregated in a crowd before beginning, and sat down on their haunches. Then one, which seemed to be the conductor, raised his snout to the sky, and uttered a long, low, melancholy wail. The others took it up by twos and threes, until the whole pack had their noses pointing to the stars, and their throats distended to the uttermost, while a prolonged yell filled the air. Then it sank gradually, one or two (bad performers probably) making a yelping attempt to get it up again at the wrong time. Again the conductor raised his nose, and out it came--full swing. There was no vociferous barking. It was simple wolfish howling increased in fervour to an electric yell, with slight barks running continuously through it like an obbligato accompaniment. When Crusoe first heard the unwonted sound he sprang to his feet, bristled up like a hyena, showed all his teeth, and bounded out of the tent blazing with indignation and astonishment. When he found out what it was he returned quite sleek, and with a look of profound contempt on his countenance as he resumed his place by his master's side and went to sleep. CHAPTER TEN. PERPLEXITIES--OUR HUNTERS PLAN THEIR ESCAPE--UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION-- THE TABLES TURNED--CRUSOE MOUNTS GUARD--THE ESCAPE. Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating. We do not mean to assert that Dick had been previously eating grass. By no means. For several days past he had been mentally subsisting on the remarkable things that he heard and saw in the Pawnee village, and wondering how he was to get away without being scalped; he was now chewing the cud of this intellectual fare. We therefore repeat emphatically--in case any reader should have presumed to contradict us--that Dick Varley sat before the fire _ruminating_! Joe Blunt likewise sat by the fire along with him, ruminating too, and smoking besides. Henri also sat there smoking, and looking a little the worse of his late supper. "I don't like the look o' things," said Joe, blowing a whiff of smoke slowly from his lips, and watching it as it ascended into the still air. "That blackguard Mahtawa is determined not to let us off till he gits all our goods, an' if he gits them, he may as well take our scalps too, for we would come poor speed in the prairies without guns, horses, or goods." Dick looked at his friend with an expression of concern. "What's to be done?" said he. "Ve must escape," answered Henri; but his tone was not a hopeful one, for he knew the danger of their position better than Dick. "Ay, we must escape; at least we must try," said Joe; "but I'll make one more effort to smooth over San-it-sa-rish, an' git him to snub that villain Mahtawa." Just as he spoke the villain in question entered the tent with a bold, haughty air, and sat down before the fire in sullen silence. For some minutes no one spoke, and Henri, who happened at the time to be examining the locks of Dick's rifle, continued to inspect them with an appearance of careless indifference that he was far from feeling. Now, this rifle of Dick's had become a source of unceasing wonder to the Indians,--wonder which was greatly increased by the fact that no one could discharge it but himself. Dick had, during his short stay at the Pawnee village, amused himself and the savages by exhibiting his marvellous powers with the "silver rifle." Since it had been won by him at the memorable match in the Mustang Valley, it had scarce ever been out of his hand, so that he had become decidedly the best shot in the settlement, could "bark" squirrels (that is, hit the bark of the branch on which a squirrel happened to be standing, and so kill it by the concussion alone), and could "drive the nail" every shot. The silver rifle, as we have said, became "great medicine" to the Red-men, when they saw it kill at a distance which the few wretched guns they had obtained from the fur-traders could not even send a spent ball to. The double shot, too, filled them with wonder and admiration; but that which they regarded with an almost supernatural feeling of curiosity was the percussion cap, which in Dick's hands always exploded, but in theirs was utterly useless! This result was simply owing to the fact, that Dick after firing handed the rifle to the Indians without renewing the cap. So that when they loaded and attempted to fire, of course it merely snapped. When he wished again to fire, he adroitly exchanged the old cap for a new one. He was immensely tickled by the solemn looks of the Indians at this most incomprehensible of all "medicines," and kept them for some days in ignorance of the true cause, intending to reveal it before he left. But circumstances now arose which banished all trifling thoughts from his mind. Mahtawa raised his head suddenly, and said, pointing to the silver rifle, "Mahtawa wishes to have the two-shotted medicine gun. He will give his best horse in exchange." "Mahtawa is liberal," answered Joe, "but the pale-faced youth cannot part with it. He has far to travel, and must shoot buffaloes by the way." "The pale-faced youth shall have a bow and arrows to shoot the buffalo," rejoined the Indian. "He cannot use the bow and arrow," answered Joe; "he has not been trained like the Red-man." Mahtawa was silent for a few seconds, and his dark brows frowned more heavily than ever over his eyes. "The Pale-faces are too bold," he exclaimed, working himself into a passion; "they are in the power of Mahtawa. If they will not give the gun he will take it." He sprang suddenly to his feet as he spoke, and snatched the rifle from Henri's hand. Henri, being ignorant of the language, had not been able to understand the foregoing conversation, although he saw well enough that it was not an agreeable one but no sooner did he find himself thus rudely and unexpectedly deprived of the rifle, than he jumped up, wrenched it in a twinkling from the Indian's grasp, and hurled him violently out of the tent. In a moment Mahtawa drew his knife, uttered a savage yell, and sprang on the reckless hunter, who, however, caught his wrist, and held it as if in a vice. The yell brought a dozen warriors instantly to the spot, and before Dick had time to recover from his astonishment, Henri was surrounded and pinioned despite his herculean struggles. Before Dick could move, Joe Blunt grasped his arm, and whispered quickly, "Don't rise! You can't help him! They daren't kill him till San-it-sa-rish agrees." Though much surprised, Dick obeyed, but it required all his efforts, both of voice and hand, to control Crusoe, whose mind was much too honest and straightforward to understand such subtle pieces of diplomacy, and who strove to rush to the rescue of his ill-used friend. When the tumult had partly subsided, Joe Blunt rose and said--"Have the Pawnee braves turned traitors that they draw the knife against those who have smoked with them the pipe of peace and eaten their maize? The Pale-faces are three; the Pawnees are thousands. If evil has been done, let it be laid before the chief. Mahtawa wishes to have the medicine gun. Although we said No, we could not part with it, he tried to take it by force. Are we to go back to the great chief of the Pale-faces, and say that the Pawnees are thieves? Are the Pale-faces henceforth to tell their children when they steal, `That is bad; that is like the Pawnee?' No! this must not be. The rifle shall be restored, and we will forget this disagreement. Is it not so?" There was an evident disposition on the part of many of the Indians, with whom Mahtawa was no favourite, to applaud this speech; but the wily chief sprang forward, and, with flashing eye, sought to turn the tables. "The Pale-face speaks with soft words, but his heart is false. Is he not going to make peace with the enemies of the Pawnee? Is he not going to take goods to them, and make them gifts and promises? The Pale-faces are spies. They come to see the weakness of the Pawnee camp, but they have found that it is strong. Shall we suffer the false-hearts to escape? Shall they live? No! we will hang their scalps in our wigwams, for they have _struck a chief_ and we will keep all their goods for our squaws--wah!" This allusion to keeping all the goods had more effect on the minds of the vacillating savages than the chiefs eloquence. But a new turn was given to their thoughts by Joe Blunt remarking in a quiet, almost contemptuous tone-- "Mahtawa is not the _great_ chief." "True, true," they cried, and immediately hurried to the tent of San-it-sa-rish. Once again this chief stood between the hunters and the savages, who wanted but a signal to fall on them. There was a long palaver, which ended in Henri being set at liberty, and the rifle being restored. That evening, as the three friends sat beside their fire eating their supper of boiled maize and buffalo meat, they laughed and talked as carelessly as ever; but the gaiety was assumed, for they were at the time planning their escape from a tribe which, they foresaw, would not long refrain from carrying out their wishes, and robbing, perhaps murdering them. "Ye see," said Joe with a perplexed air, while he drew a piece of live charcoal from the fire with his fingers and lighted his pipe,--"ye see, there's more difficulties in the way o' gettin' off than ye think--" "Oh! nivare mind de difficulties," interrupted Henri, whose wrath at the treatment he had received had not yet cooled down. "Ve must jump on de best horses ve can git hold, shake our fist at de red reptiles, and go away fast as ve can. De best hoss _must_ vin de race." Joe shook his head. "A hundred arrows would be in our backs before we got twenty yards from the camp. Besides, we can't tell which are the best horses. Our own are the best in my 'pinion, but how are we to git 'em?" "I know who has charge o' them," said Dick; "I saw them grazing near the tent o' that poor squaw whose baby was saved by Crusoe. Either her husband looks after them or some neighbours." "That's well," said Joe. "That's one o' my difficulties gone." "What are the others?" "Well, d'ye see, they're troublesome. We can't git the horses out o' camp without bein' seen, for the red rascals would see what we were at in a jiffy. Then, if we do git 'em out, we can't go off without our bales, an' we needn't think to take 'em from under the nose o' the chief and his squaws without bein' axed questions. To go off without them would niver do at all." "Joe," said Dick, earnestly, "I've hit on a plan." "Have ye, Dick? what is't?" "Come and I'll let ye see," answered Dick, rising hastily and quitting the tent, followed by his comrades and his faithful dog. It may be as well to remark here, that no restraint whatever had yet been put on the movements of our hunters as long as they kept to their legs, for it was well-known that any attempt by men on foot to escape from mounted Indians on the plains would be hopeless. Moreover, the savages thought that as long as there was a prospect of their being allowed to depart peaceably with their goods, they would not be so mad as to fly from the camp, and, by so doing, risk their lives and declare war with their entertainers. They had, therefore, been permitted to wander unchecked, as yet, far beyond the outskirts of the camp, and amuse themselves in paddling about the lake in the small Indian canoes and shooting wild-fowl. Dick now led the way through the labyrinths of tents in the direction of the lake, and they talked and laughed loudly, and whistled to Crusoe as they went, in order to prevent their purpose being suspected. For the purpose of further disarming suspicion they went without their rifles. Dick explained his plan by the way, and it was at once warmly approved of by his comrades. On reaching the lake they launched a small canoe, into which Crusoe was ordered to jump; then, embarking, they paddled swiftly to the opposite shore, singing a canoe song as they dipped their paddles in the moonlit waters of the lake. Arrived at the other side, they hauled the canoe up and hurried through the thin belt of wood and willows that intervened between the lake and the prairie. Here they paused. "Is that the bluff, Joe?" "No, Dick, that's too near. T'other one'll be best. Far away to the right. It's a little one, and there's others near it. The sharp eyes o' the Red-skins won't be so likely to be prowlin' there." "Come on, then; but we'll have to take down by the lake first." In a few minutes the hunters were threading their way through the outskirts of the wood at a rapid trot, in the opposite direction from the bluff, or wooded knoll, which they wished to reach. This they did lest prying eyes should have followed them. In a quarter of an hour they turned at right angles to their track, and struck straight out into the prairie, and after a long run they edged round and came in upon the bluff from behind. It was merely a collection of stunted but thick-growing willows. Forcing their way into the centre of this they began to examine it. "It'll do," said Joe. "De very ting," remarked Henri. "Come here, Crusoe." Crusoe bounded to his master's side, and looked up in his face. "Look at this place, pup; smell it well." Crusoe instantly set off all round among the willows, in and out, snuffing everywhere, and whining with excitement. "Come here, good pup; that will do. Now, lads, we'll go back." So saying, Dick and his friends left the bluff and retraced their steps to the camp. Before they had gone far, however, Joe halted, and said-- "D'ye know, Dick, I doubt if the pup's so cliver as ye think. What if he don't quite onderstand ye?" Dick replied by taking off his cap and throwing it down, at the same time exclaiming, "Take it yonder, pup," and pointing with his hand towards the bluff. The dog seized the cap, and went off with it at full speed towards the willows, where it left it, and came galloping back for the expected reward--not now, as in days of old, a bit of meat, but a gentle stroke of its head and a hearty clap on its shaggy side. "Good pup, go now an' _fetch it_." Away he went with a bound, and, in a few seconds, came back and deposited the cap at his master's feet. "Will that do?" asked Dick, triumphantly. "Ay, lad, it will. The pup's worth its weight in goold." "Oui, I have said, and I say it agen, de dog is _human_, so him is. If not--fat am he?" Without pausing to reply to this perplexing question, Dick stepped forward again, and in half an hour or so they were back in the camp. "Now for _your_ part of the work, Joe; yonder's the squaw that owns the half-drowned baby. Everything depends on her." Dick pointed to the Indian woman as he spoke. She was sitting beside her tent, and playing at her knee was the identical youngster that had been saved by Crusoe. "I'll manage it," said Joe, and walked towards her, while Dick and Henri returned to the chiefs tent. "Does the Pawnee woman thank the Great Spirit that her child is saved?" began Joe as he came up. "She does," answered the woman, looking up at the hunter. "And her heart is warm to the Pale-faces." After a short silence Joe continued-- "The Pawnee chiefs do not love the Pale-faces. Some of them hate them." "The Dark Flower knows it," answered the woman; "she is sorry. She would help the Pale-faces if she could." This was uttered in a low tone, and with a meaning glance of the eye. Joe hesitated again--could he trust her? Yes; the feelings that filled her breast and prompted her words were not those of the Indian just now--they were those of a _mother_, whose gratitude was too full for utterance. "Will the Dark Flower," said Joe, catching the name she had given herself, "help the Pale-face if he opens his heart to her? Will she risk the anger of her nation?" "She will," replied the woman; "she will do what she can." Joe and his dark friend now dropped their high-sounding style of speech, and spoke for some minutes rapidly in an undertone. It was finally arranged that on a given day, at a certain hour, the woman should take the four horses down the shores of the lake to its lower end, as if she were going for firewood, there cross the creek at the ford, and drive them to the willow-bluff, and guard them till the hunters should arrive. Having settled this, Joe returned to the tent and informed his comrades of his success. During the next three days Joe kept the Indians in good-humour by giving them one or two trinkets, and speaking in glowing terms of the riches of the white men, and the readiness with which they would part with them to the savages if they would only make peace. Meanwhile, during the dark hours of each night, Dick managed to abstract small quantities of goods from their pack, in room of which he stuffed in pieces of leather to keep up the size and appearance. The goods thus taken out he concealed about his person, and went off with a careless swagger to the outskirts of the village, with Crusoe at his heels. Arrived there, he tied the goods in a small piece of deerskin, and gave the bundle to the dog, with the injunction, "Take it yonder, pup." Crusoe took it up at once, darted off at full speed with the bundle in his mouth, down the shore of the lake towards the ford of the river, and was soon lost to view. In this way, little by little, the goods were conveyed by the faithful dog to the willow-bluff and left there, while the stuffed pack still remained in safekeeping in the chief's tent. Joe did not at first like the idea of thus sneaking off from the camp; and more than once made strong efforts to induce San-it-sa-rish to let him go, but even that chief's countenance was not so favourable as it had been. It was clear that he could not make up his mind to let slip so good a chance of obtaining guns, powder, and shot, horses and goods, without any trouble; so Joe made up his mind to give them the slip at once. A dark night was chosen for the attempt, and the Indian woman went off with the horses to the place where firewood for the camp was usually cut. Unfortunately the suspicion of that wily savage Mahtawa had been awakened, and he stuck close to the hunters all day--not knowing what was going on, but feeling convinced that something was brewing which he resolved to watch, without mentioning his suspicions to any one. "I think that villain's away at last," whispered Joe to his comrades; "it's time to go, lads, the moon won't be up for an hour. Come along." "Have ye got the big powder-horn, Joe?" "Ay, ay, all right." "Stop! stop! my knife, my couteau. Ah! here it be. Now, boy." The three set off as usual, strolling carelessly to the outskirts of the camp; then they quickened their pace, and, gaining the lake, pushed off in a small canoe. At the same moment Mahtawa stepped from the bushes, leaped into another canoe and followed them. "Hah! he must die," muttered Henri. "Not at all," said Joe, "we'll manage him without that." The chief landed and strode boldly up to them, for he knew well that whatever their purpose might be, they would not venture to use their rifles within sound of the camp at that hour of the night; as for their knives, he could trust to his own active limbs and the woods to escape and give the alarm if need be. "The Pale-faces hunt very late," he said with a malicious grin. "Do they love the dark better than the sunshine?" "Not so," replied Joe, coolly, "but we love to walk by the light of the moon. It will be up in less than an hour, and we mean to take a long ramble to-night." "The Pawnee chief loves to walk by the moon too, he will go with the Pale-faces." "Good," ejaculated Joe. "Come along, then." The party immediately set forward, although the savage was a little taken by surprise at the indifferent way in which Joe received his proposal to accompany them. He walked on to the edge of the prairie, however, and then stopped. "The Pale-faces must go alone," said he; "Mahtawa will return to his tent." Joe replied to this intimation by seizing him suddenly by the throat and choking back the yell that would otherwise have brought the Pawnee warriors rushing to the scene of action in hundreds. Mahtawa's hand was on the handle of his scalping-knife in a moment, but before he could draw it, his arms were glued to his sides by the bear-like embrace of Henri, while Dick tied a handkerchief quickly yet firmly round his mouth. The whole thing was accomplished in two minutes. After taking his knife and tomahawk away, they loosened their gripe and escorted him swiftly over the prairie. Mahtawa was perfectly submissive after the first convulsive struggle was over. He knew that the men who walked on each side of him grasping his arms were more than his match singly, so he wisely made no resistance. Hurrying him to a clump of small trees on the plain which was so far distant from the village that a yell could not be heard, they removed the bandage from Mahtawa's mouth. "_Must_ he be kill?" inquired Henri, in a tone of commiseration. "Not at all" answered Joe, "we'll tie him to a tree and leave him there." "Then he vill be starve to deat'. Oh! dat is more horrobell!" "He must take his chance o' that. I've no doubt his friends'll find him in a day or two, an' he's game to last for a week or more. But you'll have to run to the willow-bluff, Dick, and bring a bit of line to tie him. We can't spare it well; but there's no help." "But there _is_ help," retorted Dick. "Just order the villain to climb into that tree." "Why so, lad?" "Don't ask questions, but do what I bid ye." The hunter smiled for a moment as he turned to the Indian, and ordered him to climb up a small tree near to which he stood. Mahtawa looked surprised, but there was no alternative. Joe's authoritative tone brooked no delay, so he sprang into the tree like a monkey. "Crusoe," said Dick, "_watch him_!" The dog sat quietly down at the foot of the tree, and fixed his eyes on the savage with a glare that spoke unutterable things. At the same time he displayed his full compliment of teeth, and uttered a sound like distant thunder. Joe almost laughed, and Henri did laugh outright. "Come along, he's safe now," cried Dick, hurrying away in the direction of the willow-bluff, which they soon reached, and found that the faithful squaw had tied their steeds to the bushes, and, moreover, had bundled up their goods into a pack, and strapped it on the back of the pack-horse; but she had not remained with them. "Bless yer dark face," ejaculated Joe as he sprang into the saddle and rode out of the clump of bushes. He was followed immediately by the others, and in three minutes they were flying over the plain at full speed. On gaining the last far-off ridge, that afforded a distant view of the woods skirting the Pawnee camp, they drew up, and Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth, drew a long, shrill whistle. It reached the willow-bluff like a faint echo. At the same moment the moon arose and more clearly revealed Crusoe's catalyptic glare at the Indian chief, who, being utterly unarmed, was at the dog's mercy. The instant the whistle fell on his ear, however, he dropped his eyes, covered his teeth, and, leaping through the bushes, flew over the plains like an arrow. At the same instant Mahtawa, descending from his tree, ran as fast as he could towards the village, uttering the terrible war-whoop when near enough to be heard. No sound sends such a thrill through an Indian camp. Every warrior flew to arms, and vaulted on his steed. So quickly was the alarm given that in less than ten minutes a thousand hoofs were thundering on the plain, and faintly reached the ears of the fugitives. Joe smiled. "It'll puzzle them to come up wi' nags like ours. They're in prime condition too, lots o' wind in 'em. If we only keep out o' badger holes we may laugh at the red varmints." Joe's opinion of Indian horses was correct. In a very few minutes the sound of hoofs died away, but the fugitives did not draw bridle during the remainder of that night, for they knew not how long the pursuit might be continued. By pond, and brook, and bluff they passed, down in the grassy bottoms and over the prairie waves,--nor checked their headlong course till the sun blazed over the level sweep of the eastern plain as if it arose out of the mighty ocean. Then they sprang from the saddle and hastily set about the preparation of their morning meal. CHAPTER ELEVEN. EVENING MEDITATIONS AND MORNING REFLECTIONS--BUFFALOES, BADGERS, ANTELOPES, AND ACCIDENTS--AN OLD BULL AND THE WOLVES--"MAD-TAILS"--HENRI FLOORED, ETCETERA. There is nothing that prepares one so well for the enjoyment of rest, both mental and physical, as a long-protracted period of excitement and anxiety, followed up by bodily fatigue. Excitement alone banishes rest; but, united with severe physical exertion, it prepares for it. At least, courteous reader, this is our experience, and certainly this was the experience of our three hunters as they lay on their backs beneath the branches of a willow bush, and gazed serenely up at the twinkling stars, two days after their escape from the Indian village. They spoke little; they were too tired for that; also, they were too comfortable. Their respective suppers of fresh antelope steak, shot that day, had just been disposed of; their feet were directed towards the small fire on which the said steaks had been cooked, and which still threw a warm, ruddy glow over the encampment. Their blankets were wrapped comfortably round them, and tucked in as only hunters and mothers know _how_ to tuck them in. Their respective pipes delivered forth, at stated intervals, three richly yellow puffs of smoke, as if a three-gun battery were playing upon the sky from that particular spot of earth. The horses were picketted and hobbled in a rich grassy bottom close by, from which the quiet munch of their equine jaws sounded pleasantly, for it told of healthy appetites, and promised speed on the morrow. The fear of being overtaken during the night was now past, and the faithful Crusoe, by virtue of sight, hearing, and smell, guaranteed them against sudden attack during the hours of slumber. A perfume of wild flowers mingled with the loved odours of the "weed," and the tinkle of a tiny rivulet fell sweetly on their ears. In short, the "Pale-faces" were supremely happy, and disposed to be thankful for their recent deliverance and their present comforts. "I wonder what the stars are," said Dick, languidly taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Bits o' fire," suggested Joe. "I tink dey are vorlds," muttered Henri, "an' have peepels in dem. I have hear men say dat." A long silence followed, during which, no doubt, the star-gazers were working out various theories in their own minds. "Wonder," said Dick again, "how far off they be." "A mile or two, maybe," said Joe. Henri was about to laugh sarcastically at this; but, on further consideration, he thought it would be more comfortable not to, so he lay still. In another minute he said--"Joe Blunt, you is ver' igrant. Don't you know dat de books say de stars be hondreds, tousands,--oh! milleryons of mile away to here, and dat de is more bigger dan dis vorld?" Joe snored lightly, and his pipe fell out of his mouth at this point, so the conversation dropped. Presently Dick asked, in a low tone, "I say, Henri, are ye asleep?" "Oui," replied Henri, faintly. "Don't speak, or you vill vaken me." "Ah! Crusoe, you're not asleep, are you, pup?" No need to ask that question. The instantaneous wag of that speaking fail, and the glance of that wakeful eye, as the dog lifted his head and laid his chin on Dick's arm, showed that he had been listening to every word that was spoken. We cannot say whether he understood it, but beyond all doubt he heard it. Crusoe never presumed to think of going to sleep until his master was as sound as a top; then he ventured to indulge in that light species of slumber which is familiarly known as "sleeping with one eye open." But, comparatively, as well as figuratively speaking, Crusoe slept usually with one eye and a-half open, and the other half was never very tightly shut. Gradually Dick's pipe fell out of his mouth, an event which the dog, with an exercise of instinct almost, if not quite, amounting to reason, regarded as a signal for him to go off. The campfire went slowly out, the stars twinkled down at their reflections in the brook, and a deep breathing of wearied men was the only sound that rose in harmony with the purling stream. Before the sun rose next morning, and while many of the brighter stars were still struggling for existence with the approaching day, Joe was up and buckling on the saddle-bags, while he shouted to his unwilling companions to rise. "If it depended on you," he said, "the Pawnees wouldn't be long afore they got our scalps. Jump, ye dogs, an' lend a hand, will ye!" A snore from Dick and a deep sigh from Henri was the answer to this pathetic appeal. It so happened, however, that Henri's pipe, in falling from his lips, had emptied the ashes just under his nose, so that the sigh referred to drew a quantity thereof into his throat, and almost choked him. Nothing could have been a more effective awakener. He was up in a moment coughing vociferously. Most men have a tendency to vent ill-humour on some one, and they generally do it on one whom they deem to be worse than themselves. Henri, therefore, instead of growling at Joe for rousing him, scolded Dick for not rising. "Ha, mauvais dog! bad chien, vill you dare to look to me?" Crusoe did look with amiable placidity, as though to say, "Howl away, old boy, I won't budge till Dick does." With a mighty effort Giant Sleep was thrown off at last, and the hunters were once more on their journey, cantering lightly over the soft turf. "Ho! let's have a run," cried Dick, unable to repress the feelings aroused by the exhilarating morning air. "Have a care, boy," cried Joe, as they stretched out at full gallop. "Keep off the ridge; it's riddled wi' badger--Hah! I thought so." At that moment Dick's horse put its foot into a badger hole, and turned completely over, sending its rider through the air in a curve that an East Indian acrobat would have envied. For a few seconds Dick lay flat on his back; then he jumped up and laughed, while his comrades hurried up anxiously to his assistance. "No bones broke?" inquired Joe. Dick gave a hysterical gasp. "I--I think not." "Let's have a look. No, nothin' to speak o', be good luck. Ye should niver go slap through a badger country like that, boy; always keep i' the bottoms, where the grass is short. Now then, up ye go. That's it!" Dick remounted, though not with quite so elastic a spring as usual, and they pushed forward at a more reasonable pace. Accidents of this kind are of common occurrence in the prairies. Some horses, however, are so well trained that they look sharp out for these holes, which are generally found to be most numerous on the high and dry grounds. But in spite of all the caution both of man and horse, many ugly falls take place, and sometimes bones are broken. They had not gone far after this accident, when an antelope leaped from a clump of willows and made for a belt of woodland that lay along the margin of a stream not half a mile off. "Hurrah!" cried Dick, forgetting his recent fall. "Come along, Crusoe." And away they went again full tilt, for the horse had not been injured by its somersault. The antelope which Dick was thus wildly pursuing was of the same species as the one he had shot some time before, namely, the prong-horned antelope. These graceful creatures have long, slender limbs, delicately formed heads, and large, beautiful eyes. The horns are black, and rather short; they have no branches like the antlers of the red-deer, but have a single projection on each horn, near the head, and the extreme points of the horns curve suddenly inwards, forming the hook or prong from which the name of the animal is derived. Their colour is dark yellowish brown. They are so fleet that not one horse in a hundred can overtake them, and their sight and sense of smell are so acute, that it would be next to impossible to kill them, were it not for the inordinate curiosity which we have before referred to. The Indians manage to attract these simple little creatures by merely lying down on their backs and kicking their heels in the air, or by waving any white object on the point of an arrow, while the hunter keeps concealed by lying flat in the grass. By these means a herd of antelopes may be induced to wheel round and round an object in timid, but intense, surprise, gradually approaching until they come near enough to enable the hunter to make sure of his mark. Thus the animals, which of all others _ought_ to be the most difficult to slay, are, in consequence of their insatiable curiosity, more easily shot than any other deer of the plains. May we not gently suggest to the reader for his or her consideration that there are human antelopes, so to speak, whose case bears a striking resemblance to the prong-horn of the North American prairie? Dick's horse was no match for the antelope; neither was Crusoe, so they pulled up shortly and returned to their companions to be laughed at. "It's no manner o' use to wind yer horse, lad, after sich game. They're not much worth, an', if I mistake not, we'll be among the buffalo soon. There's fresh tracks everywhere, and the herds are scattered now. Ye see, when they keep together in bands o' thousands ye don't so often fall in wi' them. But when they scatters about in twos, an' threes, an sixes, ye may shoot them every day as much as ye please." Several groups of buffalo had already been seen on the horizon; but as a red-deer had been shot in a belt of woodland the day before, they did not pursue them. The red-deer is very much larger than the prong-horned antelope, and is highly esteemed both for its flesh and its skin, which latter becomes almost like chamois leather when dressed. Notwithstanding this supply of food, the hunters could not resist the temptation to give chase to a herd of about nine buffaloes that suddenly came into view as they overtopped an undulation in the plain. "It's no use," cried Dick, "I _must_ go at them!" Joe himself caught fire from the spirit of his young friend, so calling to Henri to come on and let the pack-horse remain to feed, he dashed away in pursuit. The buffaloes gave one stare of surprise, and then fled as fast as possible. At first it seemed as if such huge, unwieldy carcases could not run very fast; but in a few minutes they managed to get up a pace that put the horses to their mettle. Indeed, at first it seemed as if the hunters did not gain an inch, but by degrees they closed with them, for buffaloes are not long-winded. On nearing the herd, the three men diverged from each other and selected their animals. Henri, being short-sighted, naturally singled out the largest; and the largest--also naturally,--was a tough old bull. Joe brought down a fat young cow at the first shot, and Dick was equally fortunate. But he well-nigh shot Crusoe, who, just as he was about to fire, rushed in unexpectedly and sprang at the animal's throat, for which piece of recklessness he was ordered back to watch the pack-horse. Meanwhile, Henri, by dint of yelling, throwing his arms wildly about, and digging his heels into the sides of his long-legged horse, succeeded in coming close up with the bull, which once or twice turned his clumsy body half round and glared furiously at its pursuer with its small black eyes. Suddenly it stuck out its tail, stopped short, and turned full round. Henri stopped short also. Now, the sticking out of a buffalo's tail has a peculiar significance which it is well to point out. It serves, in a sense, the same purpose to the hunter that the compass does to the mariner; it points out where to go and what to do. When galloping away in ordinary flight the buffalo carries his tail like ordinary cattle, which indicates that you may push on. When wounded, he lashes it from side to side, or carries it over his back, up in the air; this indicates "Look out! haul off a bit!" But when he carries it stiff and horizontal, with a _slight curve_ in the middle of it, it says plainly, "Keep back, or kill me as quick as you can," for that is what Indians call the _mad-lazy_, and is a sign that mischief is brewing. Henri's bull displayed the mad-tail just before turning, but he didn't observe it, and, accordingly, waited for the bull to move and show his shoulder for a favourable shot. But instead of doing this he put his head down, and, foaming with rage, went at him full tilt. The big horse never stirred; it seemed to be petrified. Henri had just time to fire at the monster's neck, and the next moment was sprawling on his back, with the horse rolling over four or five yards beyond him. It was a most effective tableau. Henri rubbing his shins and grinning with pain, the horse gazing in affright as he rose trembling from the plain, and the buffalo bull looking on half stunned, and, evidently, very much surprised at the result of his charge. Fortunately, before he could repeat the experiment, Dick galloped up and put a ball through his heart. Joe and his comrades felt a little ashamed of their exploit on this occasion, for there was no need to have killed three animals; they could not have carried with them more than a small portion of one, and they upbraided themselves several times during the operation of cutting out the tongues and other choice portions of the two victims. As for the bull, he was almost totally useless, so they left him as a gift to the wolves. Now that they had come among the buffalo, wolves were often seen sneaking about and licking their hungry jaws; but although they approached pretty near to the camp at nights, they did not give the hunters any concern. Even Crusoe became accustomed to them at last, and ceased to notice them. These creatures are very dangerous sometimes, however, and when hard pressed by hunger will even attack man. The day after this hunt the travellers came upon a wounded old buffalo which had evidently escaped from the Indians (for a couple of arrows were sticking in its side), only to fall a prey to his deadly enemies, the white wolves. These savage brutes hang on the skirts of the herds of buffaloes to attack and devour any one that may chance, from old age, or from being wounded, to linger behind the rest. The buffalo is tough and fierce, however, and fights so desperately that although surrounded by fifty or a hundred wolves, he keeps up the unequal combat for several days before he finally succumbs. The old bull that our travellers discovered had evidently been long engaged with his ferocious adversaries, for his limbs and flesh were torn in shreds in many places, and blood was streaming from his sides. Yet he had fought so gallantly that he had tossed and stamped to death dozens of the enemy. There could not have been fewer than fifty wolves round him; and they had just concluded another of many futile attacks, when the hunters came up, for they were ranged in a circle round their huge adversary--some lying down, some sitting on their haunches to rest, and others sneaking about, lolling out their red tongues, and licking their chops as if impatient to renew the combat. The poor buffalo was nearly spent, and it was clear that a few hours more would see him torn to shreds and his bones picked clean. "Ugh! de brutes," ejaculated Henri. "They don't seem to mind us a bit," remarked Dick, as they rode up to within pistol shot. "It'll be merciful to give the old fellow a shot," said Joe. "Them varmits are sure to finish him at last." Joe raised his rifle as he spoke, and fired. The old bull gave his last groan and fell, while the wolves, alarmed by the shot, fled in all directions; but they did not run far. They knew well that some portion, at least, of the carcase would fall to their share, so they sat down at various distances all round, to wait as patiently as they might for the hunters to retire. Dick left the scene with a feeling of regret that the villanous wolves should have their feast so much sooner than they expected. Yet after all, why should we call these wolves villanous? They did nothing wrong--nothing contrary to the laws of their peculiar nature. Nay, if we come to reason upon it, they rank higher in this matter than man, for while the wolf does no violence to the laws of its instincts, man often deliberately silences the voice of conscience, and violates the laws of his own nature. But we will not insist on the term, good reader, if you object strongly to it. We are willing to admit that the wolves are _not_ villanous, but, _assuredly_, they are unlovable. In the course of the afternoon the three horsemen reached a small creek, the banks of which were lined with a few stunted shrubs and trees. Having eaten nothing since the night before, they dismounted here to "feed," as Joe expressed it. "Cur'ous thing," remarked Joe, as he struck a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder-box,--"curious thing that we're made to need sich a lot o' grub. If we could only get on like the sarpints, now, wot can breakfast on a rabbit, and then wait a month or two for dinner! Ain't it cur'ous?" Dick admitted that it was, and stooped to blow the fire into a blaze. Here Henri uttered a cry of consternation, and stood speechless, with his mouth open. "What's the matter? what is't?" cried Dick and Joe, seizing their rifles instinctively. "De--grub--him--be--forgat!" There was a look of blank horror, and then a burst of laughter from Dick Varley. "Well, well," cried he, "we've got lots o' tea an' sugar, an' some flour; we can git on wi' that till we shoot another buffalo, or a-ha!" Dick observed a wild turkey stalking among the willows as he spoke. It was fully a hundred yards off, and only its head was seen above the leaves. This was a matter of little moment, however, for by aiming a little lower he knew that he must hit the body; but Dick had driven the nail too often to aim at its body; he aimed at the bird's eye and cut its head off. "Fetch it, Crusoe." In three minutes it was at Dick's feet, and it is not too much to say that in five minutes more it was in the pot. As this unexpected supply made up for the loss of the meat which Henri had forgotten at their last halting-place, their equanimity was restored, and while the meal was in preparation Dick shouldered his rifle and went into the bush to try for another turkey. He did not get one, however, but he shot a couple of prairie-hens, which are excellent eating. Moreover, he found a large quantity of wild grapes and plums. These were unfortunately not nearly ripe, but Dick resolved to try his hand at a new dish, so he stuffed the breast of his coat full of them. After the pot was emptied Dick washed it out, and put a little clean water in it. Then he poured some flour in, and stirred it well. While this was heating, he squeezed the sour grapes and plums into what Joe called a "mush," mixed it with a spoonful of sugar, and emptied it into the pot. He also skimmed a quantity of the fat from the remains of the turkey soup, and added that to the mess, which he stirred with earnest diligence till it boiled down into a sort of thick porridge. "D'ye think it'll be good?" asked Joe gravely; "I've me doubts of it." "We'll see. Hold the tin dish, Henri." "Take care of de fingers. Ha! it looks magnifique--superb!" The first spoonful produced an expression on Henri's face that needed not to be interpreted. It was as sour as vinegar. "Ye'll ha' to eat it yerself, Dick, lad," cried Joe, throwing down his spoon, and spitting out the unsavoury mess. "Nonsense," cried Dick, bolting two or three mouthfuls, and trying to look as if he liked it. "Try again; it's not so bad as you think." "Ho--o--o--o--o!" cried Henri, after the second mouthful. "'Tis vinaigre. All de sugare in de pack would not make more sweeter one bite of it." Dick was obliged to confess the dish a failure, so it was thrown out after having been offered to Crusoe, who gave it one sniff and turned away in silence. Then they mounted and resumed their journey. At this place mosquitoes and horse-flies troubled our hunters and their steeds a good deal. The latter--especially were very annoying to the poor horses. They bit them so much that the blood at last came trickling down their sides. They were troubled also, once or twice, by cockchafers and locusts, which annoyed them, not indeed by biting, but by flying blindly against their faces, and often narrowly missed hitting them in the eyes. Once particularly they were so bad, that Henri in his wrath opened his lips to pronounce a malediction on the whole race, when a cockchafer flew straight into his mouth, and, to use his own forcible expression, "nearly knocked him off de hoss." But these were minor evils, and scarcely cost the hunters a thought. CHAPTER TWELVE. WANDERINGS ON THE PRAIRIE--A WAR-PARTY--CHASED BY INDIANS--A BOLD LEAP FOR LIFE. For many days the three hunters wandered over the trackless prairie in search of a village of the Sioux Indians, but failed to find one, for the Indians were in the habit of shifting their ground, and following the buffalo. Several times they saw small isolated bands of Indians, but these they carefully avoided, fearing they might turn out to be war-parties, and if they fell into their hands the white men could not expect civil treatment, whatever nation the Indians might belong to. During the greater portion of this time they met with numerous herds of buffalo and deer, and were well supplied with food, but they had to cook it during the day, being afraid to light a fire at night while Indians were prowling about. One night they halted near the bed of a stream which was almost dry. They had travelled a day and a night without water, and both men and horses were almost choking, so that when they saw the trees on the horizon which indicated the presence of a stream, they pushed forward with almost frantic haste. "Hope it's not dry," said Joe anxiously as they galloped up to it. "No, there's water, lads," and they dashed forward to a pool that had not yet been dried up. They drank long and eagerly before they noticed that the pool was strongly impregnated with salt. Many streams in those parts of the prairies are quite salt, but fortunately this one was not utterly undrinkable, though it was very unpalatable. "We'll make it better, lads," said Joe, digging a deep hole in the sand with his hands, a little below the pool. In a short time the water filtered through, and though not rendered fresh, it was, nevertheless, much improved. "We may light a fire to-night, d'ye think?" inquired Dick; "we've not seed Injuns for some days." "Pr'aps 'twould be better not," said Joe, "but I daresay we're safe enough." A fire was therefore lighted in as sheltered a spot as could be found, and the three friends bivouacked as usual. Towards dawn they were aroused by an angry growl from Crusoe. "It's a wolf likely," said Dick, but all three seized and cocked their rifles nevertheless. Again Crusoe growled more angrily than before, and springing out of the camp snuffed the breeze anxiously. "Up, lads; catch the nags! There's something in the wind, for the dog niver did that afore." In a few seconds the horses were saddled and the packs secured. "Call in the dog," whispered Joe Blunt; "if he barks they'll find out our whereabouts." "Here, Crusoe, come--" It was too late; the dog barked loudly and savagely at the moment, and a troop of Indians came coursing over the plain. On hearing the unwonted sound they wheeled directly and made for the camp. "It's a war-party; fly, lads; nothin' 'll save our scalps now but our horses' heels," cried Joe. In a moment they vaulted into the saddle, and urged their steeds forward at the utmost speed. The savages observed them, and with an exulting yell dashed after them. Feeling that there was now no need of concealment, the three horsemen struck off into the open prairie, intending to depend entirely on the speed and stamina of their horses. As we have before remarked, they were good ones, but the Indians soon proved that they were equally well if not better mounted. "It'll be a hard run," said Joe in a low, muttering tone, and looking furtively over his shoulder. "The varmints are mounted on wild horses, leastways they were wild not long agone. Them chaps can throw the lasso and trip a mustang as well as a Mexican. Mind the badger holes, Dick. Hold in a bit, Henri, yer nag don't need drivin'--a foot in a hole just now would cost us our scalps. Keep down by the creek, lads." "Hah! how dey yell," said Henri in a savage tone, looking back, and shaking his rifle at them--an act that caused them to yell more fiercely than ever. "Dis old pack-hoss give me moche trobel." The pace was now tremendous. Pursuers and pursued rose and sank on the prairie billows as they swept along, till they came to what is termed a "dividing ridge," which is a cross wave, as it were, which cuts the others in two, thus forming a continuous level. Here they advanced more easily, but the advantage was equally shared with their pursuers, who continued the headlong pursuit with occasional yells, which served to show the fugitives that they at least did not gain ground. A little to the right of the direction in which they were flying a blue line was seen on the horizon. This indicated the existence of trees to Joe's practised eyes; and feeling that if the horses broke down they could better make a last manful stand in the wood than on the plain he urged his steed towards it. The savages noticed the movement at once, and uttered a yell of exultation, for they regarded it as an evidence that the fugitives doubted the strength of their horses. "Ye haven't got us yet," muttered Joe, with a sardonic grin. "If they get near us, Dick, keep yer eyes open, an' look out for yer neck, else they'll drop a noose over it; they will, afore ye know they're near, an' haul ye off like a sack." Dick nodded in reply, but did not speak, for at that moment his eye was fixed on a small creek ahead which they must necessarily leap or dash across. It was lined with clumps of scattered shrubbery, and he glanced rapidly for the most suitable place to pass. Joe and Henri did the same, and having diverged a little to the different points chosen, they dashed through the shrubbery, and were hid from each other's view. On approaching the edge of the stream, Dick found to his consternation that the bank was twenty feet high opposite him, and too wide for any horse to clear. Wheeling aside without checking speed, at the risk of throwing his steed, he rode along the margin of the stream for a few hundred yards until he found a ford--at least such a spot as might be cleared by a bold leap. The temporary check, however, had enabled an Indian to gain so close upon his heels, that his exulting yell sounded close in his ear. With a vigorous bound his gallant little horse went over. Crusoe could not take it, but he rushed down the one bank and up the other, so that he only lost a few yards. These few yards, however, were sufficient to bring the Indian close upon him as he cleared the stream at full gallop. The savage whirled his lasso swiftly round for a second, and in another moment Crusoe uttered a tremendous roar as he was tripped up violently on the plain. Dick heard the cry of his faithful dog, and turned quickly round, just in time to see him spring at the horse's throat, and bring both steed and rider down upon him. Dick's heart leaped to his throat. Had a thousand savages been rushing on him, he would have flown to the rescue of his favourite; but an unexpected obstacle came in the way. His fiery little steed, excited by the headlong race and the howls of the Indians, had taken the bit in his teeth and was now unmanageable. He tore at the reins like a maniac, and in the height of his frenzy even raised the butt of his rifle with the intent to strike the poor horse to the earth, but his better nature prevailed. He checked the uplifted hand, and with a groan dropped the reins, and sank almost helplessly forward on the saddle, for several of the Indians had left the main body and were pursuing him alone, so that there would have been now no chance of his reaching the place where Crusoe fell, even if he could have turned his horse. Spiritless, and utterly indifferent to what his fate might be, Dick Varley rode along with his head drooping, and keeping his seat almost mechanically, while the mettlesome little steed flew on over wave and hollow. Gradually he awakened from this state of despair to a sense of danger. Glancing round he observed that the Indians were now far behind him, though still pursuing. He also observed that his companions were galloping miles away on the horizon to the left, and that he had foolishly allowed the savages to get between him and them. The only chance that remained for him was to outride his pursuers, and circle round towards his comrades, and this he hoped to accomplish, for his little horse had now proved itself to be superior to those of the Indians, and there was good running in him still. Urging him forward, therefore, he soon left the savages still further behind, and feeling confident that they could not now overtake him, he reined up and dismounted. The pursuers quickly drew near, but short though it was, the rest did his horse good. Vaulting into the saddle, he again stretched out, and now skirted along the margin of a wood which seemed to mark the position of a river of considerable size. At this moment his horse put his foot into a badger hole, and both of them came heavily to the ground. In an instant Dick rose, picked up his gun, and leaped unhurt into the saddle. But on urging his poor horse forward, he found that its shoulder was badly sprained. There was no room for mercy, however,--life and death were in the balance,--so he plied the lash vigorously, and the noble steed warmed into something like a run, when again it stumbled, and fell with a crash on the ground, while the blood burst from its mouth and nostrils. Dick could hear the shout of triumph uttered by his pursuers. "My poor, poor horse!" he exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest commiseration, while he stooped and stroked its foam-studded neck. The dying steed raised his head for a moment, it almost seemed as if to acknowledge the tones of affection, then it sank down with a gurgling groan. Dick sprang up, for the Indians were now upon him, and bounded like an antelope into the thickest of the shrubbery, which was nowhere thick enough, however, to prevent the Indians following. Still, it sufficiently retarded them to render the chase a more equal one than could have been expected. In a few minutes Dick gained a strip of open ground beyond, and found himself on the bank of a broad river, whose evidently deep waters rushed impetuously along their unobstructed channel. The bank at the spot where he reached it was a sheer precipice of between thirty and forty feet high. Glancing up and down the river he retreated a few paces, turned round and shook his clenched fist at the savages, accompanying the action with a shout of defiance, and then running to the edge of the bank, sprang far out into the boiling flood and sank. The Indians pulled up on reaching the spot. There was no possibility of galloping down the wood-encumbered banks after the fugitive, but quick as thought each Red-man leaped to the ground, and fitting an arrow to his bow, awaited Dick's re-appearance with eager gaze. Young though he was, and unskilled in such wild warfare, Dick knew well enough what sort of reception he would meet with on coming to the surface, so he kept under water as long as he could, and struck out as vigorously as the care of his rifle would permit. At last he rose for a few seconds, and immediately half a dozen arrows whizzed through the air; but most of them fell short; only one passed close to his cheek, and went with a "whip" into the river. He immediately sank again, and the next time he rose to breathe he was far beyond the reach of his Indian enemies. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. ESCAPE FROM INDIANS--A DISCOVERY--ALONE IN THE DESERT. Dick Varley had spent so much of his boyhood in sporting about among the waters of the rivers and lakes near which he had been reared, and especially during the last two years had spent so much of his leisure time in rolling and diving with his dog Crusoe in the lake of the Mustang Valley, that he had become almost as expert in the water as a south-sea islander; so that when he found himself whirling down the rapid river, as already described, he was more impressed with a feeling of gratitude to God for his escape from the Indians, than anxiety about getting ashore. He was not altogether blind, or indifferent, to the danger into which he might be hurled if the channel of the river should be found lower down to be broken with rocks, or should a waterfall unexpectedly appear. After floating down a sufficient distance to render pursuit out of the question, he struck in to the bank opposite to that from which he had plunged, and, clambering up to the green sward above, stripped off the greater part of his clothing and hung it on the branches of a bush to dry. Then he sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree to consider what course he had best pursue in his present circumstances. These circumstances were by no means calculated to inspire him with hope or comfort. He was in the midst of an unknown wilderness, hundreds of miles from any white man's settlement; surrounded by savages; without food or blanket; his companions gone, he knew not whither; perhaps taken and killed by the Indians; his horse dead, and his dog, the most trusty and loving of all his friends, lost to him, probably, for ever! A more veteran heart might have quailed in the midst of such accumulated evils, but Dick Varley possessed a strong, young, and buoyant constitution, which, united with a hopefulness of disposition that almost nothing could overcome, enabled him very quickly to cast aside the gloomy view of his case and turn to its brighter aspects. He still grasped his good rifle, that was some comfort, and as his eye fell upon it, he turned with anxiety to examine into the condition of his powder-horn and the few things that he had been fortunate enough to carry away with him about his person. The horn in which western hunters carry their powder is usually that of an ox. It is closed up at the large end with a piece of hard wood fitted tightly into it, and the small end is closed with a wooden peg or stopper. It is, therefore, completely water-tight, and may be for hours immersed without the powder getting wet unless the stopper should chance to be knocked out. Dick found, to his great satisfaction, that the stopper was fast, and the powder perfectly dry. Moreover, he had by good fortune filled it full two days before from the package that contained the general stock of ammunition, so that there were only two or three charges out of it. His percussion caps, however, were completely destroyed, and even though they had not been, it would have mattered little, for he did not possess more than half a dozen. But this was not so great a misfortune as at first it might seem, for he had the spare flint locks and the little screw-driver necessary for fixing and unfixing them stowed away in his shot pouch. To examine his supply of bullets was his next care, and slowly he counted them out, one by one, to the number of thirty. This was a pretty fair supply, and with careful economy would last him many days. Having relieved his mind on these all-important points, he carefully examined every pouch and corner of his dress to ascertain the exact amount and value of his wealth. Besides the leather-leggings, moccasins, deerskin hunting shirt, cap, and belt which composed his costume, he had a short heavy hunting-knife, a piece of tinder, a little tin pannikin, which he had been in the habit of carrying at his belt, and a large cake of maple sugar. This last is a species of sugar which is procured by the Indians from the maple-tree. Several cakes of it had been carried off from the Pawnee village, and Dick usually carried one in the breast of his coat. Besides these things, he found that the little Bible, for which his mother had made a small inside breast pocket, was safe. Dick's heart smote him when he took it out and undid the clasp, for he had not looked at it until that day. It was firmly bound with a brass clasp, so that although the binding and edges of the leaves were soaked, the inside was quite dry. On opening the book to see if it had been damaged, a small paper fell out. Picking it up quickly, he unfolded it, and read, in his mother's handwriting, "_Call upon me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. My son, give me thine heart_." Dick's eyes filled with tears while the sound, as it were, of his mother's voice thus reached him unexpectedly in that lonely wilderness. Like too many whose hearts are young and gay, Dick had regarded religion, if not as a gloomy, at least as not a cheerful thing. But he felt the comfort of these words at that moment, and he resolved seriously to peruse his mother's parting gift in time to come. The sun was hot, and a warm breeze gently shook the leaves, so that Dick's garments were soon dry. A few minutes served to change the locks of his rifle, draw the wet charges, dry out the barrels, and re-load. Then, throwing it across his shoulder, he entered the wood, and walked lightly away. And well he might, poor fellow, for at that moment he felt light enough in person if not in heart. His worldly goods were not such as to oppress him, but the little note had turned his thoughts towards home, and he felt comforted. Traversing the belt of woodland that marked the course of the river, Dick soon emerged on the wide prairie beyond, and here he paused in some uncertainty as to how he should proceed. He was too good a backwoodsman, albeit so young, to feel perplexed as to the points of the compass. He knew pretty well what hour it was, so that the sun showed him the general bearings of the country, and he knew that when night came he could correct his course by the pole star. Dick's knowledge of astronomy was limited; he knew only one star by name, but that one was an inestimable treasure of knowledge. His perplexity was owing to his uncertainty as to the direction in which his companions and their pursuers had gone, for he had made up his mind to follow their trail if possible, and render all the succour his single arm might afford. To desert them, and make for the settlement, he held, would be a faithless and cowardly act. While they were together Joe Blunt had often talked to him about the route he meant to pursue to the Rocky Mountains, so that, if they had escaped the Indians, he thought there might be some chance of finding them at last. But, to set against this, there was the probability that they had been taken and carried away in a totally different direction, or they might have taken to the river, as he had done, and gone further down without his observing them. Then, again, if they had escaped, they would be sure to return and search the country round for him, so that if he left the spot he might miss them. "Oh, for my dear pup Crusoe!" he exclaimed aloud in this dilemma; but the faithful ear was shut now, and the deep silence that followed his cry was so oppressive that the young hunter sprang forward at a run over the plain, as if to fly from solitude. He soon became so absorbed, however, in his efforts to find the trail of his companions, that he forgot all other considerations, and ran straight forward for hours together, with his eyes eagerly fixed on the ground. At last he felt so hungry, having tasted no food since supper-time the previous evening, that he halted for the purpose of eating a morsel of maple sugar. A line of bushes in the distance indicated water, so he sped on again, and was soon seated beneath a willow, drinking water from the cool stream. No game was to be found here; but there were several kinds of berries, among which wild grapes and plums grew in abundance. With these and some sugar he made a meal, though not a good one, for the berries were quite green, and intensely sour. All that day Dick Varley followed up the trail of his companions, which he discovered at a ford in the river. They had crossed, therefore, in safety, though still pursued, so he ran on at a regular trot, and with a little more hope than he had felt during the day. Towards night, however, Dick's heart sank again, for he came upon innumerable buffalo tracks, among which those of the horses soon became mingled up, so that he lost them altogether. Hoping to find them again more easily by broad daylight, he went to the nearest clump of willows he could find, and encamped for the night. Remembering the use formerly made of the tall willows, he set to work to construct a covering to protect him from the dew. As he had no blanket or buffalo-skin, he used leaves and grass instead, and found it a better shelter than he had expected, especially when the fire was lighted, and a pannikin of hot sugar and water smoked at his feet; but as no game was to be found, he was again compelled to sup off unripe berries. Before lying down to rest he remembered his resolution, and, pulling out the little Bible, read a portion of it by the fitful blaze of the fire, and felt great comfort in its blessed words. It seemed to him like a friend with whom he could converse in the midst of his loneliness. The plunge into the river having broken Dick's pipe and destroyed his tobacco, he now felt the want of that luxury very severely, and, never having wanted it before, he was greatly surprised to find how much he had become enslaved to the habit. It cost him more than an hour's rest that night, the craving for his wonted pipe. The sagacious reader will doubtless not fail here to ask himself the question, whether it is wise in man to create in himself an unnatural and totally unnecessary appetite, which may, and often does, entail hours--ay, sometimes months--of exceeding discomfort; but we would not for a moment presume to suggest such a question to him. We have a distinct objection to the ordinary method of what is called "drawing a moral." It is much better to leave wise men to do this for themselves. Next morning Dick rose with the sun, and started without breakfast, preferring to take his chance of finding a bird or animal of some kind before long, to feeding again on sour berries. He was disappointed, however, in finding the tracks of his companions. The ground here was hard and sandy, so that little or no impression of a distinct kind was made on it; and, as buffaloes had traversed it in all directions, he was soon utterly bewildered. He thought it possible that, by running out for several miles in a straight line, and then taking a wide circuit round, he might find the tracks emerging from the confusion made by the buffaloes. But he was again disappointed, for the buffalo tracks still continued, and the ground became less capable of showing a footprint. Soon Dick began to feel so ill and weak from eating such poor fare, that he gave up all hope of discovering the tracks, and was compelled to push forward at his utmost speed in order to reach a less barren district, where he might procure fresh meat; but the further he advanced the worse and more sandy did the district become. For several days he pushed on over this arid waste without seeing bird or beast, and, to add to his misery, he failed at last to find water. For a day and a night he wandered about in a burning fever, and his throat so parched that he was almost suffocated. Towards the close of the second day he saw a slight line of bushes away down in a hollow on his right. With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near, beheld--blessed sight!--a stream of water glancing in the beams of the setting sun. Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give utterance to the voice. It mattered not; exerting all his remaining strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged head-foremost into the stream. The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart; it was salt as brine. The poor youth's cup of bitterness was now full to overflowing. Crawling out of the stream, he sank down on the bank in a species of lethargic torpor, from which he awakened next morning in a raging fever. Delirium soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings. The sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching power on the arid plain. What mattered it to Dick? He was far away in the shady groves of the Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with Crusoe in the bright blue lake. Now he was in his mother's cottage, telling her how he had thought of her when far away on the prairie, and what a bright, sweet word it was she had whispered in his ear,--so unexpectedly, too. Anon he was scouring over the plains on horseback, with the savages at his heels; and at such times Dick would spring with almost supernatural strength from the ground, and run madly over the burning plain; but, as if by a species of fascination, he always returned to the salt river, and sank exhausted by its side, or plunged helplessly into its waters. These sudden immersions usually restored him for a short time to reason, and he would crawl up the bank and gnaw a morsel of the maple sugar; but he could not eat much, for it was in a tough, compact cake, which his jaws had not power to break. All that day and the next night he lay on the banks of the salt stream, or rushed wildly over the plain. It was about noon of the second day after his attack that he crept slowly out of the water, into which he had plunged a few seconds before. His mind was restored, but he felt an indescribable sensation of weakness, that seemed to him to be the approach of death. Creeping towards the place where his rifle lay, he fell exhausted beside it, and laid his cheek on the Bible, which had fallen out of his pocket there. While his eyes were closed in a dreamy sort of half-waking slumber, he felt the rough, hairy coat of an animal brush against his forehead. The idea of being torn to pieces by wolves flashed instantly across his mind, and with a shriek of terror he sprang up,--to be almost overwhelmed by the caresses of his faithful dog. Yes, there he was, bounding round his master, barking and whining, and giving vent to every possible expression of canine joy. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. CRUSOE'S RETURN AND HIS PRIVATE ADVENTURES AMONG THE INDIANS--DICK AT A VERY LOW EBB--CRUSOE SAVES HIM. The means by which Crusoe managed to escape from his two-legged captors, and rejoin his master, requires separate and special notice. In the struggle with the fallen horse and Indian, which Dick had seen begun but not concluded, he was almost crushed to death; and the instant the Indian gained his feet, he sent an arrow at his head with savage violence. Crusoe, however, had been so well used to dodging the blunt-headed arrows that were wont to be shot at him by the boys of the Mustang Valley, that he was quite prepared, and eluded the shaft by an active bound. Moreover, he uttered one of his own peculiar roars, flew at the Indian's throat, and dragged him down. At the same moment the other Indians came up, and one of them turned aside to the rescue. This man happened to have an old gun, of the cheap sort at that time exchanged for peltries by the fur-traders. With the butt of this he struck Crusoe a blow on the head that sent him sprawling on the grass. The rest of the savages, as we have seen, continued in pursuit of Dick until he leaped into the river; then they returned, took the saddle and bridle off his dead horse, and rejoined their comrades. Here they held a court-martial on Crusoe, who was now bound, foot and muzzle, with cords. Some were for killing him; others, who admired his noble appearance, immense size, and courage, thought it would be well to carry him to their village and keep him. There was a pretty violent dispute on the subject; but at length it was agreed that they should spare his life in the mean time, and perhaps have a dog-dance round him when they got to their wigwams. This dance, of which Crusoe was to be the chief, though passive performer, is peculiar to some of the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains, and consists in killing a dog and cutting out its liver, which is afterwards sliced into shreds or strings and hung on a pole about the height of a man's head. A band of warriors then come and dance wildly round this pole, and each one in succession goes up to the raw liver and bites a piece off it, without, however, putting his hands near it. Such is the dog-dance, and to such was poor Crusoe destined by his fierce captors, especially by the one whose throat still bore very evident marks of his teeth. But Crusoe was much too clever a dog to be disposed of in so disgusting a manner. He had privately resolved in his own mind that he would escape, but the hopelessness of his ever carrying that resolution into effect would have been apparent to any one who could have seen the way in which his muzzle was secured, and his four paws were tied together in a bunch, as he hung suspended across the saddle of one of the savages! This particular party of Indians who had followed Dick Varley determined not to wait for the return of their comrades who were in pursuit of the other two hunters, but to go straight home, so for several days they galloped away over the prairie. At nights, when they encamped, Crusoe was thrown on the ground like a piece of old lumber, and left to lie there with a mere scrap of food till morning, when he was again thrown across the horse of his captor and carried on. When the village was reached, he was thrown again on the ground, and would certainly have been torn to pieces in five minutes by the Indian curs which came howling round him, had not an old woman come to the rescue and driven them away. With the help of her grandson--a little naked creature, just able to walk, or rather to stagger--she dragged him to her tent, and, undoing the line that fastened his mouth, offered him a bone. Although lying in a position that was unfavourable for eating purposes, Crusoe opened his jaws and took it. An awful crash was followed by two crunches--and it was gone; and Crusoe looked up in the old squaw's face with a look that said plainly, "Another of the same, please, and as quick as possible." The old woman gave him another and then a lump of meat, which latter went down with a gulp--but he coughed after it! and it was well he didn't choke. After this the squaw left him, and Crusoe spent the remainder of that night gnawing the cords that bound him. So diligent was he that he was free before morning and walked deliberately out of the tent. Then he shook himself, and with a yell that one might have fancied was intended for defiance, he bounded joyfully away, and was soon out of sight. To a dog with a good appetite which had been on short allowance for several days, the mouthful given to him by the old squaw was a mere nothing. All that day he kept bounding over the plain from bluff to bluff in search of something to eat, but found nothing until dusk, when he pounced suddenly and most unexpectedly on a prairie-hen fast asleep. In one moment its life was gone. In less than a minute its body was gone too--feathers and bones and all--down Crusoe's ravenous throat. On the identical spot Crusoe lay down and slept like a top for four hours. At the end of that time he jumped up, bolted a scrap of skin that somehow had been overlooked at supper, and flew straight over the prairie to the spot where he had had the scuffle with the Indian. He came to the edge of the river, took precisely the same leap that his master had done before him, and came out on the other side a good deal higher up than Dick had done, for the dog had no savages to dodge, and was, as we have said before, a powerful swimmer. It cost him a good deal of running about to find the trail, and it was nearly dark before he resumed his journey; then, putting his keen nose to the ground, he ran step by step over Dick's track, and at last found him, as we have shown, on the banks of the Salt Creek. It is quite impossible to describe the intense joy which filled Dick's heart on again beholding his favourite. Only those who have lost and found such an one can know it. Dick seized him round the neck and hugged him as well as he could, poor fellow, in his feeble arms; then he wept, then he laughed, and then he fainted. This was a consummation that took Crusoe quite aback! Never having seen his master in such a state before he seemed to think at first that he was playing some trick, for he bounded round him, and barked, and wagged his tail. But as Dick lay quite still and motionless, he went forward with a look of alarm; snuffed him once or twice and whined piteously; then he raised his nose in the air and uttered a long melancholy wail. The cry seemed to revive Dick, for he moved, and with some difficulty sat up, to the dog's evident relief. There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe learned an erroneous lesson that day, and was firmly convinced thenceforth that the best cure for a fainting-fit is a melancholy yell. So easy is it for the wisest of dogs as well as men to fall into gross error! "Crusoe," said Dick, in a feeble voice, "dear good pup, come here." He crawled, as he spoke, down to the water's edge where there was a level patch of dry sand. "Dig," said Dick, pointing to the sand. Crusoe looked at him in surprise, as well he might, for he had never heard the word "dig" in all his life before. Dick pondered a minute; then a thought struck him. He turned up a little of the sand with his fingers, and, pointing to the hole cried, "_Seek him out, pup_!" Ha! Crusoe understood _that_. Many and many a time had he unhoused rabbits, and squirrels, and other creatures at that word of command, so, without a moment's delay, he commenced to dig down into the sand, every now, and then stopping for a moment and shoving in his nose, and snuffing interrogatively, as if he fully expected to find a buffalo at the bottom of it. Then he would resume again, one paw after another so fast that you could scarce see them going "hand over hand" as sailors would have called it--while the sand flew out between his hind-legs in a continuous shower. When the sand accumulated so much behind him as to impede his motions he scraped it out of his way, and set to work again with tenfold earnestness. After a good while he paused and looked up at Dick with an "it--won't--do,--I--fear,--there's--nothing--here" expression on his face. "Seek him out, pup!" repeated Dick. "Oh! very good," mutely answered the dog, and went at it again, tooth and nail, harder than ever. In the course of a quarter of an hour there was a deep yawning hole in the sand, into which Dick peered with intense anxiety. The bottom appeared slightly _damp_. Hope now reanimated Dick Varley, and by various devices he succeeded in getting the dog to scrape away a sort of tunnel from the hole, into which he might roll himself and put down his lips to drink when the water should rise high enough. Impatiently and anxiously he lay watching the moisture slowly accumulate in the bottom of the hole, drop by drop, and while he gazed he fell into a troubled, restless slumber, and dreamed that Crusoe's return was a dream, and that he was alone again perishing for want of water. When he awakened the hole was half full of clear water, and Crusoe was lapping it greedily. "Back, pup!" he shouted, as he crept down to the hole and put his trembling lips to the water. It was brackish, but drinkable, and as Dick drank deeply of it he esteemed it at that moment better than nectar. Here he lay for half an hour alternately drinking and gazing in surprise at his own emaciated visage as reflected in the pool. The same afternoon Crusoe, in a private hunting excursion of his own, discovered and caught a prairie-hen, which he quietly proceeded to devour on the spot, when Dick, who saw what had occurred, whistled to him. Obedience was engrained in every fibre of Crusoe's mental and corporeal being. He did not merely answer at once to the call--he _sprang_ to it, leaving the prairie-hen untasted. "Fetch it, pup," cried Dick eagerly as the dog came up. In a few moments the hen was at his feet. Dick's circumstances could not brook the delay of cookery; he gashed the bird with his knife and drank the blood, and then gave the flesh to the dog, while he crept to the pool again for another draught. Ah! think not, reader, that although we have treated this subject in a slight vein of pleasantry, because it ended well, that therefore our tale is pure fiction. Not only are Indians glad to satisfy the urgent cravings of hunger with raw flesh, but many civilised men and delicately nurtured, have done the same--ay, and doubtless, will do the same again, as long as enterprising and fearless men shall go forth to dare the dangers of flood and field in the wild places of our wonderful world! Crusoe had finished his share of the feast before Dick returned from the pool. Then master and dog lay down together side by side and fell into a long, deep, peaceful slumber. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. HEALTH AND HAPPINESS RETURN--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY--A BUFFALO SHOT--A WILD HORSE "CREASED"--DICK'S BATTLE WITH A MUSTANG. Dick Varley's fears and troubles, in the meantime, were ended. On the day following he awoke refreshed and happy--so happy and light at heart, as he felt the glow of returning health coursing through his veins, that he fancied he must have dreamed it all. In fact, he was so certain that his muscles were strong that he endeavoured to leap up, but was powerfully convinced of his true condition by the miserable stagger that resulted from the effort. However, he knew he was recovering, so he rose, and thanking God for his recovery and for the new hope that was raised in his heart, he went down to the pool and drank deeply of its water. Then he returned, and, sitting down beside his dog, opened the Bible and read long--and, for the first time, _earnestly_--the story of Christ's love for sinful man. He at last fell asleep over the book, and when he awakened felt so much refreshed in body and mind that he determined to attempt to pursue his journey. He had not proceeded far when he came upon a colony of prairie-dogs. Upon this occasion he was little inclined to take a humorous view of the vagaries of these curious little creatures, but he shot one, and, as before, ate part of it raw. These creatures are so active that they are difficult to shoot, and even when killed generally fall into their holes and disappear. Crusoe, however, soon unearthed the dead animal on this occasion. That night the travellers came to a stream of fresh water, and Dick killed a turkey, so that he determined to spend a couple of days there to recruit. At the end of that time he again set out, but was able only to advance five miles when he broke down. In fact, it became evident to him that he must have a longer period of absolute repose ere he could hope to continue his journey, but to do so without food was impossible. Fortunately there was plenty of water, as his course lay along the margin of a small stream, and, as the arid piece of prairie was now behind him, he hoped to fall in with birds, or perhaps deer, soon. While he was plodding heavily and wearily along, pondering these things, he came to the brow of a wave from which he beheld a most magnificent view of green grassy plains, decked with flowers, and rolling out to the horizon, with a stream meandering through it, and clumps of trees scattered everywhere far and wide. It was a glorious sight; but the most glorious object in it to Dick, at that time, was a fat buffalo which stood grazing not a hundred yards off. The wind was blowing towards him, so that the animal did not scent him, and, as he came up very slowly, and it was turned away, it did not see him. Crusoe would have sprung forward in an instant, but his master's finger imposed silence and caution. Trembling with eagerness Dick sank flat down in the grass, cocked both barrels of his piece, and, resting it on his left hand with his left elbow on the ground, he waited until the animal should present its side. In a few seconds it moved; Dick's eye glanced along the barrel, but it trembled--his wonted steadiness of aim was gone. He fired, and the buffalo sprang off in terror. With a groan of despair he fired again,--almost recklessly,--and the buffalo fell! It rose once or twice and stumbled forward a few paces, then it fell again. Meanwhile Dick re-loaded with trembling hand, and advanced to give it another shot, but it was not needful, the buffalo was already dead. "Now, Crusoe," said Dick, sitting down on the buffalo's shoulder and patting his favourite on the head, "we're all right at last. You and I shall have a jolly time o't, pup, from this time for'ard." Dick paused for breath, and Crusoe wagged his tail and looked as if to say--pshaw! "_as if_!" We tell ye what it is, reader, it's of no use at all to go on writing "as if," when we tell you what Crusoe said. If there is any language in eyes whatever,--if there is language in a tail; in a cocked ear; in a mobile eyebrow; in the point of a canine nose;--if there is language in any terrestrial thing at all, apart from that which flows from the tongue--then Crusoe _spoke_! Do we not speak at this moment to _you_? and if so, then tell me, wherein lies the difference between a written _letter_ and a given _sign_? Yes, Crusoe spoke. He said to Dick as plain as dog could say it, slowly and emphatically, "That's my opinion precisely, Dick. You're the dearest, most beloved, jolliest fellow that ever walked on two legs, you are; and whatever's your opinion is mine, no matter _how_ absurd it may be." Dick evidently understood him perfectly, for he laughed as he looked at him and patted him on the head, and called him a "funny dog." Then he continued his discourse--"Yes, pup, we'll make our camp here for a long bit, old dog, in this beautiful plain. We'll make a willow wigwam to sleep in, you and me, jist in yon clump o' trees, not a stone's throw to our right, where we'll have a run o' pure water beside us, and be near our buffalo at the same time. For, ye see, we'll need to watch him lest the wolves take a notion to eat him--that'll be _your_ duty, pup. Then I'll skin him when I get strong enough, which'll be in a day or two I hope, and we'll put one half of the skin below us and t'other half above us i' the camp, an' sleep, an' eat, an' take it easy for a week or two-- won't we, pup?" "Hoora-a-a-y!" shouted Crusoe, with a jovial wag of his tail, that no human arm with hat, or cap, or kerchief ever equalled. Poor Dick Varley! He smiled to think how earnestly he had been talking to the dog, but he did not cease to do it, for, although he entered into discourses, the drift of which Crusoe's limited education did not permit him to follow, he found comfort in hearing the sound of his own voice, and in knowing that it fell pleasantly on another ear in that lonely wilderness. Our hero now set about his preparations as vigorously as he could. He cut out the buffalo's tongue--a matter of great difficulty to one in his weak state--and carried it to a pleasant spot near to the stream where the turf was level and green, and decked with wild flowers. Here he resolved to make his camp. His first care was to select a bush whose branches were long enough to form a canopy over his head when bent, and the ends thrust into the ground. The completing of this exhausted him greatly, but after a rest he resumed his labours. The next thing was to light a fire--a comfort which he had not enjoyed for many weary days. Not that he required it for warmth, for the weather was extremely warm, but he required it to cook with, and the mere _sight_ of a blaze in a dark place is a most heart-cheering thing as every one knows. When the fire was lighted he filled his pannikin at the brook and put it on to boil, and, cutting several slices of buffalo tongue, he thrust short stakes through them and set them up before the fire to roast. By this time the water was boiling, so he took it off with difficulty, nearly burning his fingers and singeing the tail of his coat in so doing. Into the pannikin he put a lump of maple sugar and stirred it about with a stick, and tasted it. It seemed to him even better than tea or coffee. It was absolutely delicious! Really one has no notion what he can do if he makes believe _very hard_. The human mind is a nicely balanced and extremely complex machine, and when thrown a little off the balance can be made to believe almost anything, as we see in the case of some poor monomaniacs, who have fancied that they were made of all sorts of things--glass and porcelain, and suchlike. No wonder then that poor Dick Varley, after so much suffering and hardship, came to regard that pannikin of hot syrup as the most delicious beverage he ever drank. During all these operations Crusoe sat on his haunches beside him and looked. And you haven't--no, you haven't--got the most distant notion of the way in which that dog manoeuvred with his head and face! He opened his eyes wide, and cocked his ears, and turned his head first a little to one side, then a little to the other. After that he turned it a _good deal_ to one side and then a good deal more to the other. Then he brought it straight and raised one eyebrow a little, and then the other a little, and then both together very much. Then, when Dick paused to rest and did nothing, Crusoe looked mild for a moment, and yawned vociferously. Presently Dick moved--up went the ears again and Crusoe came--in military parlance--"to the position of attention!" At last supper was ready and they began. Dick had purposely kept the dog's supper back from him, in order that they might eat it in company. And between every bite and sup that Dick took, he gave a bite--but not a sup--to Crusoe. Thus lovingly they ate together; and, when Dick lay that night under the willow branches looking up through them at the stars, with his feet to the fire, and Crusoe close along his side, he thought it the best and sweetest supper he ever ate, and the happiest evening he ever spent--so wonderfully do circumstances modify our notions of felicity! Two weeks after this "Richard was himself again." The muscles were springy, and the blood coursed fast and free, as was its wont. Only a slight, and, perhaps, salutary feeling of weakness remained, to remind him that young muscles might again become more helpless than those of an aged man or a child. Dick had left his encampment a week ago, and was now advancing by rapid stages towards the Rocky Mountains, closely following the trail of his lost comrades, which he had no difficulty in finding and keeping, now that Crusoe was with him. The skin of the buffalo that he had killed was now strapped to his shoulders, and the skin of another animal that he had shot a few days after was cut up into a long line and slung in a coil round his neck. Crusoe was also laden. He had a little bundle of meat slung on each side of him. For some time past numerous herds of mustangs or wild horses, had crossed their path, and Dick was now on the look out for a chance to _crease_ one of those magnificent creatures. On one occasion a band of mustangs galloped close up to him before they were aware of his presence, and stopped short with a wild snort of surprise on beholding him; then, wheeling round, they dashed away at full gallop, their long tails and manes flying wildly in the air, and their hoofs thundering on the plain. Dick did not attempt to crease one upon this occasion, fearing that his recent illness might have rendered his hand too unsteady for so extremely delicate an operation. In order to crease a wild horse the hunter requires to be a perfect shot, and it is not every man of the west who carries a rifle that can do it successfully. Creasing consists in sending a bullet through the gristle of the mustang's neck, just above the bone, so as to stun the animal. If the ball enters a hair's-breadth too low, the horse falls dead instantly. If it hits the exact spot the horse falls as instantaneously, and dead to all appearance; but, in reality, he is only stunned, and if left for a few minutes will rise and gallop away nearly as well as ever. When hunters crease a horse successfully they put a rope, or halter, round his under jaw, and hobbles round his feet, so that when he rises he is secured, and, after considerable trouble, reduced to obedience. The mustangs which roam in wild freedom on the prairies of the far west, are descended from the noble Spanish steeds that were brought over by the wealthy cavaliers who accompanied Fernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, in his expedition to the new world in 1518. These bold, and, we may add, lawless cavaliers, were mounted on the finest horses that could be procured from Barbary and the deserts of the Old World. The poor Indians of the New World were struck with amazement and terror at these awful beings, for, never having seen horses before, they believed that horse and rider were one animal. During the wars that followed many of the Spaniards were killed and their steeds bounded into the wilds of the new country to enjoy a life of unrestrained freedom. These were the forefathers of the present race of magnificent creatures which are found in immense droves all over the western wilderness, from the Gulf of Mexico to the confines of the snowy regions of the far north. At first the Indians beheld these horses with awe and terror, but gradually they became accustomed to them, and finally succeeded in capturing great numbers and reducing them to a state of servitude. Not, however, to the service of the cultivated field, but to the service of the chase and war. The savages soon acquired the method of capturing wild horses by means of the lasso--as the noose at that end of a long line of raw hide is termed--which they adroitly threw over the heads of the animals and secured them, having previously run them down. At the present day many of the savage tribes of the west almost live upon horseback, and without these useful creatures they could scarcely subsist, as they are almost indispensable in the chase of the buffalo. Mustangs are regularly taken by the Indians to the settlements of the white men for trade, but very poor specimens are these of the breed of wild horses. This arises from two causes. First, the Indian cannot overtake the finest of a drove of wild mustangs, because his own steed is inferior to the best among the wild ones, besides being weighted with a rider, so that only the weak and inferior animals are captured. And, secondly, when the Indian does succeed in lassoing a first-rate horse he keeps it for his own use. Thus, those who have not visited the far-off prairies and seen the mustang in all the glory of untrammelled freedom, can form no adequate idea of its beauty, fleetness, and strength. The horse, however, was not the only creature imported by Cortez. There were priests in his army who rode upon asses, and, although we cannot imagine that the "fathers" charged with the cavaliers and were unhorsed, or, rather, un-assed in battle, yet, somehow, the asses got rid of their riders and joined the Spanish chargers in their joyous bound into a new life of freedom. Hence wild asses also are found in the western prairies. But think not, reader, of those poor miserable wretches we see at home, which seem little better than rough door-mats sewed up and stuffed; with head, tail, and legs attached, and just enough of life infused to make them move! No, the wild ass of the prairie is a large, powerful, swift creature. He has the same long ears, it is true, and the same hideous, exasperating bray, and the same tendency to flourish his heels; but, for all that he is a very fine animal, and often wages _successful_ warfare with the wild horse! But to return. The next drove of mustangs that Dick and Crusoe saw were feeding quietly and unsuspectingly in a rich green hollow in the plain. Dick's heart leaped up as his eyes suddenly fell on them, for he had almost discovered himself before he was aware of their presence. "Down, pup!" he whispered, as he sank and disappeared among the grass which was just long enough to cover him when lying quite flat. Crusoe crouched immediately, and his master made his observations of the drove, and the dispositions of the ground that might favour his approach, for they were not within rifle range. Having done so he crept slowly back until the undulation of the prairie hid him from view; then he sprang to his feet, and ran a considerable distance along the bottom until he gained the extreme end of a belt of low bushes, which would effectually conceal him while he approached to within a hundred yards or less of the troop. Here he made his arrangements. Throwing down his buffalo robe, he took the coil of line and cut off a piece of about three yards in length. On this he made a running noose. The longer line he also prepared with a running noose. These he threw in a coil over his arm. He also made a pair of hobbles and placed them in the breast of his coat, and then, taking up his rifle, advanced cautiously through the bushes--Crusoe following close behind him. In a few minutes he was gazing in admiration at the mustangs which were now within easy shot, and utterly ignorant of the presence of man, for Dick had taken care to approach in such a way that the wind did not carry the scent of him in their direction. And well might he admire them. The wild horse of these regions is not very large, but it is exceedingly powerful, with prominent eye, sharp nose, distended nostril, small feet, and a delicate leg. Their beautiful manes hung at great length down their arched necks, and their thick tails swept the ground. One magnificent fellow in particular attracted Dick's attention. It was of a rich dark brown colour, with black mane and tail, and seemed to be the leader of the drove. Although not the nearest to him, he resolved to crease this horse. It is said that creasing generally destroys or damages the spirit of the horse, so Dick determined to try whether his powers of close shooting would not serve him on this occasion. Going down on one knee he aimed at the creature's neck, just a hair-breadth above the spot where he had been told that hunters usually hit them, and fired. The effect upon the group was absolutely tremendous. With wild cries and snorting terror they tossed their proud heads in the air, uncertain for one moment in which direction to fly; then there was a rush as if a hurricane swept over the place, and they were gone. But the brown horse was down. Dick did not wait until the others had fled. He dropped his rifle, and with the speed of a deer, sprang towards the fallen horse, and affixed the hobbles to his legs. His aim had been true. Although scarcely half a minute elapsed between the shot and the fixing of the hobbles the animal recovered, and with a frantic exertion rose on his haunches, just as Dick had fastened the noose of the short line in his under jaw. But this was not enough. If the horse had gained his feet before the longer line was placed round his neck, he would have escaped. As the mustang made the second violent plunge that placed it on its legs, Dick flung the noose hastily; it caught on one ear, and would have fallen off, had not the horse suddenly shaken its head, and unwittingly sealed its own fate by bringing the noose round its neck. And now the struggle began. Dick knew well enough, from hearsay, the method of "breaking down" a wild horse. He knew that the Indians choke them with the noose round the neck until they fall down exhausted and covered with foam, when they creep up, fix the hobbles and the line in the lower jaw, and then loosen the lasso to let the horse breathe, and resume its plungings till it is almost subdued, when they gradually draw near and breathe into its nostrils. But the violence and strength of this animal rendered this an apparently hopeless task. We have already seen that the hobbles and noose in the lower jaw had been fixed, so that Dick had nothing now to do but to choke his captive, and tire him out, while Crusoe remained a quiet, though excited spectator of the scene. But there seemed to be no possibility of choking this horse. Either the muscles of his neck were too strong, or there was something wrong with the noose which prevented it from acting, for the furious creature dashed and bounded backwards and sidewise in its terror for nearly an hour, dragging Dick after it, till he was almost exhausted, and yet, at the end of that time, although flecked with foam and panting with terror, it seemed as strong as ever. Dick held both lines, for the short one attached to its lower jaw gave him great power over it. At last he thought of seeking assistance from his dog. "Crusoe," he cried, "lay hold, pup." The dog seized the long line in his teeth, and pulled with all his might. At the some moment Dick let go the short line and threw all his weight upon the long one. The noose tightened suddenly under this strain, and the mustang, with a gasp, fell choking to the ground. Dick had often heard of the manner in which the Mexicans "break" their horses, so he determined to abandon the method which had already almost worn him out, and adopt the other, as far as the means in his power rendered it possible. Instead, therefore, of loosening the lasso and re-commencing the struggle, he tore a branch from a neighbouring bush, cut the hobbles, strode with his legs across the fallen steed, seized the end of the short line or bridle, and then, ordering Crusoe to quit his hold, he loosened the noose which compressed the horse's neck, and had already well-nigh terminated its existence. One or two deep sobs restored it, and in a moment it leaped to its feet with Dick firmly on its back! To say that the animal leaped and kicked in its frantic efforts to throw this intolerable burden would be a tame manner of expressing what took place. Words cannot adequately describe the scene. It reared, plunged, shrieked, vaulted into the air, stood straight up on its hind-legs, and then almost as straight upon its fore ones, but its rider held on like a burr. Then the mustang raced wildly forwards a few paces, then as wildly back, and then stood still and trembled violently. But this was only a brief lull in the storm, so Dick saw that the time was now come to assert the superiority of his race. "Stay back, Crusoe, and watch my rifle, pup," he cried, and, raising his heavy switch he brought it down with a sharp cut across the horse's flank, at the same time loosening the rein which hitherto he had held tight. The wild horse uttered a passionate cry, and sprang forward like the bolt from a cross-bow. And now commenced a race, which, if not as prolonged, was at least as furious as that of the far-famed Mazeppa. Dick was a splendid rider, however,--at least as far as "sticking on" goes. He might not have come up to the precise pitch desiderated by a riding-master in regard to carriage, etcetera, but he rode that wild horse of the prairie with as much ease as he had formerly ridden his own good steed, whose bones had been picked by the wolves not long ago. The pace was tremendous, for the youth's weight was nothing to that muscular frame which bounded with cat-like agility from wave to wave of the undulating plain in ungovernable terror. In a few minutes the clump of willows where Crusoe and his rifle lay were out of sight behind, but it mattered not, for Dick had looked up at the sky and noted the position of the sun at the moment of starting. Away they went on the wings of the wind, mile after mile over the ocean-like waste--curving slightly aside now and then to avoid the bluffs that occasionally appeared on the scene for a few minutes and then swept out of sight behind them. Then they came to a little rivulet; it was a mere brook of a few feet wide, and two or three yards, perhaps, from bank to bank. Over this they flew, so easily that the spring was scarcely felt, and continued the headlong course. And now a more barren country was around them. Sandy ridges and scrubby grass appeared everywhere, reminding Dick of the place where he had been so ill. Rocks, too were scattered about, and at one place the horse dashed with clattering hoofs between a couple of rocky sand-hills which, for a few seconds, hid the prairie from view. Here the mustang suddenly shied with such violence that his rider was nearly thrown, while a rattlesnake darted from the path. Soon they emerged from this pass, and again the plains became green and verdant. Presently a distant line of trees showed that they were approaching water, and in a few minutes they were close on it. For the first time Dick felt alarm; he sought to check his steed, but no force he could exert had the smallest influence on it. Trees and bushes flew past in bewildering confusion; the river was before him; what width, he could not tell, but he was reckless now, like his charger, which he struck with the willow rod with all his force as they came up. One tremendous bound, and they were across, but Dick had to lie flat on the mustang's back as it crashed through the bushes to avoid being scraped off by the trees. Again they were on the open plain, and the wild horse began to show signs of exhaustion. Now was its rider's opportunity to assert his dominion. He plied the willow rod and urged the panting horse on, until it was white with foam and laboured a little in its gait. Then Dick gently drew the halter, and it broke into a trot; still tighter--and it walked--and in another minute stood still, trembling in every limb. Dick now quietly rubbed its neck, and spoke to it in soothing tones, then he wheeled it gently round and urged it forward. It was quite subdued and docile. In a little time they came to the river and forded it, after which they went through the belt of woodland at a walk. By the time they reached the open prairie, the mustang was recovered sufficiently to feel its spirit returning, so Dick gave it a gentle touch with the switch, and away they went on their return journey. But it amazed Dick not a little to find how long that journey was. Very different was the pace, too, from the previous mad gallop, and often would the poor horse have stopped had Dick allowed him. But this might not be. The shades of night were approaching, and the camp lay a long way ahead. At last it was reached, and Crusoe came out with great demonstrations of joy, but was sent back lest he should alarm the horse. Then Dick jumped off his back, stroked his head, put his cheek close to his mouth, and whispered softly to him, after which he fastened him to a tree and rubbed him down slightly with a bunch of grass. Having done this, he left him to graze as far as his tether would permit, and, after supping with Crusoe, lay down to rest, not a little elated with his success in this first attempt at "creasing" and "breaking" a mustang. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. DICK BECOMES A HORSE TAMER--RESUMES HIS JOURNEY--CHARLIE'S DOINGS-- MISFORTUNES WHICH LEAD TO, BUT DO NOT TERMINATE IN, THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS--A GRIZZLY BEAR. There is a proverb--or a saying--or at least somebody or book has told us, that some Irishman once said--"Be aisy, or, if ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can." Now, we count that good advice, and strongly recommend it to all and sundry. Had we been at the side of Dick Varley on the night after his taming of the wild horse, we would have strongly urged that advice upon him. Whether he would have listened to it or not is quite another question--we rather think not. Reader, if you wish to know why, go and do what he did, and if you feel no curious sensations about the region of the loins after it, we will tell you why Dick Varley wouldn't have listened to that advice. Can a man feel as if his joints were wrenched out of their sockets, and listen to advice--be that advice good or bad? Can he feel as though these joints were trying to re-set and re-dislocate themselves perpetually--and listen to advice? Can he feel as if he were sitting down on red-hot iron, when he's not sitting down at all--and listen to advice? Can he--but no! why pursue the subject? Poor Dick spent that night in misery, and the greater part of the following day in sleep, to make up for it. When he got up to breakfast in the afternoon, he felt much better, but shaky. "Now, pup," he said, stretching himself, "we'll go and see our horse. _Ours_, pup; yours and mine: didn't you help to catch him, eh! pup?" Crusoe acknowledged the fact with a wag, and a playful "bow-wow-wow-oo-ow!" and followed his master to the place where the horse had been picketted. It was standing there quite quiet, but looking a little timid. Dick went boldly up to it, and patted its head and stroked its nose, for nothing is so likely to alarm either a tame or a wild horse as any appearance of timidity or hesitation on the part of those who approach them. After treating it thus for a short time, he stroked down its neck, and then its shoulders--the horse eyeing him all the time nervously. Gradually he stroked its back and limbs gently, and walked quietly round and round it once or twice, sometimes approaching and sometimes going away, but never either hesitating or doing anything abruptly. This done, he went down to the stream and filled his cap with water and carried it to the horse, which snuffed suspiciously and backed a little, so he laid the cap down, and went up and patted him again. Presently he took up the cap and carried it to his nose; the poor creature was almost choking with thirst, so that, the moment he understood what was in the cap, he buried his lips in it and sucked it up. This was a great point gained, he had accepted a benefit at the hands of his new master; he had become a debtor to man, and no doubt he felt the obligation. Dick filled the cap, and the horse emptied it again, and again, and again, until its burning thirst was slaked. Then Dick went up to his shoulder, patted him, undid the line that fastened him, and vaulted lightly on his back! We say _lightly_, for it was so, but it wasn't _easily_, as Dick could have told you! However, he was determined not to forego the training of his steed on account of what _he_ would have called a "little bit pain." At this unexpected act the horse plunged and reared a good deal, and seemed inclined to go through the performance of the day before over again, but Dick patted and stroked him into quiescence, and having done so, urged him into a gallop over the plains, causing the dog to gambol round in order that he might get accustomed to him. This tried his nerves a good deal, and no wonder, for if he took Crusoe for a wolf, which no doubt he did, he must have thought him a very giant of the pack. By degrees they broke into a furious gallop, and after breathing him well, Dick returned and tied him to the tree. Then he rubbed him down again, and gave him another drink. This time the horse smelt his new master all over, and Dick felt that he had conquered him by kindness. No doubt the tremendous run of the day before could scarcely be called kindness, but without this subduing run he never could have brought the offices of kindness to bear on so wild a steed. During all these operations Crusoe sat looking on with demure sagacity-- drinking in wisdom and taking notes. We know not whether any notes made by the canine race have ever been given to the world, but certain are we that, if the notes and observations made by Crusoe on that journey were published, they would--to say the least--surprise us! Next day Dick gave the wild horse his second lesson, and his name. He called him "Charlie," after a much loved companion in the Mustang Valley. And long and heartily did Dick Varley laugh as he told the horse his future designation in the presence of Crusoe, for it struck him as somewhat ludicrous that a mustang, which, two days ago, pawed the earth in all the pride of independent freedom, should suddenly come down so low as to carry a hunter on his back and be named Charlie! The next piece of instruction began by Crusoe being led up under Charlie's nose, and while Dick patted the dog with his right hand he patted the horse with his left. It backed a good deal at first and snorted, but Crusoe walked slowly and quietly in front of him several times, each time coming nearer, until he again stood under his nose, then the horse smelt him nervously, and gave a sigh of relief when he found that Crusoe paid no attention to him whatever. Dick then ordered the dog to lie down at Charlie's feet, and went to the camp to fetch his rifle, and buffalo robe, and pack of meat. These and all the other things belonging to him were presented for inspection, one by one, to the horse, who arched his neck, and put forward his ears, and eyed them at first, but smelt them all over, and seemed to feel more easy in his mind. Next, the buffalo robe was rubbed over his nose, then over his eyes and head, then down his neck and shoulder, and lastly was placed on his back. Then it was taken off and _flung_ on; after that it was strapped on, and the various little items of the camp were attached to it. This done, Dick took up his rifle and let him smell it; then he put his hand on Charlie's shoulder, vaulted on to his back, and rode away. Charlie's education was completed; and now our hero's journey began again in earnest, and with some prospect of its speedy termination. In this course of training through which Dick put his wild horse, he had been at much greater pains and had taken far longer time than is usually the case among the Indians, who will catch, and "break," and ride a wild horse into camp in less than _three hours_. But Dick wanted to do the thing well, which the Indians are not careful to do; besides, it must be borne in remembrance that this was his first attempt, and that his horse was one of the best and most high spirited, while those caught by the Indians, as we have said, are generally the poorest of a drove. Dick now followed the trail of his lost companions at a rapid pace, yet not so rapidly as he might have done; being averse to exhausting his good dog and his new companion. Each night he encamped under the shade of a tree or a bush when he could find one, or in the open prairie when there were none, and, picketting his horse to a short stake or pin which he carried with him for the purpose, lit his fire, had supper, and lay down to rest. In a few days Charlie became so tame and so accustomed to his master's voice that he seemed quite reconciled to his new life. There can be no doubt whatever that he had a great dislike to solitude, for on one occasion, when Dick and Crusoe went off a mile or so from the camp where Charlie was tied, and disappeared from his view, he was heard to neigh so loudly that Dick ran back thinking the wolves must have attacked him. He was all right, however, and exhibited evident tokens of satisfaction when they returned. On another occasion his fear of being left alone was more clearly demonstrated. Dick had been unable to find wood or water that day, so he was obliged to encamp upon the open plain. The want of water was not seriously felt, however, for he had prepared a bladder in which he always carried enough to give him one pannikin of hot syrup, and leave a mouthful for Crusoe and Charlie. Dried buffalo dung formed a substitute for fuel. Spreading his buffalo robe, he lit his fire, put on his pannikin to boil, and stuck up a piece of meat to roast, to the great delight of Crusoe, who sat looking on with much interest. Suddenly Charlie, who was picketted a few hundred yards off in a grassy spot, broke his halter close by the head-piece, and with a snort of delight bounded away, prancing and kicking up his heels! Dick heaved a deep sigh, for he felt sure that his horse was gone. However, in a little Charlie stopped, and raised his nose high in the air, as if to look for his old equine companions. But they were gone; no answering neigh replied to his; and he felt, probably for the first time, that he was really alone in the world. Having no power of smell, whereby he might have traced them out as the dog would have done, he looked in a bewildered and excited state all round the horizon. Then his eye fell on Dick and Crusoe sitting by their little fire. Charlie looked hard at them, and then again at the horizon; and then, coming to the conclusion, no doubt, that the matter was quite beyond his comprehension, he quietly took to feeding. Dick availed himself of the chance, and tried to catch him; but he spent an hour with Crusoe in the vain attempt, and at last they gave it up in disgust and returned to the fire, where they finished their supper and went to bed. Next morning they saw Charlie feeding close at hand; so they took breakfast, and tried to catch him again. But it was of no use; he was evidently coquetting with them, and dodged about and defied their utmost efforts, for there was only a few inches of line hanging to his head. At last it occurred to Dick that he would try the experiment of forsaking him. So he packed up his things, rolled up the buffalo robe, threw it and the rifle on his shoulder, and walked deliberately away. "Come along, Crusoe!" he cried, after walking a few paces. But Crusoe stood by the fire with his head up, and an expression on his face that said, "Hello, man! what's wrong? You've forgot Charlie! Hold on! Are you mad?" "Come here, Crusoe!" cried his master in a decided tone. Crusoe obeyed at once. Whatever mistake there might be, there was evidently none in that command; so he lowered his head and tail humbly, and trotted on with his master; but he perpetually turned his head as he went, first on this side and then on that, to look and wonder at Charlie. When they were far away on the plain, Charlie suddenly became aware that something was wrong. He trotted to the brow of a slope with his head and tail very high up indeed, and looked after them; then he looked at the fire and neighed; then he trotted quickly up to it, and, seeing that everything was gone, he began to neigh violently, and at last started off at full speed, and overtook his friends, passing within a few feet of them, and wheeling round a few yards off, stood trembling like an aspen leaf. Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted forthwith. After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse. At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of bushes close beside a creek, Dick came unexpectedly upon a little wooden cross, which marked the head of a grave. There was no inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave of a white man. It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter. Had he been young or old when he fell?--had he a mother in the distant settlement, who watched, and longed, and waited for the son that was never more to gladden her eyes?--had he been murdered, or had he died there and been buried by his sorrowing comrades? These and a thousand questions passed rapidly through his mind as he gazed at the little cross. Suddenly he started. "Could it be the grave of Joe or Henri?" For an instant the idea sent a chill to his heart; but it passed quickly, for a second glance showed that the grave was old, and that the wooden cross had stood over it for years. Dick turned away with a saddened heart; and that night, as he pored over the pages of his Bible, his mind was filled with many thoughts about eternity and the world to come. He, too, must come to the grave one day, and quit the beautiful prairies and his loved rifle. It was a sad thought; but while he meditated he thought upon his mother. "After all," he murmured, "there must be happiness _without_ the rifle, and youth, and health, and the prairie! My mother's happy, yet she don't shoot, or ride like wildfire over the plains." Then that word which had been sent so sweetly to him through her hand came again to his mind, "My son, give me thine heart;" and as he read God's book, he met with the word, "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." "The _desire of thine heart_." Dick repeated this, and pondered it till he fell asleep. A misfortune soon after this befell Dick Varley, which well-nigh caused him to give way to despair. For some time past he had been approaching the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains--those ragged, jagged, mighty hills, which run through the whole continent from north to south in a continuous chain, and form, as it were, the backbone of America. One morning, as he threw the buffalo robe off his shoulders and sat up, he was horrified to find the whole earth covered with a mantle of snow. We say he was horrified, for this rendered it absolutely impossible any further to trace his companions either by scent or sight. For some time he sat musing bitterly on his sad fate, while his dog came and laid his head sympathisingly on his arm. "Ah! pup," he said, "I know ye'd help me if ye could! But it's all up now; there's no chance of findin' them--none." To this Crusoe replied by a low whine. He knew full well that something distressed his master, but he hadn't yet ascertained what it was. As something had to be done, Dick put the buffalo robe on his steed, and, mounting, said, as he was in the habit of doing each morning, "Lead on, pup." Crusoe put his nose to the ground and ran forward a few paces, then he returned and ran about snuffing and scraping up the snow. At last he looked up, and uttered a long melancholy howl. "Ah! I knowed it," said Dick, pushing forward. "Come on, pup, you'll have to _follow_ now. Any way we must go on." The snow that had fallen was not deep enough to offer the slightest obstruction to their advance. It was, indeed, only one of those occasional showers common to that part of the country in the late autumn, which season had now crept upon Dick almost before he was aware of it, and he fully expected that it would melt away in a few days. In this hope he kept steadily advancing, until he found himself in the midst of those rocky fastnesses which divide the waters that flow into the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific Ocean. Still the slight crust of snow lay on the ground, and he had no means of knowing whether he was going in the right direction or not. Game was abundant, and there was no lack of wood now, so that his night bivouac was not so cold or dreary as might have been expected. Travelling, however, had become difficult, and even dangerous, owing to the rugged nature of the ground over which he proceeded. The scenery had completely changed in its character. Dick no longer coursed over the free, open plains, but he passed through beautiful valleys filled with luxuriant trees, and hemmed in by stupendous mountains, whose rugged sides rose upward until the snow-clad peaks pierced the clouds. There was something awful in these dark solitudes, quite overwhelming to a youth of Dick's temperament; his heart began to sink lower and lower every day, and the utter impossibility of making up his mind what to do became at length agonising. To have turned and gone back the hundreds of miles over which he had travelled would have caused him some anxiety under any circumstances, but to do so while Joe and Henri were either wandering about there or in the power of the savages, was, he felt, out of the question. Yet, in which way should he go? Whatever course he took might lead him further and further away from them. In this dilemma he came to the determination of remaining where he was, at least until the snow should leave the ground. He felt great relief even when this hopeless course was decided upon, and set about making himself an encampment with some degree of cheerfulness. When he had completed this task, he took his rifle, and leaving Charlie picketted in the centre of a dell, where the long, rich grass rose high above the snow, went off to hunt. On turning a rocky point his heart suddenly bounded into his throat, for there, not thirty yards distant, stood a huge grizzly bear! Yes, there he was at last, the monster to meet which the young hunter had so often longed,--the terrible size and fierceness of which he had heard so often spoken about by the old hunters. There it stood at last; but little did Dick Varley think that the first time he should meet with his foe should be when alone in the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, and with none to succour him in the event of the battle going against him. Yes! there was one. The faithful Crusoe stood by his side, with his hair bristling, all his formidable teeth exposed, and his eyes glaring in their sockets. Alas! for poor Crusoe, had he gone into that combat alone. One stroke of that monster's paw would have hurled him dead upon the ground. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. DICK'S FIRST FIGHT WITH A GRIZZLY--ADVENTURE WITH A DEER--A SURPRISE. There is no animal in all the land so terrible and dangerous as the grizzly bear. Not only is he the largest of the species in America, but he is the fiercest, the strongest, and the most tenacious of life, facts which are so well understood that few of the western hunters like to meet him single-handed, unless they happen to be first-rate shots; and the Indians deem the encounter so dangerous, that to wear a collar composed of the claws of a grizzly bear of his own killing, is counted one of the highest honours to which a young warrior can attain. The grizzly bear resembles the brown bear of Europe, but it is larger, and the hair is long, the points being of a paler shade. About the head there is a considerable mixture of grey hair, giving it the "grizzly" appearance, from which it derives its name. The claws are dirty white, arched, and very long, and so strong that when the animal strikes with its paw they cut like a chisel. These claws are not embedded in the paw, as is the case with the cat, but always project far beyond the hair, thus giving to the foot a very ungainly appearance; they are not sufficiently curved to enable the grizzly bear to climb trees, like the black and brown bears, and this inability on their part is often the only hope of the pursued hunter, who, if he succeeds in ascending a tree, is safe, for the time at least, from the bear's assaults; but "Caleb" is a patient creature, and will often wait at the foot of the tree for many hours for his victim. The average length of his body is about nine feet, but he sometimes attains to a still larger growth. Caleb is more carnivorous in his habits than other bears; but, like them, he does not object to indulge occasionally in vegetable diet, being partial to the bird-cherry, the choke-berry, and various shrubs. He has a sweet tooth, too, and revels in honey--when he can get it. The instant the grizzly bear beheld Dick Varley standing in his path, he rose on his hind-legs, and made a loud hissing noise, like a man breathing quick, but much harsher. To this Crusoe replied by a deep growl, and showing the utmost extent of his teeth, gums and all; and Dick cocked both barrels of his rifle. To say that Dick Varley felt no fear would be simply to make him out that sort of hero which does not exist in nature, namely a _perfect_ hero. He _did_ feel a sensation as if his bowels had suddenly melted into water! Let not our reader think the worse of Dick for this. There is not a man living who, having met with a huge grizzly bear for the first time in his life, in a wild, solitary place, all alone, has not experienced some such sensation. There was no cowardice in this feeling. Fear is not cowardice. Acting in a wrong and contemptible manner because of our fear, is cowardice. It is said that Wellington or Napoleon, we forget which, once stood watching the muster of the men who were to form the forlorn hope in storming a citadel. There were many brave, strong, stalwart men there, in the prime of life, and flushed with the blood of high health and courage. There were also there a few stern-browed men of riper years, who stood perfectly silent, with lips compressed, and as pale as death. "Yonder veterans," said the general, pointing to these soldiers, "are men whose courage I can depend on; they _know_ what they are going to, the others _don't_!" Yes, these young soldiers _very probably_ were brave; the others _certainly_ were. Dick Varley stood for a few seconds as if thunderstruck, while the bear stood hissing at him. Then the liquefaction of his interior ceased, and he felt a glow of fire gush through his veins. Now, Dick knew well enough that to fly from a grizzly bear was the sure and certain way of being torn to pieces, as when taken thus by surprise they almost invariably follow a retreating enemy. He also knew that if he stood where he was, perfectly still, the bear would, get uncomfortable under his stare, and would retreat from him. But he neither intended to run away himself nor to allow the bear to do so; he intended to kill it, so he raised his rifle quickly, "drew a bead," as the hunters express it, on the bear's heart, and fired. It immediately dropped on its fore-legs and rushed at him. "Back, Crusoe, out of the way, pup," shouted Dick, as his favourite was about to spring forward. The dog retired, and Dick leaped behind a tree. As the bear passed he gave it the contents of the second barrel behind the shoulder, which brought it down, but in another moment it rose and again rushed at him. Dick had no time to load, neither had he time to spring up the thick tree beside which he stood, and the rocky nature of the ground out of which it grew rendered it impossible to dodge round it. His only resource was flight; but where was he to fly to? If he ran along the open track, the bear would overtake him in a few seconds; on the right was a sheer precipice, a hundred feet high; on the left was an impenetrable thicket. In despair he thought for an instant of clubbing his rifle and meeting the monster in close conflict; but the utter hopelessness of such an effort was too apparent to be entertained for a moment. He glanced up at the overhanging cliffs. There were one or two rents and projections close above him. In the twinkling of an eye he sprang up and grasped a ledge of about an inch broad, ten or twelve feet up, to which he clung while he glanced upward. Another projection was within reach,--he gained it, and in a few seconds he stood upon a ledge about twenty feet up the cliff, where he had just room to plant his feet firmly. Without waiting to look behind he seized his powder-horn and loaded one barrel of his rifle; and well was it for him that his early training had fitted him to do this with rapidity, for the bear dashed up the precipice after him at once. The first time it missed its hold, and fell back with a savage growl, but, on the second attempt, it sunk its long claws into the fissures between the rocks, and ascended steadily till within a foot of the place where Dick stood. At this moment Crusoe's obedience gave way before a sense of Dick's danger. Uttering one of his lion-like roars, he rushed up the precipice with such violence that, although naturally unable to climb, he reached and seized the bear's flank, despite his master's stern order to "keep back," and in a moment the two rolled down the face of the rock together, just as Dick completed loading. Knowing that one stroke of the bear's paw would be certain death to his poor dog, Dick leaped from his perch, and, with one bound reached the ground at the same moment with the struggling animals, and close beside them, and, before they had ceased rolling, he placed the muzzle of his rifle into the bear's ear, and blew out its brains. Crusoe, strange to say, escaped with only one scratch on the side. It was a deep one, but not dangerous, and gave him but little pain at the time, although it caused him many a smart for some weeks after. Thus happily ended Dick's first encounter with a grizzly bear; and although, in the course of his wild life he shot many specimens of "Caleb," he used to say that "he an' pup were never so near goin' under as on the day he dropped _that_ bar!" Having refreshed himself with a long draught from a neighbouring rivulet, and washed Crusoe's wound, Dick skinned the bear on the spot. "We chawed him up that time, didn't we, pup?" said Dick, with a smile of satisfaction, as he surveyed his prize. Crusoe looked up and assented to this. "Gave us a hard tussle, though; very nigh sent us both under, didn't he, pup!" Crusoe agreed entirely, and, as if the remark reminded him of honourable scars, he licked his wound. "Ah, pup!" cried Dick, sympathetically, "does it hurt ye, eh, poor dog?" Hurt him! such a question! No, he should think not; better ask if that leap from the precipice hurt yourself. So Crusoe might have said, but he didn't; he took no notice of the remark whatever. "We'll cut him up now, pup," continued Dick. "The skin 'll make a splendid bed for you an me o' nights, and a saddle for Charlie." Dick cut out all the claws of the bear by the roots, and spent the remainder of that night in cleaning them and stringing them on a strip of leather to form a necklace. Independently of the value of these enormous claws (the largest as long as a man's middle finger) as an evidence of prowess, they formed a remarkably graceful collar, which Dick wore round his neck ever after with as much pride as if he had been a Pawnee warrior. When it was finished he held it out at arm's length, and said, "Crusoe, my pup, ain't ye proud of it? I'll tell ye what it is, pup, the next time you an' I floor Caleb, I'll put the claws round _your_ neck, an' make ye wear 'em ever arter, so I will." The dog did not seem quite to appreciate this piece of prospective good fortune. Vanity had no place in his honest breast, and, sooth to say, it had not a large place in that of his master either, as we may well grant when we consider that this first display of it was on the occasion of his hunter's soul having at last realised its brightest day-dream. Dick's dangers and triumphs seemed to accumulate on him rather thickly at this place, for on the very next day he had a narrow escape of being killed by a deer. The way of it was this. Having run short of meat, and not being particularly fond of grizzly bear steak, he shouldered his rifle and sallied forth in quest of game, accompanied by Crusoe, whose frequent glances towards his wounded side showed that, whatever may have been the case the day before, it "hurt" him now. They had not gone far when they came on the track of a deer in the snow, and followed it up till they spied a magnificent buck about three hundred yards off, standing in a level patch of ground which was everywhere surrounded either by rocks or thicket. It was a long shot; but as the nature of the ground rendered it impossible for Dick to get nearer without being seen, he fired, and wounded the buck so badly that he came up with it in a few minutes. The snow had drifted in the place where it stood bolt upright, ready for a spring, so Dick went round a little way, Crusoe following, till he was in a proper position to fire again. Just as he pulled the trigger, Crusoe gave a howl behind him, and disturbed his aim, so that he feared he had missed; but the deer fell, and he hurried towards it. On coming up, however, the buck sprang to its legs, rushed at him with its hair bristling, knocked him down in the snow, and deliberately commenced stamping him to death. Dick was stunned for a moment, and lay quite still, so the deer left off pommelling him, and stood looking at him. But the instant he moved it plunged at him again and gave him another pounding, until he was content to lie still. This was done several times, and Dick felt his strength going fast. He was surprised that Crusoe did not come to his rescue, and once he cleared his mouth and whistled to him; but as the deer gave him another pounding for this, he didn't attempt it again. He now for the first time bethought him of his knife, and quietly drew it from his belt; but the deer observed the motion, and was on him again in a moment. Dick, however, sprang up on his left elbow, and, making several desperate thrusts upward, succeeded in stabbing the animal to the heart. Rising and shaking the snow from his garments, he whistled loudly to Crusoe, and, on listening, heard him whining piteously. He hurried to the place whence the sound came, and found that the poor dog had fallen into a deep pit or crevice in the rocks, which had been concealed from view by a crust of snow, and he was now making frantic but unavailing efforts to leap out. Dick soon freed him from his prison by means of his belt, which he let down for the dog to grasp, and then returned to camp with as much deer-meat as he could carry. Dear meat it certainly was to him, for it had nearly cost him his life, and left him all black and blue for weeks after. Happily no bones were broken, so the incident only confined him a day to his encampment. Soon after this the snow fell thicker than ever, and it became evident that an unusually early winter was about to set in among the mountains. This was a terrible calamity, for, if the regular snow of winter set in, it would be impossible for him either to advance or retreat. While he was sitting on his bear-skin by the campfire one day, thinking anxiously what he should do, and feeling that he must either make the attempt to escape, or perish miserably in that secluded spot, a strange, unwonted sound struck upon his ear, and caused both him and Crusoe to spring violently to their feet and listen. Could he be dreaming? it seemed like the sound of human voices. For a moment he stood with his eyes rivetted on the ground, his lips apart and his nostrils distended, as he listened with the utmost intensity. Then he darted out and bounded round the edge of a rock which concealed an extensive but narrow valley from his view, and there, to his amazement, he beheld a band of about a hundred human beings advancing on horseback slowly through the snow! CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A SURPRISE AND A PIECE OF GOOD NEWS--THE FUR-TRADERS--CRUSOE PROVED, AND THE PEIGANS PURSUED. Dick's first and most natural impulse, on beholding this band, was to mount his horse and fly, for his mind naturally enough recurred to the former rough treatment he had experienced at the hands of Indians. On second thoughts, however, he considered it wiser to throw himself upon the hospitality of the strangers; "for," thought he, "they can but kill me, an' if I remain here I'm like to die at any rate." So Dick mounted his wild horse, grasped his rifle in his right hand, and, followed by Crusoe, galloped full tilt down the valley to meet them. He had heard enough of the customs of savage tribes, and had also of late experienced enough, to convince him that when a man found himself in the midst of an overwhelming force, his best policy was to assume an air of confident courage. He therefore approached them at his utmost speed. The effect upon the advancing band was electrical; and little wonder, for the young hunter's appearance was very striking. His horse, from having rested a good deal of late, was full of spirit; its neck was arched, its nostrils expanded, and its mane and tail, never having been checked in their growth, flew wildly around him in voluminous curls. Dick's own hair, not having been clipped for many months, appeared scarcely less wild as they thundered down the rocky pass at what appeared a break-neck gallop. Add to this the grandeur of the scene out of which they sprang, and the gigantic dog that bounded by his side, and you will not be surprised to hear that the Indian warriors clustered together, and prepared to receive this bold horseman as if he, in his own proper person, were a complete squadron of cavalry. It is probable, also, that they fully expected the tribe of which Dick was the chief to be at his heels. As he drew near the excitement among the strangers seemed very great, and, from the peculiarity of the various cries that reached him, he knew that there were women and children in the band--a fact which, in such a place and at such a season, was so unnatural, that it surprised him very much. He noted also that, though the men in front were Indians, their dresses were those of trappers and hunters, and he almost leaped out of his saddle when he observed that "_Pale-faces_" were among them. But he had barely time to note these facts when he was up with the band. According to Indian custom, he did not check his speed till he was within four or five yards of the advance-guard, who stood in a line before him, quite still, and with their rifles lying loosely in their left palms; then he reined his steed almost on _its_ haunches. One of the Indians advanced and spoke a few words in a language which was quite unintelligible to Dick, who replied, in the little Pawnee he could muster, that he didn't understand him. "Why, you must be a trapper!" exclaimed a thick-set, middle-aged man, riding out from the group. "Can you speak English?" "Ay, that can I," cried Dick, joyfully, riding up and shaking the stranger heartily by the hand; "an' right glad am I to fall in wi' a white-skin an' a civil tongue in his head." "Good sooth, sir," replied the stranger, with a quiet smile on his kind, weather-beaten face, "I can return you the compliment, for when I saw you come thundering down the corrie with that wonderful horse and no less wonderful dog of yours, I thought you were the wild man o' the mountain himself, and had an ambush ready to back you. But, young man, do you mean to say that you live here in the mountain all alone after this fashion?" "No, that I don't. I've comed here in my travels; but, truly, this bean't my home. But, sir (for I see you are what the fur-traders call a bourgeois), how comes it that such a band as this rides i' the mountains! D'ye mean to say that _they_ live here?" Dick looked round in surprise, as he spoke, upon the crowd of mounted men and women, with children and pack-horses, that now surrounded him. "'Tis a fair question, lad. I am a principal among the fur-traders whose chief trading-post lies near the Pacific Ocean, on the west side of these mountains, and I have come with these trappers and their families, as you see, to hunt the beaver and other animals for a season in the mountains. We've never been here before; but that's a matter of little moment, for it's not the first time I've been on what may be called a discovery-trading expedition. We are somewhat entangled, however, just now, among these wild passes, and, if you can guide us out of our difficulties to the east side of the mountains, I'll thank you heartily and pay you well. But first tell me who and what you are, if it's a fair question." "My name is Dick Varley, and my home's in the Mustang Valley, near the Missouri river. As to _what_ I am--I'm nothin' yet, but I hope to desarve the name o' a hunter some day. I can guide you to the east side o' the mountains, for I've comed from there; but more than that I can't do, for I'm a stranger to the country here, like yourself. But you're on the east side o' the mountains already, if I mistake not; only these mountains are so rugged and jumbled up, that it's not easy tellin' where ye are. And what," continued Dick, "may be the name o' the bourgeois who speaks to me?" "My name is Cameron--Walter Cameron--a well-known name among the Scottish hills, although it sounds a little strange here. And now, young man, will you join my party as guide, and afterwards remain as trapper? It will pay you better, I think, than roving about alone." Dick shook his head and looked grave. "I'll guide you," said he, "as far as my knowledge 'll help me; but after that I must return to look for two comrades whom I have lost. They have been driven into the mountains by a band of Injuns. God grant they may not have bin scalped." The trader's face looked troubled, and he spoke with one of his Indians for a few minutes in earnest, hurried tones. "What were they like, young man?" Dick described them. "The same," continued the trader; "they've been seen, lad, not more than two days ago, by this Indian here, when he was out hunting alone some miles away from our camp. He came suddenly on a band of Indians, who had two prisoners with them, such as you describe. They were stout, said you?" "Yes, both of them," cried Dick, listening with intense eagerness. "Ay. They were tied to their horses, an' from what I know of these fellows I'm sure they're doomed. But I'll help you, my friend, as well as I can. They can't be far from this. I treated my Indian's story about them as a mere fabrication, for he's the most notorious liar in my company; but he seems to have spoken truth for once." "Thanks, thanks, good sir," cried Dick. "Had we not best turn back and follow them at once?" "Nay, friend, not quite so fast," replied Cameron, pointing to his people. "These must be provided for first, but I shall be ready before the sun goes down. And now, as I presume you don't bivouac in the snow, will you kindly conduct us to your encampment, if it be not far hence?" Although burning with impatience to fly to the rescue of his friends, Dick felt constrained to comply with so reasonable a request, so he led the way to his camping-place, where the band of fur-traders immediately began to pitch their tents, cut down wood, kindle fires, fill their kettles with water, cook their food, and, in fact, make themselves comfortable. The wild spot which, an hour before, had been so still, and grand, and gloomy, was now, as if by magic, transformed into a bustling village, with bright fires blazing among the rocks and bushes, and merry voices of men, women, and children ringing in the air. It seemed almost incredible, and no wonder Dick, in his bewilderment, had difficulty in believing it was not all a dream. In days long gone by the fur-trade in that country was carried on in a very different way from the manner in which it is now conducted. These wild regions, indeed, are still as lonesome and untenanted (save by wild beasts and wandering tribes of Indians), as they were then; but the Indians of the present day have become accustomed to the "pale-faced" trader, whose little wooden forts or trading-posts are dotted here and there, at wide intervals, all over the land. But in the days of which we write it was not so. The fur-traders at that time went forth in armed bands into the heart of the Indians' country, and he who went forth did so "with his life in his hand." As in the case of the soldier who went out to battle, there was great probability that he might never return. The band of which Walter Cameron was the chief had, many months before, started from one of the distant posts of Oregon on a hunting expedition into the then totally unknown lands of the Snake Indians. It consisted of about sixty men, thirty women, and as many children of various ages,--about a hundred and twenty souls in all. Many of the boys were capable of using the gun and setting a beaver-trap. The men were a most motley set. There were Canadians, half-breeds, Iroquois, and Scotchmen. Most of the women had Indian blood in their veins, and a few were pure Indians. The equipment of this strange band consisted of upwards of two hundred beaver-traps--which are similar to our rat-traps, with this difference, that they have two springs and no teeth--seventy guns, a few articles for trade with the Indians, and a large supply of powder and ball; the whole--men, women, children, goods, and chattels--being carried on the backs of nearly four hundred horses. Many of these horses, at starting, were not laden, being designed for the transport of furs that were to be taken in the course of the season. For food this adventurous party depended entirely on their guns, and during the march hunters were kept constantly out ahead. As a matter of course their living was precarious. Sometimes their kettles were overflowing; at others they scarce refrained from eating their horses. But, during the months they had already spent in the wilderness, good living had been the rule, starvation the exception. They had already collected a large quantity of beaver-skins, which at that time were among the most valuable in the market, although they are now scarcely saleable! Having shot two wild horses, seven elks, six small deer, and four big-horned sheep, the day before they met Dick Varley, the camp-kettles were full, and the people consequently happy. "Now, Master Dick Varley," said Cameron, touching the young hunter on the shoulder as he stood ready equipped by one of the campfires; "I'm at your service. The people won't need any more looking after to-night. I'll divide my men--thirty shall go after this rascally band of Peigans, for such I believe they are, and thirty shall remain to guard the camp. Are you ready?" "Ready! ay, this hour past." "Mount then, lad; the men have already been told off and are mustering down yonder where the deer gave you such a licking." Dick needed no second bidding. He vaulted on Charlie's back and along with their commander joined the men, who were thirty as fine, hardy, reckless-looking fellows as one could desire for a forlorn hope. They were chatting and laughing while they examined their guns and saddle girths. Their horses were sorry-looking animals compared with the magnificent creature that Dick bestrode, but they were hardy, nevertheless, and well fitted for their peculiar work. "My! wot a blazer," exclaimed a trapper as Dick rode up. "Where you git him?" inquired a half-breed. "I caught him," answered Dick. "Baw!" cried the first speaker. Dick took no notice of this last remark. "No, did ye though?" he asked again. "I did," answered Dick, quietly; "I creased him in the prairie--you can see the mark on his neck if you look." The men began to feel that the young hunter was perhaps a little beyond them at their own trade, and regarded him with increased respect. "Look sharp now, lads," said Cameron, impatiently, to several dilatory members of the band. "Night will be on us ere long." "Who sold ye the bear-claw collar?" inquired another man of Dick. "I didn't buy it. I killed the bear and made it." "Did ye, though, all be yer lone?" "Ay, that wasn't much, was it?" "You've begun well, yonker," said a tall middle-aged hunter, whose general appearance was not unlike that of Joe Blunt. "Jest keep clear o' the Injuns an' the grog bottle an' ye've a glor'ous life before ye." At this point the conversation was interrupted by the order being given to move on, which was obeyed in silence, and the cavalcade, descending the valley, entered one of the gorges in the mountains. For the first half mile Cameron rode a little ahead of his men, then he turned to speak to one of them and for the first time observed Crusoe trotting close beside his master's horse. "Ah! Master Dick," he exclaimed with a troubled expression, "that won't do. It would never do to take a dog on an expedition like this." "Why not?" asked Dick, "the pup's quiet and peaceable." "I doubt it not, but he will betray our presence to the Indians, which might be inconvenient." "I've travelled more than a thousand miles through prairie and forest, among game an' among Injuns, an' the pup never betrayed me yet," said Dick, with suppressed vehemence; "he has saved my life more than once though." "You seem to have perfect confidence in your dog, but as this is a serious matter you must not expect me to share in it without proof of his trustworthiness." "The pup may be useful to us; how would you have it proved?" inquired Dick. "Any way you like." "You forgot your belt at starting, I think I heered ye say." "Yes, I did," replied the trader, smiling. Dick immediately took hold of Cameron's coat, and bade Crusoe smell it, which the dog did very carefully. Then he showed him his own belt and said: "Go back to the camp and fetch it, pup." Crusoe was off in a moment, and in less than twenty minutes returned with Cameron's belt in his mouth. "Well, I'll trust him," said Cameron, patting Crusoe's head. "Forward, lads!" and away they went at a brisk trot along the bottom of a beautiful valley on each side of which the mountains towered in dark masses. Soon the moon rose and afforded light sufficient to enable them to travel all night in the track of the Indian hunter who said he had seen the Peigans, and who was constituted guide to the party. Hour after hour the horsemen pressed on without check, now galloping over a level plain, now bounding by the banks of a rivulet, or bending their heads to escape the boughs of overhanging trees, and anon toiling slowly up among the rocks of some narrow defile. At last the moon set, and the order was given to halt in a little plain where there was wood and water. The horses were picketted, a fire kindled, a mouthful of dried meat hastily eaten, the watch was set, and then each man scraped away the snow, spread some branches on the ground, and, wrapping himself in his blanket, went to sleep with his feet presented towards the fire. Two hours were allowed for rest; then they were awakened, and in a few minutes were off again by the grey light of dawn. In this way they travelled two nights and a day. At the end of that time they came suddenly on a small party of nine Indians who were seated on the ground with their snow-shoes and blankets by their sides. They had evidently been taken by surprise, but they made no attempt to escape, knowing that it was useless. Each sat still with his bow and arrows between his legs on the ground ready for instant use. As soon as Cameron spoke, however, in their own language they felt relieved and began to talk. "Where do you come from, and what are you doing here?" asked the trader. "We have come to trade with the white men," one of them replied, "and to hunt. We have come from the Missouri. Our country is far away." "Do Peigans hunt with _war-arrows_?" asked Cameron, pointing to their weapons. This question seemed to perplex them, for they saw that their interrogator knew the difference between a war and a hunting arrow--the former being barbed in order to render its extraction from the wound difficult, while the head of the latter is round and can be drawn out of game that has been killed, and used again. "And do Peigans," continued Cameron, "come from a far country to trade with the white men _with nothing_?" Again the Indians were silent, for they had not an article of trade about them. Cameron now felt convinced that this party of Peigans, into whose hands Joe Blunt and Henri had fallen, were nothing else than a war-party, and that the men now before him were a scouting-party sent out from them, probably to spy out his own camp, on the trail of which they had fallen, so he said to them-- "The Peigans are not wise men, they tell lies to the traders. I will tell you that you are a war-party, and that you are only a few warriors sent out to spy the traders' camp. You have also two _Pale-face_ prisoners in your camp. You cannot deceive me. It is useless to try. Now, conduct me to your camp. My object is not war; it is peace. I will speak with your chiefs about trading with the white men, and we will smoke the pipe of peace. Are my words good?" Despite their proverbial control of muscle, these Indians could not conceal their astonishment at hearing so much of their affairs thus laid bare, so they said that the Pale-face chief was wise, that he must be a great medicine-man, and that what he said was all true except about the white men. They had never seen any Pale-faces, and knew nothing whatever about those he spoke of. This was a terrible piece of news to poor Dick, and at first his heart fairly sank within him, but by degrees he came to be more hopeful. He concluded that if these men told lies in regard to one thing they would do it in regard to another, and perhaps they might have some strong reason for denying any knowledge of Joe and Henri. The Indians now packed up the buffalo robes on which they had slept, and the mouthful of provisions they had taken with them. "I don't believe a word of what they say about your friends," said Cameron to Dick in a low tone while the Indians were thus engaged. "Depend upon it they hope to hide them till they can send to the settlements and get a ransom, or till they get an opportunity of torturing them to death before their women and children when they get back to their own village. But we'll baulk them, my friend, do not fear." The Indians were soon ready to start, for they were lumbered with marvellously little camp equipage. In less than half an hour after their discovery they were running like deer ahead of the cavalcade in the direction of the Peigan camp. CHAPTER NINETEEN. ADVENTURES WITH THE PEIGANS--CRUSOE DOES GOOD SERVICE AS A DISCOVERER-- THE SAVAGES OUTWITTED--THE RESCUE. A run of twenty miles brought the travellers to a rugged defile in the mountains, from which they had a view of a beautiful valley of considerable extent. During the last two days a steady thaw had been rapidly melting away the snow, so that it appeared only here and there in the landscape in dazzling patches. At the distance of about half a mile from where they halted to breathe the horses before commencing the descent into this vale, several thin wreaths of smoke were seen rising above the trees. "Is that your camp?" inquired Cameron, riding up to the Indian runners who stood in a group in front, looking as fresh after their twenty miles' run as though they had only had a short walk. To this they answered in the affirmative, adding that there were about two hundred Peigans there. It might have been thought that thirty men would have hesitated to venture to attack so large a number as two hundred; but it had always been found in the experience of Indian life, that a few resolute white men well armed were more than a match for ten times their number of Indians. And this arose not so much from the superior strength or agility of the whites over their red foes, as from that bull-dog courage and utter recklessness of their lives in combat,--qualities which the crafty savage can neither imitate nor understand. The information was received with perfect indifference by most of the trappers, and with contemptuous laughter by some, for a large number of Cameron's men were wild, evil-disposed fellows, who would have as gladly taken the life of an Indian as a buffalo. Just as the word was given to resume the march, Dick Varley rode up to Cameron, and said in a somewhat anxious tone--"D'ye obsarve, sir, that one o' the Red-skins has gone off ahead o' his comrades?" "I see that, Master Dick, and it was a mistake of mine not to have stopped him, but he was gone too far before I observed it, and I thought it better to appear unconcerned. We must push on, though, and give him as short time as possible to talk with his comrades in the camp." The trappers pressed forward accordingly at a gallop, and were soon in front of the clump of trees amongst which the Peigans were encamped. Their approach had evidently spread great alarm among them, for there was a good deal of bustle and running to and fro, but by the time the trappers had dismounted and advanced in a body on foot, the savages had resumed their usual quiet dignity of appearance, and were seated calmly round their fires with their bows and arrows beside them. There were no tents, no women or children, and the general aspect of the men showed Cameron conclusively that his surmise about their being a war-party was correct. A council was immediately called; the trappers ranged themselves on one side of the council-fire and the Indians on the other. Meanwhile, our friend Crusoe had been displaying considerable irritability against the Indians, and he would certainly have attacked the whole two hundred single-handed if he had not been ordered by his master to lie still, but never in his life before had Crusoe obeyed with such a bad grace. He bristled and whined in a low tremulous tone, and looked imploringly at Dick as if for permission to fly at them. "The Pale-faced traders are glad to meet with the Peigans," began Cameron, who determined to make no allusion to his knowledge that they were a war-party, "for they wish to be friends with all the children of the woods and prairies. They wish to trade with them; to exchange blankets, and guns, and beads, and other goods which the Peigans require, for furs of animals which the Pale-faces require." "Ho! ho!" exclaimed the Indians; which expression might be translated, "Hear, hear." "But," continued Cameron, "we wish to have no war. We wish to see the hatchet buried, and to see all the Red-men and the white men smoking the pipe of peace, and hunting like brothers." The "Ho-ho-ing" at this was very emphatic. "Now," resumed the trader, "the Peigans have got two prisoners--two Pale-faces--in their camp, and, as we cannot be on good terms while our brothers are detained, we have come to ask for them, and to _present some gifts_ to the Peigans." To this there was no "Ho" at all, but a prolonged silence, which was at length interrupted by a tall chief stepping forward to address the trappers. "What the Pale-face chief has said is good," began the Indian. "His words are wise, and his heart is not double. The Red-men are willing to smoke the pipe of peace, and to hunt with all men as brothers, but they cannot do it while many of their scalps are hanging in the lodges of their enemies and fringing the robes of the warriors. The Peigans must have vengeance; then they will make peace." After a short pause he continued--"The chief is wrong when he says there are Pale-faces in the Peigan camp. The Peigans are not at war with the Pale-faces; neither have they seen any on their march. The camp is open. Let the Pale-faces look round and see that what we say is true." The chief waved his hand towards his warriors as he concluded, as if to say, "Search amongst them. There are no Pale-faces there." Cameron now spoke to Dick in a low tone. "They speak confidently," he said, "and I fear greatly that your poor comrades have either been killed or conveyed away from the camp and hidden among the mountains, in which case, even though they should not be far off, it would be next to impossible to find them, especially when such a band o' rascals is near, compelling us to keep together. But I'll try what a little tempting them with goods will do. At any rate we shan't give in without a scuffle." It now, for the first time, flashed across Dick Varley that there was something more than he imagined in Crusoe's restless anxiety, which had not in the least abated, and the idea of making use of him now occurred to his mind. "I've a notion that I'll settle this matter in a shorter time than you think," he said hurriedly, "if you'll agree to try what _threatening_ will do." The trader looked grave and undecided. "I never resort to that except as a last hope," he answered, "but I've a good deal of confidence in your prudence, what would you advise?" Dick and the trader whispered a few minutes together, while some of the men, in order to show the Indians how perfectly unconcerned they were, and how ready for _anything_, took out their pipes and began to smoke. Both parties were seated on the ground, and during this interval the Indians also held eager discussion. At length Cameron stood up, and said to his men in a quiet tone, "Be ready, lads, for instant action; when I give the word `Up,' spring to your feet and cock your guns, but _don't fire a shot till you get the word_." He then stepped forward and said-- "The Peigan warriors are double-tongued; they know that they have hid the Pale-face prisoners. We do not wish to quarrel, but if they are not delivered up at once, the Pale-faces and the Peigans will not be friends." Upon this the Indian chief again stood forward and said, "The Peigans are _not_ double-tongued. They have not seen Pale-faces till to-day. They can say no more." Without moving hand or foot, Cameron then said in a firm tone, "The first Peigan that moves shall die! Up, lads, and ready!" In the twinkling of an eye the trappers sprang to their feet, and cocking their rifles stood perfectly motionless, scowling at the savages, who were completely taken by surprise at the unusual suddenness and informality of such a declaration of war. Not a man moved, for, unlike white men, they seldom risk their lives in open fight; and as they looked at the formidable row of muzzles that waited but a word to send instant death into their midst, they felt that discretion was at that time the better part of valour. "Now," said Cameron, while Dick Varley and Crusoe stepped up beside him, "my young warrior will search for the Pale-face prisoners. If they are found, we will take them and go away. If they are not found, we will ask the Peigans to forgive us, and will give them gifts. But in the meantime, if a Peigan moves from the spot where he sits, or lifts a bow, my young men shall fire, and the Peigans know that the rifle of the Pale-face always kills." Without waiting for an answer, Dick immediately said, "Seek 'em out, pup," and Crusoe bounded away. For a few minutes he sprang hither and thither through the camp, quite regardless of the Indians, and snuffed the air several times, whining in an excited tone, as if to relieve his feelings. Then he put his nose to the ground and ran straight forward into the woods. Dick immediately bounded after him like a deer, while the trappers kept silent guard over the savages. For some time Crusoe ran straight forward. Then he came to a spot where there was a good deal of drifted snow on the ground. Here he seemed to lose the trail for a little, and ran about in all directions, whining in a most piteous tone. "Seek 'em out, pup," repeated Dick encouragingly, while his own breast heaved with excitement and expectation. In a few seconds the dog resumed its onward course, and led the way into a wild, dark spot, which was so overshadowed by trees and precipitous cliffs that the light of the sun scarce found entrance. There were many huge masses of rock scattered over the ground, which had fallen from the cliffs. Behind one of these lay a mound of dried leaves, towards which Crusoe darted and commenced scraping violently. Trembling with dread that he should find this to be the grave of his murdered companions, Dick rushed forward and hastily cleared away the leaves. The first handful thrown off revealed part of the figure of a man. Dick's heart beat audibly as he cleared the leaves from the face, and he uttered a suppressed cry on beholding the well-known features of Joe Blunt! But they were not those of a dead man. Joe's eyes met his with a scowl of anger, which instantly gave place to one of intense surprise. "Joe Blunt!" exclaimed Dick in a voice of intense amazement, while Crusoe sniffed round the heap of leaves, and whined with excitement. But Joe did not move, neither did he speak a word in reply--for the very good reasons that his mouth was tightly bound with a band of leather, his hands and feet were tied, and his whole body was secured in a rigid, immovable position by being bound to a pole of about his own length. In a moment Dick's knife was out, bands and cords were severed, and Joe Blunt was free. "Thank God," exclaimed Joe with a deep, earnest sigh, the instant his lips were loosened, "and thanks to _you_, lad," he added, endeavouring to rise, but his limbs had become so benumbed in consequence of the cords by which they had been compressed that for some time he could not move. "I'll rub ye, Joe--I'll soon rub ye into a right state," said Dick, going down on his knees. "No, no, lad, look sharp and dig up Henri. He's just beside me here." Dick immediately rose, and, pushing aside the heap of leaves, found Henri securely bound in the same fashion. But he could scarce refrain from laughing at the expression of that worthy's face. Hearing the voices of Joe and Dick Varley in conversation, though unable to see their persons, he was filled with such unbounded amazement that his eyes, when uncovered, were found to be at their largest possible stretch, and as for the eyebrows, they were gone, utterly lost among the roots of his voluminous hair. "Henri, friend, I knew I should find ye," said Dick, cutting the thongs that bound him. "Get up if ye can, we haven't much time to lose, an' mayhap we'll have to fight afore we're done wi' the Red-skins. Can ye rise?" Henri could do nothing but lie on his back and gasp, "Eh! possible! mon frere! Oh, non, non, _not_ possible. Oui! my broder Deek!" Here he attempted to rise, but, being unable, fell back again, and the whole thing came so suddenly, and made so deep an impression on his impulsive mind, that he incontinently burst into tears; then he burst into a long laugh. Suddenly he paused, and, scrambling up to a sitting posture, looked earnestly into Dick's face through his tearful eyes. "Oh, non, non!" he exclaimed, stretching himself out at full length again, and closing his eyes; "it are too goot to be true. I am dream. I vill wait till I am wake." Dick roused him out of this resolute sleep, however, somewhat roughly. Meanwhile Joe had rubbed and kicked himself into a state of animation, exclaiming that he felt as if he wos walkin' on a thousand needles and pins, and in a few minutes they were ready to accompany their overjoyed deliverer back to the Peigan camp. Crusoe testified his delight in various elephantine gambols round the persons of his old friends, who were not slow to acknowledge his services. "They haven't treated us overly well," remarked Joe Blunt, as they strode through the underwood. "Non, de rascale, vraiment, de am villains. Oui! How de have talk, too, 'bout--oh-o-oo-ooo-wah!--roastin' us alive, an' puttin' our scalp in de vigvam for de poopoose to play wid!" "Well, niver mind, Henri, we'll be quits wi' them now," said Joe, as they came in sight of the two bands, who remained in precisely the same position in which they had been left, except that one or two of the more reckless of the trappers had lit their pipes and taken to smoking, without, however, laying down their rifles or taking their eyes off the savages. A loud cheer greeted the arrival of the prisoners, and looks of considerable discomfort began to be evinced by the Indians. "Glad to see you, friends," said Cameron, as they came up. "Ve is 'appy ov de same," replied Henri, swaggering up in the joviality of his heart, and seizing the trader's hand in his own enormous fist. "Shall ve go to york an' slay dem all at vonce, or von at a time?" "We'll consider that afterwards, my lad. Meantime go you to the rear, and get a weapon of some sort." "Oui. Ah! c'est charmant," he cried, going with an immense flounder into the midst of the amused trappers, and slapping those next to him on the back. "Give me veapon, do, mes ami--gun, pistol, anyting--cannon, if you have von." Meanwhile Cameron and Joe spoke together for a few moments. "You had goods with you, and horses, I believe, when you were captured," said the former. "Ay, that we had. Yonder stand the horses under the pine-tree, along wi' the rest o' the Red-skin troop, an a hard time they've had o't, as their bones may tell without speakin'. As for the goods," he continued, glancing round the camp, "I don't know where--ah! yes, there they be in the old pack. I see all safe." Cameron now addressed the Indians. "The Peigans," he said, "have not done well. Their hearts have not been true to the Pale-faces. Even now I could take your scalps where you sit; but white men do not like war, they do not like revenge. The Peigans may go free." Considering the fewness of their numbers, this was bold language to use towards the Indians; but the boldest is generally the best policy on such occasions. Moreover, Cameron felt that, being armed with rifles, while the Indians had only bows and arrows, the trappers had a great advantage over them. The Indian who had spoken before now rose and said he was sorry there should be any cause of difference between them, and added he was sorry for a great many more things besides, but he did not say he was sorry for having told a lie. "But, before you go, you must deliver up the horses and goods belonging to these men," said Cameron pointing to Joe and Henri. This was agreed to. The horses were led out, the two little packs containing Joe's goods were strapped upon them, and then the trappers turned to depart. The Indians did not move until they had mounted; then they rose and advanced in a body to the edge of the wood, to see the Pale-faces go away. Meanwhile Joe spoke a few words to Cameron, and the men were ordered to halt, while the former dismounted and led his horse towards the band of savages. "Peigans," he said, "you know the object for which I came into this country was to make peace between you and the Pale-faces. I have often told you so when you would not listen, and when you told me that I had a double heart, and told lies. You were wrong when you said this; but I do not wonder, for you live among nations who do not fear God, and who think it right to lie. I now repeat to you what I said before. It would be good for the Red-men if they would make peace with the Pale-faces, and if they would make peace with each other. I will now convince you that I am in earnest, and have all along been speaking the truth." Hereupon Joe Blunt opened his bundle of goods, and presented fully one-half of the gaudy and brilliant contents to the astonished Indians, who seemed quite taken aback by such generous treatment. The result of this was that the two parties separated with mutual expressions of esteem and good will. The Indians then returned to the forest, and the white men galloped back to their camp among the hills. CHAPTER TWENTY. NEW PLANS--OUR TRAVELLERS JOIN THE FUR-TRADERS, AND SEE MANY STRANGE THINGS--A CURIOUS FIGHT--A NARROW ESCAPE, AND A PRISONER TAKEN. Not long after the events related in the last chapter, our four friends, Dick, and Joe, and Henri, and Crusoe, agreed to become for a time members of Walter Cameron's band of trappers. Joe joined because one of the objects which the traders had in view was similar to his own mission, namely, the promoting of peace among the various Indian tribes of the mountains and plains to the west. Joe, therefore, thought it a good opportunity of travelling with a band of men who could secure him a favourable hearing from the Indian tribes they might chance to meet with in the course of their wanderings. Besides, as the traders carried about a large supply of goods with them, he could easily replenish his own nearly exhausted pack by hunting wild animals and exchanging their skins for such articles as he might require. Dick joined because it afforded him an opportunity of seeing the wild, majestic scenery of the Rocky Mountains, and shooting the big-horned sheep which abounded there, and the grizzly "bars," as Joe named them, or "Caleb," as they were more frequently styled by Henri and the other men. Henri joined because it was agreeable to the inclination of his own rollicking, blundering, floundering, crashing disposition, and because he would have joined anything that had been joined by the other two. Crusoe's reason for joining was single, simple, easy to be expressed, easy to be understood, and commendable. _He_ joined--because Dick did. The very day after the party left the encampment where Dick had shot the grizzly bear and the deer, he had the satisfaction of bringing down a splendid specimen of the big-horned sheep. It came suddenly out from a gorge of the mountain, and stood upon the giddy edge of a tremendous precipice, at a distance of about two hundred and fifty yards. "_You_ could not hit that," said a trapper to Henri, who was rather fond of jeering him about his short-sightedness. "Non!" cried Henri, who didn't see the animal in the least; "say you dat? ve shall see;" and he let fly with a promptitude that amazed his comrades, and with a result that drew from them peals of laughter. "Why, you have missed the mountain!" "Oh, non! dat am eempossoble." It was true, nevertheless, for his ball had been arrested in its flight by the stem of a tree not twenty yards before him. While the shot was yet ringing, and before the laugh above referred to had pealed forth, Dick Varley fired, and the animal, springing wildly into the air, fell down the precipice, and was almost dashed to pieces at their feet. This Rocky Mountain or big-horned sheep was a particularly large and fine one, but, being a patriarch of the flock, was not well suited for food. It was considerably larger in size than the domestic sheep, and might be described as somewhat resembling a deer in the body and a ram in the head. Its horns were the chief point of interest to Dick; and, truly, they were astounding! Their enormous size was out of all proportion to the animal's body, and they curved backwards and downwards, and then curled up again in a sharp point. These creatures frequent the inaccessible heights of the Rocky Mountains, and are difficult to approach. They have a great fondness for salt, and pay regular visits to the numerous caverns of these mountains, which are encrusted with a saline substance. Walter Cameron now changed his intention of proceeding to the eastward, as he found the country not so full of beaver at that particular spot as he had anticipated. He therefore turned towards the west, penetrated into the interior of the mountains, and took a considerable sweep through the lovely valleys on their western slopes. The expedition which this enterprising fur-trader was conducting was one of the first that ever penetrated these wild regions in search of furs. The ground over which they travelled was quite new to them, and having no guide they just moved about at haphazard, encamping on the margin of every stream or river on which signs of the presence of beaver were discovered, and setting their traps. Beaver-skins at this time were worth 25 shillings a piece in the markets of civilised lands, and in the Snake country, through which our friends were travelling, thousands of them were to be had from the Indians for trinkets and baubles that were scarce worth a farthing. A beaver-skin could be procured from the Indians for a brass finger ring or a penny looking-glass. Horses were also so numerous that one could be procured for an axe or a knife. Let not the reader, however, hastily conclude that the traders cheated the Indians in this traffic, though the profits were so enormous. The ring or the axe was indeed a trifle to the trader, but the beaver-skin and the horse were equally trifles to the savage, who could procure as many of them as he chose with very little trouble, while the ring and the axe were in his estimation of priceless value. Besides, be it remembered, to carry that ring and that axe to the far distant haunts of the Red-man cost the trader weeks and months of constant toil, trouble, anxiety, and, alas! too frequently cost him his life! The state of trade is considerably modified in these regions at the present day. It is not more _justly_ conducted, for, in respect of the value of goods given for furs, it was justly conducted _then_, but time and circumstances have tended more to equalise the relative values of articles of trade. The snow which had prematurely fallen had passed away, and the trappers now found themselves wandering about in a country so beautiful and a season so delightful, that it would have seemed to them a perfect paradise, but for the savage tribes who hovered about them, and kept them ever on the _qui vive_. They soon passed from the immediate embrace of stupendous heights and dark gorges to a land of sloping ridges, which divided the country into a hundred luxuriant vales, composed part of woodland and part of prairie. Through these numerous rivers and streams flowed deviously, beautifying the landscape and enriching the land. There were also many lakes of all sizes, and these swarmed with fish, while in some of them were found the much-sought-after and highly esteemed beaver. Salt springs and hot springs of various temperatures abounded here, and many of the latter were so hot that meat could be boiled in them. Salt existed in all directions in abundance, and of good quality. A sulphurous spring was also discovered, bubbling out from the base of a perpendicular rock three hundred feet high, the waters of which were dark-blue, and tasted like gunpowder. In short, the land presented every variety of feature calculated to charm the imagination and delight the eye. It was a mysterious land, too, for broad rivers burst in many places from the earth, flowed on a short space, and then disappeared as if by magic into the earth from which they rose. Natural bridges spanned the torrents in many places, and some of these were so correctly formed that it was difficult to believe they had not been built by the hand of man. They often appeared opportunely to our trappers, and saved them the trouble and danger of fording rivers. Frequently the whole band would stop in silent wonder and awe as they listened to the rushing of waters under their feet, as if another world of streams, and rapids, and cataracts were flowing below the crust of earth on which they stood. Some considerable streams were likewise observed to gush from the faces of precipices, some twenty or thirty feet from their summits, while on the top no water was to be seen. Wild berries of all kinds were found in abundance, and wild vegetables, besides many nutritious roots. Among other fish splendid salmon were found in the lakes and rivers; and animal life swarmed on hill and dale. Woods and valleys, plains, and ravines, teemed with it. On every plain the red-deer grazed in herds by the banks of lake and stream; wherever there were clusters of poplar and elder-trees and saplings, the beaver was seen nibbling industriously with his sharp teeth, and committing as much havoc in the forests as if they had been armed with the woodman's axe; otters sported in the eddies; racoons sat in the tree-tops; the marten, the black fox, and the wolf, prowled in the woods in quest of prey; mountain sheep and goats browsed on the rocky ridges, and badgers peeped from their holes. Here, too, the wild horse sprang snorting and dishevelled from his mountain retreats--with flourishing mane and tail, spanking step, and questioning gaze,--and thundered away over the plains and valleys, while the rocks echoed back his shrill neigh. The huge, heavy, ungainly elk, or moose-deer, _trotted_ away from the travellers with speed equal to that of the mustang. Elks seldom gallop; their best speed is attained at the trot. Bears, too, black, and brown, and grizzly, roamed about everywhere. So numerous were all these creatures, that on one occasion the hunters of the party brought in six wild horses, three bears, four elks, and thirty red-deer; having shot them all a short distance ahead of the main body, and almost without diverging from the line of march. And this was a matter of every-day occurrence--as it had need to be, considering the number of mouths that had to be filled. The feathered tribes were not less numerous. Chief among these were eagles and vultures of uncommon size, the wild goose, wild duck, and the majestic swan. In the midst of such profusion the trappers spent a happy time of it, when not molested by the savages, but they frequently lost a horse or two in consequence of the expertness of these thievish fellows. They often wandered, however, for days at a time without seeing an Indian, and at such times they enjoyed to the full the luxuries with which a bountiful God had blessed these romantic regions. Dick Varley was almost wild with delight. It was his first excursion into the remote wilderness; he was young, healthy, strong, and romantic; and it is a question whether his or his dog's heart, or that of the noble wild horse he bestrode, bounded most with joy at the glorious sights, and sounds, and influences by which they were surrounded. It would have been perfection had it not been for the frequent annoyance and alarms caused by the Indians. Alas! alas! that we who write and read about those wondrous scenes should have to condemn our own species as the most degraded of all the works of the Creator there! Yet so it is. Man, exercising his reason and conscience in the path of love and duty which his Creator points out, is God's noblest work; but man, left to the freedom of his own fallen will, sinks morally lower than the beasts that perish. Well may every Christian wish and pray that the name and the gospel of the blessed Jesus may be sent speedily to the dark places of the earth; for you may read of, and talk about, but you _cannot conceive_ the fiendish wickedness and cruelty which causes tearless eyes to glare, and maddened hearts to burst, in the lands of the heathen. While we are on this subject let us add (and our young readers will come to know it if they are spared to see many years) that _civilisation_ alone will never improve the heart. Let history speak and it will tell you that deeds of darkest hue have been perpetrated in so-called civilised, though pagan lands. Civilisation is like the polish that beautifies inferior furniture, which water will wash off if it be but _hot enough_. Christianity resembles dye, which permeates every fibre of the fabric, and which nothing can eradicate. The success of the trappers in procuring beaver here was great. In all sorts of creeks and rivers they were found. One day they came to one of the curious rivers before mentioned, which burst suddenly out of a plain, flowed on for several miles, and then disappeared into the earth as suddenly as it had risen. Even in this strange place beaver were seen, so the traps were set, and a hundred and fifty were caught at the first lift. The manner in which the party proceeded was as follows: They marched in a mass in groups or in a long line, according to the nature of the ground over which they travelled. The hunters of the party went forward a mile or two in advance, and scattered through the woods. After them came the advance-guard, being the bravest and most stalwart of the men mounted on their best steeds, and with rifle in hand; immediately behind followed the women and children, also mounted, and the pack-horses with the goods and camp equipage. Another band of trappers formed the rear-guard to this imposing cavalcade. There was no strict regimental order kept, but the people soon came to adopt the arrangements that were most convenient for all parties, and at length fell naturally into their places in the line of march. Joe Blunt usually was the foremost and always the most successful of the hunters. He was therefore seldom seen on the march except at the hour of starting, and at night when he came back leading his horse, which always groaned under its heavy load of meat, Henri, being a hearty, jovial soul and fond of society, usually kept with the main body. As for Dick, he was everywhere at once, at least as much so as it is possible for human nature to be! His horse never wearied; it seemed to delight in going at full speed; no other horse in the troop could come near Charlie, and Dick indulged him by appearing now at the front, now at the rear, anon in the centre, and frequently _nowhere_!--having gone off with Crusoe, like a flash of lightning, after a buffalo or a deer. Dick soon proved himself to be the best hunter of the party, and it was not long before he fulfilled his promise to Crusoe, and decorated his neck with a collar of grizzly bear claws. Well, when the trappers came to a river where there were signs of beaver, they called a halt, and proceeded to select a safe and convenient spot, near wood and water, for the camp. Here the property of the band was securely piled in such a manner as to form a breastwork or slight fortification, and here Walter Cameron established head-quarters. This was always the post of danger, being exposed to sudden attack by prowling savages, who often dogged the footsteps of the party in their journeyings to see what they could steal. But Cameron was an old hand, and they found it difficult to escape his vigilant eye. From this point all the trappers were sent forth in small parties every morning in various directions, some on foot and some on horseback, according to the distances they had to go; but they never went further than twenty miles, as they had to return to camp every evening. Each trapper had ten steel traps allowed him. These he set every night, and visited every morning, sometimes oftener, when practicable, selecting a spot in the stream where many trees had been cut down by beavers for the purpose of damming up the water. In some places as many as fifty tree stumps were seen in one spot, within the compass of half an acre, all cut through at about eighteen inches from the root. We may remark, in passing, that the beaver is very much like a gigantic water-rat, with this marked difference, that its tail is very broad and flat like a paddle. The said tail is a greatly esteemed article of food, as, indeed, is the whole body at certain seasons of the year. The beaver's fore-legs are very small and short, and it uses its paws as hands to convey food to its mouth, sitting the while in an erect position on its hind-legs and tail. Its fur is a dense coat of a greyish-coloured down, concealed by long coarse hair, which lies smooth, and is of a bright chestnut colour. Its teeth and jaws are of enormous power; with them it can cut through the branch of a tree as thick as a walking-stick at one snap; and, as we have said, it gnaws through thick trees themselves. As soon as a tree falls, the beavers set to work industriously to lop off the branches, which, as well as the smaller trunks, they cut into lengths, according to their weight and thickness. These are then dragged by main force to the water side, launched, and floated to their destination. Beavers build their houses, or "lodges," under the banks of rivers and lakes, and always select those of such depth of water that there is no danger of their being frozen to the bottom; when such cannot be found, and they are compelled to build in small rivulets of insufficient depth, these clever little creatures dam up the waters until they are deep enough. The banks thrown up by them across rivulets for this purpose are of great strength, and would do credit to human engineers. Their "lodges" are built of sticks, mud, and stones, which form a compact mass; this freezes solid in winter, and defies the assaults of that house-breaker, the wolverine, an animal which is the beaver's implacable foe. From this "lodge," which is capable often of holding four old and six or eight young ones, a communication is maintained with the water below the ice, so that, should the wolverine succeed in breaking up the lodge, he finds the family "not at home," they having made good their retreat by the back-door. When man acts the part of house-breaker, however, he cunningly shuts the back-door _first_, by driving stakes through the ice, and thus stopping the passage. Then he enters, and, we almost regret to say, finds the family at home. We regret it, because the beaver is a gentle, peaceable, affectionate, hairy little creature, towards which one feels an irresistible tenderness! But, to return from this long digression. Our trappers having selected their several localities, set their traps in the water, so that when the beavers roamed about at night, they put their feet into them, and were caught and drowned; for, although they can swim and dive admirably, they cannot live altogether under water. Thus the different parties proceeded, and in the mornings the camp was a busy scene indeed, for then the whole were engaged in skinning the animals. The beavers thus taken were always skinned, stretched, dried, folded up with the hair in the inside, laid by, and the flesh used for food. But oftentimes the trappers had to go forth with the gun in one hand and their traps in the other, while they kept a sharp look out on the bushes to guard against surprise. Despite their utmost efforts a horse was occasionally stolen before their very eyes, and sometimes even an unfortunate trapper was murdered, and all his traps carried off. An event of this kind occurred soon after the party had gained the western slopes of the mountains. Three Iroquois Indians, who belonged to the band of trappers, were sent to a stream about ten miles off. Having reached their destination, they all entered the water to set their traps, foolishly neglecting the usual precaution of one remaining on the bank to protect the others. They had scarcely commenced operations, when three arrows were discharged into their backs, and a party of Snake Indians rushed upon and slew them, carrying away their traps, and horses, and scalps. This was not known for several days, when, becoming anxious about their prolonged absence, Cameron sent out a party which found their mangled bodies affording a loathsome banquet to the wolves and vultures. After this sad event the trappers were more careful to go in larger parties, and keep watch. As long as beaver were taken in abundance the camp remained stationary, but whenever the beaver began to grow scarce, the camp was raised, and the party moved on to another valley. One day Dick Varley came galloping into camp with the news that there were several bears in a valley not far distant, which he was anxious not to disturb until a number of the trappers were collected together to go out and surround them. On receiving the information Walter Cameron shook his head. "We have other things to do, young man," said he, "than go a-hunting after bears. I'm just about making up my mind to send off a party to search out the valley on the other side of the Blue Mountains yonder, and bring back word if there are beaver there, for if not, I mean to strike away direct south. Now, if you've a mind to go with them, you're welcome. I'll warrant you'll find enough in the way of bear-hunting to satisfy you; perhaps a little Indian hunting to boot, for if the Banattees get hold of your horses, you'll have a long hunt before you find them again. Will you go?" "Ay, right gladly," replied Dick. "When do we start?" "This afternoon." Dick went off at once to his own part of the camp to replenish his powder-horn and bullet pouch, and wipe out his rifle. That evening the party, under command of a Canadian named Pierre, set out for the Blue Hills. They numbered twenty men, and expected to be absent three days, for they merely went to reconnoitre, not to trap. Neither Joe nor Henri were of this party, both having been out hunting when it was organised. But Crusoe and Charlie were, of course! Pierre, although a brave and trusty man, was of a sour, angry disposition, and not a favourite with Dick, but the latter resolved to enjoy himself and disregard his sulky comrade. Being so well mounted, he not unfrequently shot far ahead of his companions, despite their warnings that he ran great risk by so doing. On one of these occasions he and Crusoe witnessed a very singular fight, which is worthy of record. Dick had felt a little wilder in spirit that morning than usual, and on coming to a pretty open plain he gave the rein to Charlie, and with an "_Adieu mes comerades_," he was out of sight in a few minutes. He rode on several miles in advance without checking speed, and then came to a wood where rapid motion was inconvenient, so he pulled up, and, dismounting, tied Charlie to a tree, while he sauntered on a short way on foot. On coming to the edge of a small plain he observed two large birds engaged in mortal conflict. Crusoe observed them too, and would soon have put an end to the fight had Dick not checked him. Creeping as close to the belligerents as possible, he found that one was a wild turkey-cock, the other a white-headed eagle! These two stood with their heads down and all their feathers bristling for a moment, then they dashed at each other, and struck fiercely with their spurs as our domestic cocks do, but neither fell, and the fight was continued for about five minutes without apparent advantage on either side. Dick now observed that, from the uncertainty of its motions, the turkey-cock was blind, a discovery which caused a throb of compunction to enter his breast for standing and looking on, so he ran forward. The eagle saw him instantly, and tried to fly away, but was unable from exhaustion. "At him, Crusoe," cried Dick, whose sympathies all lay with the other bird. Crusoe went forward at a bound, and was met by a peck between the eyes that would have turned most dogs, but Crusoe only winked, and the next moment the eagle's career was ended. Dick found that the turkey-cock was quite blind, the eagle having thrust out both its eyes, so, in mercy, he put an end to its sufferings. The fight had evidently been a long and severe one for the grass all round the spot, for about twenty yards, was beaten to the ground, and covered with the blood and feathers of the fierce combatants. Meditating on the fight which he had just witnessed, Dick returned towards the spot where he had left Charlie, when he suddenly missed Crusoe from his side. "Hallo, Crusoe! here, pup, where are you?" he cried. The only answer to this was a sharp whizzing sound, and an arrow, passing close to his ear, quivered in a tree beyond. Almost at the same moment Crusoe's angry roar was followed by a shriek from some one in fear or agony. Cocking his rifle, the young hunter sprang through the bushes towards his horse, and was just in time to save a Banattee Indian from being strangled by the dog. It had evidently scented out this fellow, and pinned him just as he was in the act of springing on the back of Charlie, for the halter was cut, and the savage lay on the ground close beside him. Dick called off the dog, and motioned to the Indian to rise, which he did so nimbly that it was quite evident he had sustained no injury beyond the laceration of his neck by Crusoe's teeth, and the surprise. He was a tall strong Indian, for the tribe to which he belonged, so Dick proceeded to secure him at once. Pointing to his rifle and to the Indian's breast, to show what he might expect if he attempted to escape, Dick ordered Crusoe to keep him steady in that position. The dog planted himself in front of the savage, who began to tremble for his scalp, and gazed up in his face with a look which, to say the least of it, was the reverse of amiable, while Dick went towards his horse for the purpose of procuring a piece of cord to tie him with. The Indian naturally turned his head to see what was going to be done, but a peculiar _gurgle_ in Crusoe's throat made him turn it round again very smartly, and he did not venture, thereafter, to move a muscle. In a few seconds Dick returned with a piece of leather and tied his hands behind his back. While this was being done the Indian glanced several times at his bow, which lay a few feet away, where it had fallen when the dog caught him, but Crusoe seemed to understand him, for he favoured him with such an additional display of teeth, and such a low-- apparently distant, almost, we might say, subterranean--_rumble_, that he resigned himself to his fate. His hands secured, a long line was attached to his neck with a running noose, so that if he ventured to run away the attempt would effect its own cure by producing strangulation. The other end of this line was given to Crusoe, who at the word of command marched him off, while Dick mounted Charlie and brought up the rear. Great was the laughter and merriment when this apparition met the eyes of the trappers; but when they heard that he had attempted to shoot Dick their ire was raised, and a court-martial was held on the spot. "Hang the reptile!" cried one. "Burn him!" shouted another. "No, no," said a third; "don't imitate them villains; don't be cruel. Let's shoot him." "Shoot 'im," cried Pierre; "Oui, dat is de ting; it too goot pour lui, mais, it shall be dooed." "Don't ye think, lads, it would be better to let the poor wretch off?" said Dick Varley; "he'd p'raps give a good account o' us to his people." There was a universal shout of contempt at this mild proposal. Unfortunately, few of the men sent on this exploring expedition were imbued with the peacemaking spirit of their chief; and most of them seemed glad to have a chance of venting their hatred of the poor Indians on this unhappy wretch, who although calm, looked sharply from one speaker to another, to gather hope, if possible, from the tones of their voices. Dick was resolved at the risk of a quarrel with Pierre to save the poor man's life, and had made up his mind to insist on having him conducted to the camp to be tried by Cameron, when one of the men suggested that they should take the savage to the top of a hill about three miles further on, and there hang him up on a tree as a warning to all his tribe. "Agreed, agreed," cried the men; "come on." Dick, too, seemed to agree to this proposal, and hastily ordered Crusoe to run on ahead with the savage, an order which the dog obeyed so vigorously that before the men had done laughing at him, he was a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. "Take care that he don't get off!" cried Dick, springing on Charlie and stretching out at a gallop. In a moment he was beside the Indian. Scraping together the little of the Indian language he knew, he stooped down, and, cutting the thongs that bound him, said--"Go, white men love the Indians." The man cast on his deliverer one glance of surprise, and the next moment bounded aside into the bushes and was gone. A loud shout from the party behind showed that this act had been observed, and Crusoe stood with the end of the line in his mouth, and an expression on his face that said, "You're absolutely incomprehensible, Dick! It's all right, I _know_; but to my feeble capacity it _seems_ wrong." "Fat for, you do dat?" shouted Pierre in a rage, as he came up with a menacing look. Dick confronted him. "The prisoner was mine. I had a right to do with him as it liked me." "True, true," cried several of the men who had begun to repent of their resolution, and were glad the savage was off. "The lad's right. Get along, Pierre." "You had no right, you vas wrong. Oui, et I have goot vill to give you one knock on de nose." Dick looked Pierre in the face, as he said this, in a manner that cowed him. "It is time," he said quietly, pointing to the sun, "to go on. Your bourgeois expects that time won't be wasted." Pierre muttered something in an angry tone, and, wheeling round his horse, dashed forward at full gallop followed by the rest of the men. The trappers encamped that night on the edge of a wide grassy plain, which offered such tempting food for the horses that Pierre resolved to forego his usual cautious plan of picketting them close to the camp, and set them loose on the plain, merely hobbling them to prevent their straying far. Dick remonstrated, but in vain. An insolent answer was all he got for his pains. He determined, however, to keep Charlie close beside him all night, and also made up his mind to keep a sharp look out on the other horses. At supper he again remonstrated. "No fraid," said Pierre, whose pipe was beginning to improve his temper. "The red reptiles no dare to come in open plain when de moon so clear." "Dun know that," said a taciturn trapper, who seldom ventured a remark of any kind; "them varmints 'ud steal the two eyes out o' you' head when they set their hearts on't." "Dat ar' umposs'ble, for de have no hearts," said a half-breed; "dey have von hole vere de heart vas be." This was received with a shout of laughter, in the midst of which an appalling yell was heard, and, as if by magic, four Indians were seen on the backs of four of the best horses, yelling like fiends, and driving all the other horses furiously before them over the plain. How they got there was a complete mystery, but the men did not wait to consider that point. Catching up their guns they sprang after them with the fury of madmen, and were quickly scattered far and wide. Dick ordered Crusoe to follow and help the men, and turned to spring on the back of Charlie, but at that moment he observed an Indian's head and shoulders rise above the grass, not fifty yards in advance from him, so without hesitation he darted forward, intending to pounce upon him. Well would it have been for Dick Varley had he at that time possessed a little more experience of the wiles and stratagems of the Banattees. The Snake nation is subdivided into several tribes, of which those inhabiting the Rocky Mountains, called the Banattees, are the most perfidious. Indeed, they are confessedly the banditti of the hills, and respect neither friend nor foe, but rob all who come in their way. Dick reached the spot where the Indian had disappeared in less than a minute, but no savage was to be seen! Thinking he had crept ahead he ran on a few yards further, and darted about hither and thither, while his eye glanced from side to side. Suddenly a shout in the camp attracted his attention, and looking back he beheld the savage on Charlie's back turning to fly. Next moment he was off and away far beyond the hope of recovery. Dick had left his rifle in the camp, otherwise the savage would have gone but a short way--as it was, Dick returned, and sitting down on a mound of grass, stared straight before him with a feeling akin to despair. Even Crusoe could not have helped him had he been there, for nothing on four legs, or on two, could keep pace with Charlie. The Banattee achieved this feat by adopting a stratagem which invariably deceives those who are ignorant of their habits and tactics. When suddenly pursued the Banattee sinks into the grass, and, serpentlike, creeps along with wonderful rapidity, not _from_ but _towards_ his enemy, taking care, however, to avoid him, so that when the pursuer reaches the spot where the pursued is supposed to be hiding, he hears him shout a yell of defiance far away in the rear. It was thus that the Banattee eluded Dick and gained the camp almost as soon as the other reached the spot where he had disappeared. One by one the trappers came back weary, raging, and despairing. In a short time they all assembled, and soon began to reproach each other. Ere long one or two had a fight, which resulted in several bloody noses and black eyes, thus adding to the misery which, one would think, had been bad enough without such additions. At last they finished their suppers and their pipes, and then lay down to sleep under the trees till morning, when they arose in a particularly silent and sulky mood, rolled up their blankets, strapped their things on their shoulders, and began to trudge slowly back to the camp on foot. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. WOLVES ATTACK THE HORSES, AND CAMERON CIRCUMVENTS THE WOLVES--A BEAR-HUNT, IN WHICH HENRI SHINES CONSPICUOUS--JOE AND THE "NATTER-LIST"--AN ALARM--A SURPRISE AND A CAPTURE. We must now return to the camp where Walter Cameron still guarded the goods, and the men pursued their trapping avocations. Here seven of the horses had been killed in one night by wolves while grazing in a plain close to the camp, and on the night following a horse that had strayed was also torn to pieces and devoured. The prompt and daring manner in which this had been done convinced the trader that white wolves had unfortunately scented them out, and he set several traps in the hope of capturing them. White wolves are quite distinct from the ordinary wolves that prowl through woods and plains in large packs. They are much larger, weighing sometimes as much as a hundred and thirty pounds; but they are comparatively scarce, and move about alone, or in small bands of three or four. Their strength is enormous, and they are so fierce that they do not hesitate, upon occasions, to attack man himself. Their method of killing horses is very deliberate. Two wolves generally undertake the cold-blooded murder. They approach their victim with the most innocent looking and frolicsome gambols, lying down and rolling about, and frisking pleasantly until the horse becomes a little accustomed to them. Then one approaches right in front, the other in rear, still frisking playfully, until they think themselves near enough, when they make a simultaneous rush. The wolf which approaches in rear is the true assailant; the rush of the other is a mere feint; then both fasten on the poor horse's haunches and never let go till the sinews are cut and he is rolling on his side. The horse makes comparatively little struggle in this deadly assault. He seems paralysed and soon falls to rise no more. Cameron set his traps towards evening in a circle with a bait in the centre and then retired to rest. Next morning he called Joe Blunt and the two went off together. "It is strange that these rascally white wolves should be so bold when the smaller kinds are so cowardly," remarked Cameron, as they walked along. "So 'tis," replied Joe, "but I've seed them other chaps bold enough too in the prairie when they were in large packs and starvin'." "I believe the small wolves follow the big fellows and help them to eat what they kill, though they generally sit round and look on at the killing." "Hist!" exclaimed Joe, cocking his gun, "there he is, an' no mistake." There he was, undoubtedly. A wolf of the largest size with one of his feet in the trap. He was a terrible-looking object, for, besides his immense size and naturally ferocious aspect, his white hair bristled on end and was all covered with streaks and spots of blood from his bloody jaws. In his efforts to escape he had bitten the trap until he had broken his teeth and lacerated his gums, so that his appearance was hideous in the extreme. And when the two men came up he struggled with all his might to fly at them. Cameron and Joe stood looking at him in a sort of wondering admiration. "We'd better put a ball in him," suggested Joe after a time. "Mayhap the chain won't stand sich tugs long." "True, Joe; if it breaks we might get an ugly nip before we killed him." So saying Cameron fired into the wolf's head and killed it. It was found, on examination, that four wolves had been in the traps, but the rest had escaped. Two of them, however, had gnawed off their paws and left them lying in the traps. After this the big wolves did not trouble them again. The same afternoon, a bear-hunt was undertaken, which well-nigh cost one of the Iroquois his life. It happened thus:-- While Cameron and Joe were away after the white wolves, Henri came floundering into camp tossing his arms like a maniac, and shouting that "seven bars wos be down in de bush close bye!" It chanced that this was an idle day with most of the men, so they all leaped on their horses, and taking guns and knives sallied forth to give battle to the bears. Arrived at the scene of action they found the seven bears busily engaged in digging up roots, so the men separated in order to surround them, and then closed in. The place was partly open and partly covered with thick bushes into which a horseman could not penetrate. The moment the bears got wind of what was going forward they made off as fast as possible, and then commenced a scene of firing, galloping, and yelling, that defies description! Four out of the seven were shot before they gained the bushes; the other three were wounded, but made good their retreat. As their places of shelter, however, were like islands in the plain, they had no chance of escaping. The horsemen now dismounted and dashed recklessly into the bushes, where they soon discovered and killed two of the bears; the third was not found for some time. At last an Iroquois came upon it so suddenly that he had not time to point his gun before the bear sprang upon him and struck him to the earth, where it held him down. Instantly the place was surrounded by eager men, but the bushes were so thick and the fallen trees among which the bear stood were so numerous, that they could not use their guns without running the risk of shooting their companion. Most of them drew their knives and seemed about to rush on the bear with these, but the monster's aspect, as it glared round, was so terrible that they held back for a moment in hesitation. At this moment Henri, who had been at some distance engaged in the killing of one of the other bears, came rushing forward after his own peculiar manner. "Ah! fat is eet--hay? de bar no go under yit?" Just then his eye fell on the wounded Iroquois with the bear above him, and he uttered a yell so intense in tone that the bear himself seemed to feel that something decisive was about to be done at last. Henri did not pause, but with a flying dash he sprang like a spread eagle, arms and legs extended, right into the bear's bosom. At the same moment he sent his long hunting-knife down into its heart. But Bruin is proverbially hard to kill, and although mortally wounded, he had strength enough to open his jaws and close them on Henri's neck. There was a cry of horror, and at the same moment a volley was fired at the bear's head, for the trappers felt that it was better to risk shooting their comrades than see them killed before their eyes. Fortunately the bullets took effect, and tumbled him over at once without doing damage to either of the men, although several of the balls just grazed Henri's temple and carried off his cap. Although uninjured by the shot, the poor Iroquois had not escaped scatheless from the paw of the bear. His scalp was torn almost off, and hung down over his eyes, while blood streamed down his face. He was conveyed by his comrades to the camp, where he lay two days in a state of insensibility, at the end of which time he revived and recovered daily. Afterwards when the camp moved he had to be carried, but in the course of two months he was as well as ever, and quite as fond of bear-hunting! Among other trophies of this hunt there were two deer, and a buffalo, which last had probably strayed from the herd. Four or five Iroquois were round this animal whetting their knives for the purpose of cutting it up when Henri passed, so he turned aside to watch them perform the operation, quite regardless of the fact that his neck and face were covered with blood which flowed from one or two small punctures made by the bear. The Indians began by taking off the skin, which certainly did not occupy them more than five minutes. Then they cut up the meat and made a pack of it, and cut out the tongue, which is somewhat troublesome, as that member requires to be cut out from under the jaw of the animal, and not through the natural opening of the mouth. One of the fore-legs was cut off at the knee joint, and this was used as a hammer with which to break the skull for the purpose of taking out the brains, these being used in the process of dressing and softening the animal's skin. An axe would have been of advantage to break the skull, but in the hurry of rushing to the attack the Indians had forgotten their axes, so they adopted the common fashion of using the buffalo's hoof as a hammer, the shank being the handle. The whole operation of flaying, cutting up, and packing the meat, did not occupy more than twenty minutes. Before leaving the ground these expert butchers treated themselves to a little of the marrow and warm liver in a raw state! Cameron and Joe walked up to the group while they were indulging in this little feast. "Well, I've often seen that eaten, but I never could do it myself," remarked the former. "No!" cried Joe in surprise; "now that's oncommon cur'us. I've _lived_ on raw liver an' marrow-bones for two or three days at a time, when we wos chased by the Camanchee Injuns and didn't dare to make a fire, an' it's ra'al good it is. Won't ye try it _now_?" Cameron shook his head. "No, thankee; I'll not refuse when I can't help it, but until then I'll remain in happy ignorance of how good it is." "Well, it _is_ strange how some folk can't abide anything in the meat way they han't bin used to. D'ye know I've actually knowd men from the cities as wouldn't eat a bit o' horseflesh for love or money. Would ye believe it?" "I can well believe that, Joe, for I have met with such persons myself; in fact, they are rather numerous. What are you chuckling at, Joe?" "Chucklin'? if ye mean be that `larfin' in to myself' it's because I'm thinkin' o' a chap as once comed out to the prairies." "Let us walk back to the camp, Joe, and you can tell me about him as we go along." "I think," continued Joe, "he comed from Washington, but I never could make out right whether he wos a government man or not. Anyhow, he wos a pheelosopher--a natter-list I think he call his-self." "A naturalist," suggested Cameron. "Ay, that wos more like it. Well, he wos about six feet two in his moccasins, an' as thin as a ramrod, an' as blind as a bat--leastways he had weak eyes an wore green spectacles. He had on a grey shootin' coat and trousers and vest and cap, with rid whiskers an' a long nose as rid at the point as the whiskers wos. "Well, this gentleman engaged me an' another hunter to go a trip with him into the prairies, so off we sot one fine day on three hosses with our blankets at our backs--we wos to depend on the rifle for victuals. At first I thought the Natter-list one o' the cruellest beggars as iver went on two long legs, for he used to go about everywhere pokin' pins through all the beetles, and flies, an' creepin' things he could sot eyes on, an' stuck them in a box; but he told me he comed here a-purpose to git as many o' them as he could; so says I, `If that's it, I'll fill yer box in no time.' "`Will ye?' says he, quite pleased like. "`I will,' says I, an' galloped off to a place as was filled wi' all sorts o' crawlin' things. So I sets to work, and whenever I seed a thing crawlin' I sot my fut on it and crushed it, and soon filled my breast pocket. I coched a lot o' butterflies too, an' stuffed them into my shot pouch, and went back in an hour or two an' showed him the lot. He put on his green spectacles and looked at them as if he'd seen a rattlesnake. "`My good man,' says he, `you've crushed them all to pieces!' "`They'll taste as good for all that,' says I, for somehow I'd taken't in me head that he'd heard o' the way the Injuns make soup o' the grasshoppers, an was wantin' to try his hand at a new dish! "He laughed when I said this, an' told me he wos collectin' them to take home to be _looked_ at. But that's not wot I wos goin' to tell ye about him," continued Joe; "I wos goin' to tell ye how we made him eat horseflesh. He carried a revolver, too, this Natter-list did, to load wi' shot as small as dust a-most, and shoot little birds with. I've seed him miss birds only three feet away with it. An' one day he drew it all of a suddent and let fly at a big bum-bee that wos passin', yellin' out that it wos the finest wot he had iver seed. He missed the bee, of coorse, cause it was a flyin' shot, he said, but he sent the whole charge right into Martin's back--Martin was my comrade's name. By good luck Martin had on a thick leather coat, so the shot niver got the length o' his skin. "One day I noticed that the Natter-list had stuffed small corks into the muzzles of all the six barrels of his revolver. I wondered what they wos for, but he wos al'ays doin' sich queer _things_ that I soon forgot it. `May be,' thought I, jist before it went out o' my mind,--`may be he thinks that 'll stop the pistol from goin' off by accident,' for ye must know he'd let it off three times the first day by accident, and well-nigh blowed off his leg the last time, only the shot lodged in the back o' a big toad he'd jist stuffed into his breeches' pocket. Well, soon after, we shot a buffalo bull, so when it fell, off he jumps from his horse an runs up to it. So did I, for I wasn't sure the beast was dead, an' I had jist got up when it rose an' rushed at the Natter-list. "`Out o' the way,' I yelled, for my rifle was empty; but he didn't move, so I rushed forward an' drew the pistol out o' his belt and let fly in the bull's ribs jist as it ran the poor man down. Martin came up that moment an' put a ball through its heart, and then we went to pick up the Natter-list. He came to in a little, an' the first thing he said was, `Where's my revolver?' When I gave it to him he looked at it, an' said with a solemcholy shake o' the head, `There's a whole barrel-full lost!' It turned out that he had taken to usin' the barrels for bottles to hold things in, but he forgot to draw the charges, so sure enough I had fired a charge o' bum-bees, an' beetles, an' small shot into the buffalo! "But that's not what I wos goin' to tell ye yet. We comed to a part o' the plains where we wos well-nigh starved for want o' game, an' the Natter-list got so thin that ye could a-most see through him, so I offered to kill my horse, an' cut it up for meat; but you niver saw sich a face he made. `I'd rather die first,' says he, `than eat it;' so we didn't kill it. But that very day Martin got a shot at a wild horse and killed it. The Natter-list was down in the bed o' a creek at the time gropin' for creepers, an' he didn't see it. "`He'll niver eat it,' says Martin. "`That's true,' says I. "`Let's tell him it's a buffalo,' says he. "`That would be tellin' a lie,' says I. "So we stood lookin' at each other, not knowin' what to do. "`I'll tell ye what,' cries Martin, `we'll cut it up, and take the meat into camp and cook it without _sayin' a word_.' "`Done,' says I, `that's it;' for ye must know the poor creature wos no judge o' meat. He couldn't tell one kind from another, an' he niver axed questions. In fact he niver a-most spoke to us all the trip. Well, we cut up the horse and carried the flesh and marrow-bones into camp, takin' care to leave the hoofs and skin behind, and sot to work and roasted steaks and marrow-bones. "When the Natter-list came back ye should ha' seen the joyful face he put on when he smelt the grub, for he was all but starved out, poor critter. "`What have we got here?' cried he, rubbin' his hands and sittin' down. "`Steaks an' marrow-bones,' says Martin. "`Capital!' says he. `I'm _so_ hungry.' "So he fell to work like a wolf. I niver seed a man pitch into anything like as that Natter-list did into that horseflesh. "`These are first-rate marrow-bones,' says he, squintin' with one eye down the shin bone o' the hind-leg to see if it was quite empty. "`Yes, sir, they is,' answered Martin, as grave as a judge. "`Take another, sir,' says I. "`No, thankee,' says he with a sigh, for he didn't like to leave off. "Well, we lived for a week on horseflesh, an' first-rate livin' it wos; then we fell in with buffalo, an' niver ran short again till we got to the settlements, when he paid us our money an' shook hands, sayin' we'd had a nice trip an' he wished us well. Jist as we wos partin' I said, says I, `D'ye know what it wos we lived on for a week arter we wos well-nigh starved in the prairies?' "`What,' says he, `when we got yon capital marrow-bones?' "`The same,' says I; `yon was _horseflesh_,' says I, `an' I think ye'll sur'ly niver say again that it isn't first-rate livin'.' "`Yer jokin',' says he, turnin' pale. "`It's true, sir, as true as yer standin' there.' "Well, would ye believe it; he turned--that Natter-list did--as sick as a dog on the spot wot he wos standin' on, an' didn't taste meat again for three days!" Shortly after the conclusion of Joe's story they reached the camp, and here they found the women and children flying about in a state of terror, and the few men who had been left in charge arming themselves in the greatest haste. "Hallo! something wrong here," cried Cameron hastening forward followed by Joe. "What has happened, eh?" "Injuns comin', monsieur, look dere," answered a trapper, pointing down the valley. "Arm and mount at once, and come to the front of the camp," cried Cameron in a tone of voice that silenced every other, and turned confusion into order. The cause of all this outcry was a cloud of dust seen far down the valley, which was raised by a band of mounted Indians who approached the camp at full speed. Their numbers could not be made out, but they were a sufficiently formidable band to cause much anxiety to Cameron, whose men, at the time, were scattered to the various trapping grounds, and only ten chanced to be within call of the camp. However, with these ten he determined to show a bold front to the savages, whether they came as friends or foes. He therefore ordered the women and children within the citadel formed of the goods and packs of furs piled upon each other, which point of retreat was to be defended to the last extremity. Then galloping to the front he collected his men and swept down the valley at full speed. In a few minutes they were near enough to observe that the enemy only numbered four Indians, who were driving a band of about a hundred horses before them, and so busy were they in keeping the troop together that Cameron and his men were close upon them before they were observed. It was too late to escape. Joe Blunt and Henri had already swept round and cut off their retreat. In this extremity the Indians slipped from the backs of their steeds and darted into the bushes, where they were safe from pursuit, at least on horseback, while the trappers got behind the horses and drove them towards the camp. At this moment one of the horses sprang ahead of the others and made for the mountain, with its mane and tail flying wildly in the breeze. "Marrow-bones and buttons!" shouted one of the men, "there goes Dick Varley's horse." "So it am!" cried Henri, and dashed off in pursuit, followed by Joe and two others. "Why, these are our own horses," said Cameron in surprise, as they drove them into a corner of the hills from which they could not escape. This was true, but it was only half the truth, for, besides their own horses, they had secured upwards of seventy Indian steeds, a most acceptable addition to their stud, which, owing to casualties and wolves, had been diminishing too much of late. The fact was, that the Indians who had captured the horses belonging to Pierre and his party were a small band of robbers who had travelled, as was afterwards learned, a considerable distance from the south, stealing horses from various tribes as they went along. As we have seen, in an evil hour they fell in with Pierre's party and carried off their steeds, which they drove to a pass leading from one valley to the other. Here they united them with the main band of their ill-gotten gains, and while the greater number of the robbers descended further into the plains in search of more booty, four of them were sent into the mountains with the horses already procured. These four, utterly ignorant of the presence of white men in the valley, drove their charge, as we have seen, almost into the camp. Cameron immediately organised a party to go out in search of Pierre and his companions, about whose fate he became intensely anxious, and in the course of half an hour as many men as he could spare with safety were despatched in the direction of the Blue Mountains. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. CHARLIE'S ADVENTURES WITH SAVAGES AND BEARS--TRAPPING LIFE. It is one thing to chase a horse; it is another thing to catch it. Little consideration and less sagacity is required to convince us of the truth of that fact. The reader may perhaps venture to think this rather a trifling fact. We are not so sure of that. In this world of fancies, to have _any_ fact incontestably proved and established is a comfort, and whatever is a source of comfort to mankind is worthy of notice. Surely our reader won't deny that! Perhaps he will, so we can only console ourself with the remark that there are people in this world who would deny _anything_--who would deny that there was a nose on their face if you said there was! Well, to return to the point, which was the chase of a horse in the abstract; from which we will rapidly diverge to the chase of Dick Varley's horse in particular. This noble charger, having been ridden by savages until all his old fire, and blood, and metal were worked up to a red heat, no sooner discovered that he was pursued than he gave a snort of defiance, which he accompanied with a frantic shake of his mane, and a fling of contempt in addition to a magnificent wave of his tail; then he thundered up the valley at a pace which would speedily have left Joe Blunt and Henri out of sight behind if--ay! that's the word, _if_! what a word that _if_ is! what a world of if's we live in! There never was anything that wouldn't have been something else _if_ something hadn't intervened to prevent it! Yes, we repeat, Charlie would have left his two friends miles and miles behind in what is called "no time," _if_ he had not run straight into a gorge which was surrounded by inaccessible precipices, and out of which there was no exit except by the entrance, which was immediately barred by Henri, while Joe advanced to catch the runaway. For two hours at least did Joe Blunt essay to catch Charlie, and during that space of time he utterly failed. The horse seemed to have made up his mind for what is vulgarly termed "a lark." "It won't do, Henri," said Joe, advancing towards his companion, and wiping his forehead with the cuff of his leathern coat. "I can't catch him. The wind's a-most blowed out o' me body." "Dat am vexatiable," replied Henri, in a tone of commiseration. "S'pose I wos make try?" "In that case I s'pose ye would fail. But go ahead an' do what ye can. I'll hold yer horse." So Henri began by a rush and a flourish of legs and arms that nearly frightened the horse out his wits. For half an hour he went through all the complications of running and twisting of which he was capable, without success, when Joe Blunt suddenly uttered a stentorian yell that rooted him to the spot on which he stood. To account for this, we must explain that in the heights of the Rocky Mountains vast accumulations of snow take place among the crevices and gorges during winter. Such of these masses as form on steep slopes are loosened by occasional thaws, and are precipitated in the form of avalanches into the valleys below, carrying trees and stones along with them in their thundering descent. In the gloomy gorge where Dick's horse had taken refuge, the precipices were so steep that many avalanches had occurred, as was evident from the mounds of heaped snow that lay at the foot of most of them. Neither stones nor trees were carried down here, however, for the cliffs were nearly perpendicular, and the snow slipping over their edges had fallen on the grass below. Such an avalanche was now about to take place, and it was this that caused Joe to utter his cry of alarm and warning. Henri and the horse were directly under the cliff over which it was about to be hurled, the latter close to the wall of rock, the other at some distance away from it. Joe cried again, "Back, Henri! back _vite_!" when the mass _flowed over_ and fell with a roar like prolonged thunder. Henri sprang back in time to save his life, though he was knocked down and almost stunned, but poor Charlie was completely buried under the avalanche, which now presented the appearance of a _hill_ of snow. The instant Henri recovered sufficiently, Joe and he mounted their horses and galloped back to the camp as fast as possible. Meanwhile, another spectator stepped forward upon the scene they had left, and surveyed the snow hill with a critical eye. This was no less than a grizzly bear which had, unobserved, been a spectator, and which immediately proceeded to dig into the mound with the purpose, no doubt, of disentombing the carcase of the horse for purposes of his own. While he was thus actively engaged, the two hunters reached the camp where they found that Pierre and his party had just arrived. The men sent out in search of them had scarcely advanced a mile when they found them trudging back to the camp in a very disconsolate manner. But all their sorrows were put to flight on hearing of the curious way in which the horses had been returned to them with interest. Scarcely had Dick Varley, however, congratulated himself on the recovery of his gallant steed, when he was thrown into despair by the sudden arrival of Joe with the tidings of the catastrophe we have just related. Of course there was a general rush to the rescue. Only a few men were ordered to remain to guard the camp, while the remainder mounted their horses and galloped towards the gorge where Charlie had been entombed. On arriving, they found that Bruin had worked with such laudable zeal that nothing but the tip of his tail was seen sticking out of the hole which he had dug. The hunters could not refrain from laughing as they sprang to the ground, and standing in a semicircle in front of the hole, prepared to fire. But Crusoe resolved to have the honour of leading the assault. He seized fast hold of Bruin's flank, and caused his teeth to meet therein. Caleb backed out at once and turned round, but before he could recover from his surprise a dozen bullets pierced his heart and brain. "Now, lads," cried Cameron, setting to work with a large wooden shovel, "work like niggers. If there's any life left in the horse it'll soon be smothered out unless we set him free." The men needed no urging, however. They worked as if their lives depended on their exertions. Dick Varley, in particular, laboured like a young Hercules, and Henri hurled masses of snow about in a most surprising manner. Crusoe, too, entered heartily into the spirit of the work, and, scraping with his forepaws, sent such a continuous shower of snow behind him that he was speedily lost to view in a hole of his own excavating. In the course of half an hour a cavern was dug in the mound almost close up to the cliff, and the men were beginning to look about for the crushed body of Dick's steed, when an exclamation from Henri attracted their attention. "Ha! mes ami, here am be one hole." The truth of this could not be doubted, for the eccentric trapper had thrust his shovel through the wall of snow into what appeared to be a cavern beyond, and immediately followed up his remark by thrusting in his head and shoulders. He drew them out in a few seconds, with a look of intense amazement. "Voila! Joe Blunt. Look in dere, and you shall see fat you will behold." "Why, it's the horse, I do b'lieve!" cried Joe. "Go ahead, lads." So saying, he resumed his shovelling vigorously, and in a few minutes the hole was opened up sufficiently to enable a man to enter. Dick sprang in, and there stood Charlie close beside the cliff, looking as sedate and unconcerned as if all that had been going on had no reference to him whatever. The cause of his safety was simple enough. The precipice beside which he stood when the avalanche occurred overhung its base at that point considerably, so that when the snow descended, a clear space of several feet wide was left all along its base. Here Charlie had remained in perfect comfort until his friends dug him out. Congratulating themselves not a little on having saved the charger and bagged a grizzly bear, the trappers remounted, and returned to the camp. For some time after this nothing worthy of particular note occurred. The trapping operations went on prosperously and without interruption from the Indians, who seemed to have left the locality altogether. During this period, Dick, and Crusoe, and Charlie had many excursions together, and the silver rifle full many a time sent death to the heart of bear, and elk, and buffalo, while, indirectly, it sent joy to the heart of man, woman, and child in camp, in the shape of juicy steaks and marrow-bones. Joe and Henri devoted themselves almost exclusively to trapping beaver, in which pursuit they were so successful that they speedily became wealthy men, according to backwood notions of wealth. With the beaver that they caught, they purchased from Cameron's store powder and shot enough for a long hunting expedition and a couple of spare horses to carry their packs. They also purchased a large assortment of such goods and trinkets as would prove acceptable to Indians, and supplied themselves with new blankets, and a few pairs of strong moccasins, of which they stood much in need. Thus they went on from day to day, until symptoms of the approach of winter warned them that it was time to return to the Mustang Valley. About this time an event occurred which totally changed the aspect of affairs in these remote valleys of the Rocky Mountains, and precipitated the departure of our four friends, Dick, Joe, Henri, and Crusoe. This was the sudden arrival of a whole tribe of Indians. As their advent was somewhat remarkable, we shall devote to it the commencement of a new chapter. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. SAVAGE SPORTS--LIVING CATARACTS--AN ALARM--INDIANS AND THEIR DOINGS--THE STAMPEDO--CHARLIE AGAIN. One day Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the rocky gorge, where his horse had received temporary burial a week or two before. Crusoe was with him, of course. Dick had tied Charlie to a tree, and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff, from the top of which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that hemmed it in. Just in front of the spot on which he sat, the precipices on the opposite side of the gorge rose to a considerable height above him, so that their ragged outlines were drawn sharply across the clear sky. Dick was gazing in dreamy silence at the jutting rocks and dark caverns, and speculating on the probable number of bears that dwelt there, when a slight degree of restlessness on the part of Crusoe attracted him. "What is't, pup?" said he, laying his hand on the dog's broad back. Crusoe looked the answer, "I don't know, Dick, but it's _something_, you may depend upon it, else I would not have disturbed you." Dick lifted his rifle from the ground, and laid it in the hollow of his left arm. "There must be something in the wind," remarked Dick. As wind is known to be composed of two distinct gases, Crusoe felt perfectly safe in replying "Yes," with his tail. Immediately after he added, "Hallo! did you hear that?"--with his ears. Dick did hear it, and sprang hastily to his feet, as a sound like, yet unlike, distant thunder came faintly down upon the breeze. In a few seconds the sound increased to a roar in which was mingled the wild cries of men. Neither Dick nor Crusoe moved, for the sounds came from behind the heights in front of them, and they felt that the only way to solve the question, "What can the sounds be?" was to wait till the sounds should solve it themselves. Suddenly the muffled sounds gave place to the distinct bellowing of cattle, the clatter of innumerable hoofs, and the yells of savage men, while at the same moment the edges of the opposite cliffs became alive with Indians and buffaloes rushing about in frantic haste--the former almost mad with savage excitement, the latter with blind rage and terror. On reaching the edge of the dizzy precipice, the buffaloes turned abruptly and tossed their ponderous heads as they coursed along the edge. Yet a few of them, unable to check their headlong course, fell over, and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Such falls, Dick observed, were hailed with shouts of delight by the Indians, whose sole object evidently was to enjoy the sport of driving the terrified animals over the precipice. The wily savages had chosen their ground well for this purpose. The cliff immediately opposite to Dick Varley was a huge projection from the precipice that hemmed in the gorge, or species of cape or promontory several hundred yards wide at the base, and narrowing abruptly to a point. The sides of this wedge-shaped projection were quite perpendicular; indeed, in some places the top overhung the base, and they were at least three hundred feet high. Broken and jagged rocks, of that peculiarly chaotic character which probably suggested the name to this part of the great American chain, projected from, and were scattered all round, the cliffs. Over these the Indians, whose numbers increased every moment, strove to drive the luckless herd of buffaloes that had chanced to fall in their way. The task was easy. The unsuspecting animals, of which there were hundreds, rushed in a dense mass upon the cape referred to. On they came with irresistible impetuosity, bellowing furiously, while their hoofs thundered on the turf with the muffled continuous roar of a distant, but mighty cataract--the Indians, meanwhile, urging them on by hideous yell and frantic gesture. The advance-guard came bounding madly to the edge of the precipice. Here they stopped short, and gazed affrighted at the gulf below. It was but for a moment. The irresistible momentum of the flying mass behind pushed them over. Down they came, absolutely a living cataract, upon the rocks below. Some struck on the projecting rocks in the descent, and their bodies were dashed almost in pieces, while their blood spurted out in showers. Others leaped from rock to rock with awful bounds, until, losing their foot-hold, they fell headlong, while others descended sheer down into the sweltering mass that lay shattered at the base of the cliffs. Dick Varley and his dog remained rooted to the rock, as they gazed at the sickening sight, as if petrified. Scarce fifty of that noble herd of buffaloes escaped the awful leap, but they escaped only to fall before the arrows of their ruthless pursuers. Dick had often heard of this tendency of the Indians, where buffaloes were very numerous, to drive them over precipices in mere wanton sport and cruelty, but he had never seen it until now, and the sight filled his soul with horror. It was not until the din and tumult of the perishing herd and the shrill yells of the Indians had almost died away that he turned to quit the spot. But the instant he did so another shout was raised. The savages had observed him, and were seen galloping along the cliffs towards the head of the gorge, with the obvious intention of gaining the other side and capturing him. Dick sprang on Charlie's back, and the next instant was flying down the valley towards the camp. He did not, however, fear being overtaken, for the gorge could not be crossed, and the way round the head of it was long and rugged; but he was anxious to alarm the camp as quickly as possible, so that they might have time to call in the more distant trappers and make preparations for defence. "Where away now, youngster," inquired Cameron, emerging from his tent as Dick, taking the brook that flowed in front at a flying leap, came crashing through the bushes into the midst of the fur-packs at full speed. "Injuns!" ejaculated Dick, reining up, and vaulting out of the saddle. "Hundreds of 'em. Fiends incarnate every one!" "Are they near?" "Yes; an hour 'll bring them down on us. Are Joe and Henri far from camp to-day?" "At Ten-mile Creek," replied Cameron with an expression of bitterness, as he caught up his gun and shouted to several men, who hurried up on seeing our hero's burst into camp. "Ten-mile Creek!" muttered Dick. "I'll bring 'em in, though," he continued, glancing at several of the camp horses that grazed close at hand. In another moment he was on Charlie's back, the line of one of the best horses was in his hand, and almost before Cameron knew what he was about he was flying down the valley like the wind. Charlie often stretched out at full speed to please his young master, but seldom had he been urged forward as he was upon this occasion. The led horse being light and wild, kept well up, and, in a marvellously short space of time, they were at Ten-mile Creek. "Hallo, Dick, wot's to do?" inquired Joe Blunt, who was up to his knees in the water, setting a trap at the moment his friend galloped up. "Injuns! Where's Henri?" demanded Dick. "At the head o' the dam there." Dick was off in a moment, and almost instantly returned with Henri galloping beside him. No word was spoken. In time of action these men did not waste words. During Dick's momentary absence, Joe Blunt had caught up his rifle and examined the priming, so that when Dick pulled up beside him, he merely laid his hand on the saddle, saying, "All right!" as he vaulted on Charlie's back behind his young companion. In another moment they were away at full speed. The mustang seemed to feel that unwonted exertions were required of him. Double weighted though he was, he kept well up with the other horse, and in less than two hours after Dick's leaving the camp the three hunters came in sight of it. Meanwhile Cameron had collected nearly all his forces, and put his camp in a state of defence before the Indians arrived, which they did suddenly, and, as usual, at full gallop, to the amount of at least two hundred. They did not at first seem disposed to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, but assembled in a semicircle round the camp in a menacing attitude, while one of their chiefs stepped forward to hold a palaver. For some time the conversation on both sides was polite enough, but by degrees the Indian chief assumed an imperious tone, and demanded gifts from the trappers, taking care to enforce his request by hinting that thousands of his countrymen were not far distant. Cameron stoutly refused, and the palaver threatened to come to an abrupt and unpleasant termination just at the time that Dick and his friends appeared on the scene of action. The brook was cleared at a bound; the three hunters leaped from their steeds and sprang to the front with a degree of energy that had a visible effect on the savages, and Cameron, seizing the moment, proposed that the two parties should smoke a pipe and hold a council. The Indians agreed, and in a few minutes they were engaged in animated and friendly intercourse. The speeches were long, and the compliments paid on either side were inflated, and, we fear, undeserved; but the result of the interview was, that Cameron made the Indians a present of tobacco and a few trinkets, and sent them back to their friends to tell them that he was willing to trade with them. Next day the whole tribe arrived in the valley, and pitched their deerskin tents on the plain opposite to the camp of the white men. Their numbers far exceeded Cameron's expectation, and it was with some anxiety that he proceeded to strengthen his fortifications as much as circumstances and the nature of the ground would admit. The Indian camp, which numbered upwards of a thousand souls, was arranged with great regularity, and was divided into three distinct sections, each section being composed of a separate tribe. The Great Snake Nation at that time embraced three tribes or divisions--namely, the Shirry-dikas, or dog-eaters; the War-are-ree-kas, or fish-eaters; and the Banattees, or robbers. These were the most numerous and powerful Indians on the west side of the Rocky Mountains. The Shirry-dikas dwelt in the plains, and hunted the buffaloes; dressed well; were cleanly; rich in horses; bold, independent, and good warriors. The War-are-ree-kas lived chiefly by fishing, and were found on the banks of the rivers and lakes throughout the country. They were more corpulent, slovenly, and indolent than the Shirry-dikas, and more peaceful. The Banattees, as we have before mentioned, were the robbers of the mountains. They were a wild and contemptible race, and at enmity with every one. In summer they went about nearly naked. In winter they clothed themselves in the skins of rabbits and wolves. Being excellent mimics, they could imitate the howling of wolves, the neighing of horses, and the cries of birds, by which means they could approach travellers, rob them, and then fly to their rocky fastnesses in the mountains, where pursuit was vain. Such were the men who now assembled in front of the camp of the fur-traders, and Cameron soon found that the news of his presence in the country had spread far and wide among the natives, bringing them to the neighbourhood of his camp in immense crowds, so that, during the next few days, their numbers increased to thousands. Several long palavers quickly ensued between the red men and the white, and the two great chiefs who seemed to hold despotic rule over the assembled tribes were extremely favourable to the idea of universal peace which was propounded to them. In several set speeches of great length and very considerable power, these natural orators explained their willingness to enter into amicable relations with all the surrounding nations as well as with the white men. "But," said Pee-eye-em, the chief of the Shirry-dikas, a man above six feet high, and of immense muscular strength,--"but my tribe cannot answer for the Banattees, who are robbers, and cannot be punished, because they dwell in scattered families among the mountains. The Banattees are bad; they cannot be trusted." None of the Banattees were present at the council when this was said; and if they had been it would have mattered little, for they were neither fierce nor courageous, although bold enough in their own haunts to murder and rob the unwary. The second chief did not quite agree with Pee-eye-em; he said that it was impossible for them to make peace with their natural enemies, the Peigans and the Blackfeet on the east side of the mountains. It was very desirable, he admitted, but neither of these tribes would consent to it, he felt sure. Upon this Joe blunt rose and said, "The great chief of the War-are-ree-kas is wise, and knows that enemies cannot be reconciled unless deputies are sent to make proposals of peace." "The Pale-face does not know the Blackfeet," answered the chief. "Who will go into the lands of the Blackfeet? My young men have been sent once and again, and their scalps are now fringes to the leggings of their enemies. The War-are-ree-kas do not cross the mountains but for the purpose of making war." "The chief speaks truth," returned Joe, "yet there are three men round the council-fire who will go to the Blackfeet and the Peigans with messages of peace from the Snakes if they wish it." Joe pointed to himself, Henri, and Dick as he spoke, and added, "We three do not belong to the camp of the fur-traders; we only lodge with them for a time. The Great Chief of the white men has sent us to make peace with the Red-men, and to tell them that he desires to trade with them--to exchange hatchets, and guns, and blankets for furs." This declaration interested the two chiefs greatly, and after a good deal of discussion they agreed to take advantage of Joe Blunt's offer, and appoint him as a deputy to the court of their enemies. Having arranged these matters to their satisfaction, Cameron bestowed a red flag and a blue surtout with brass buttons on each of the chiefs, and a variety of smaller articles on the other members of the council, and sent them away in a particularly amiable frame of mind. Pee-eye-em burst the blue surtout at the shoulders and elbows in putting it on, as it was much too small for his gigantic frame, but, never having seen such an article of apparel before, he either regarded this as the natural and proper consequence of putting it on, or was totally indifferent to it, for he merely looked at the rents with a smile of satisfaction, while his squaw surreptitiously cut off the two back buttons and thrust them into her bosom. By the time the council closed the night was far advanced, and a bright moon was shedding a flood of soft light over the picturesque and busy scene. "I'll go to the Injun camp," said Joe to Walter Cameron, as the chiefs rose to depart. "The season's far enough advanced already; it's time to be off; and if I'm to speak for the Red-skins in the Blackfeet Council, I'd need to know what to say." "Please yourself, Master Blunt," answered Cameron. "I like your company and that of your friends, and if it suited you I would be glad to take you along with us to the coast of the Pacific; but your mission among the Indians is a good one, and I'll help it on all I can. I suppose you will go also?" he added, turning to Dick Varley, who was still seated beside the council-fire caressing Crusoe. "Wherever Joe goes, I go," answered Dick. Crusoe's tail, ears and eyes demonstrated high approval of the sentiment involved in this speech. "And your friend Henri?" "He goes too," answered Joe. "It's as well that the Red-skins should see the three o' us before we start for the east side o' the mountains. Ho! Henri, come here, lad." Henri obeyed, and in a few seconds the three friends crossed the brook to the Indian camp, and were guided to the principal lodge by Pee-eye-em. Here a great council was held, and the proposed attempt at negotiations for peace with their ancient enemies fully discussed. While they were thus engaged, and just as Pee-eye-em had, in the energy of an enthusiastic peroration burst the blue surtout _almost_ up to the collar, a distant rushing sound was heard, which caused every man to spring to his feet, run out of the tent, and seize his weapons. "What can it be, Joe?" whispered Dick, as they stood at the tent door leaning on their rifles, and listening intently. "Dunno," answered Joe shortly. Most of the numerous fires of the camp had gone out, but the bright moon revealed the dusky forms of thousands of Indians, whom the unwonted sound had startled, moving rapidly about. The mystery was soon explained. The Indian camp was pitched on an open plain of several miles in extent, which took a sudden bend half a mile distant, where a spur of the mountains shut out the further end of the valley from view. From beyond this point the dull rumbling sound proceeded. Suddenly there was a roar as if a mighty cataract had been let loose upon the scene. At the same moment a countless herd of wild horses came thundering round the base of the mountain and swept over the plain straight towards the Indian camp. "A stampedo!" cried Joe, springing to the assistance of Pee-eye-em, whose favourite horses were picketted near the tent. On they came like a living torrent, and the thunder of a thousand hoofs was soon mingled with the howling of hundreds of dogs in the camp, and the yelling of Indians, as they vainly endeavoured to restrain the rising excitement of their steeds. Henri and Dick stood rooted to the ground, gazing in silent wonder at the fierce and uncontrollable gallop of the thousands of panic-stricken horses that bore down upon the camp with the tumultuous violence of a mighty cataract. As the maddened troop drew nigh, the camp horses began to snort and tremble violently, and when the rush of the wild steeds was almost upon them, they became ungovernable with terror, broke their halters and hobbles, and dashed wildly about. To add to the confusion at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon and threw the whole scene into deep obscurity. Blind with terror, which was probably increased by the din of their own mad flight, the galloping troop came on, and, with a sound like the continuous roar of thunder that for an instant drowned the yell of dog and man, they burst upon the camp, trampling over packs and skins, and dried meat, etcetera, in their headlong speed, and overturning several of the smaller tents. In another moment they swept out upon the plain beyond, and were soon lost in the darkness of the night, while the yelping of dogs, as they vainly pursued them, mingled and gradually died away with the distant thunder of their retreat. This was a "_stampedo_," one of the most extraordinary scenes that can be witnessed in the western wilderness. "Lend a hand, Henri," shouted Joe, who was struggling with a powerful horse. "Wot's comed over yer brains, man? This brute 'll git off if ye don't look sharp." Dick and Henri both answered to the summons, and they succeeded in throwing the struggling animal on its side and holding it down until its excitement was somewhat abated. Pee-eye-em had also been successful in securing his favourite hunter, but nearly every other horse belonging to the camp had broken loose and joined the whirlwind gallop, but they gradually dropped out, and, before morning, the most of them were secured by their owners. As there were at least two thousand horses and an equal number of dogs in the part of the Indian camp which had been thus over-run by the wild mustangs, the turmoil, as may be imagined, was prodigious! Yet, strange to say, no accident of a serious nature occurred beyond the loss of several chargers. In the midst of this exciting scene there was one heart there which beat with a nervous vehemence that well-nigh burst it. This was the heart of Dick Varley's horse, Charlie. Well-known to him was that distant rumbling sound that floated on the night air into the fur-trader's camp where he was picketted close to Cameron's tent. Many a time had he heard the approach of such a wild troop, and often, in days not long gone by, had his shrill neigh rung out as he joined and led the panic-stricken band. He was first to hear the sound, and by his restive actions, to draw the attention of the fur-traders to it. As a precautionary measure they all sprang up and stood by their horses to soothe them, but as a brook with a belt of bushes and quarter of a mile of plain intervened between their camp and the mustangs as they flew past, they had little or no trouble in restraining them. Not so, however, with Charlie. At the very moment that his master was congratulating himself on the supposed security of his position, he wrenched the halter from the hand of him who held it, burst through the barrier of felled trees that had been thrown round the camp, cleared the brook at a bound, and, with a wild hilarious neigh, resumed his old place in the ranks of the free-born mustangs of the prairie. Little did Dick think, when the flood of horses swept past him, that his own good steed was there, rejoicing in his recovered liberty. But Crusoe knew it. Ay, the wind had borne down the information to his acute nose before the living storm burst upon the camp, and when Charlie rushed past with the long tough halter trailing at his heels, Crusoe sprang to his side, seized the end of the halter with his teeth, and galloped off along with him. It was a long gallop and a tough one, but Crusoe held on, for it was a settled principle in his mind _never_ to give in. At first the check upon Charlie's speed was imperceptible, but by degrees the weight of the gigantic dog began to tell, and, after a time, they fell a little to the rear; then, by good fortune, the troop passed through a mass of underwood, and the line, getting entangled, brought their mad career forcibly to a close; the mustangs passed on, and the two friends were left to keep each other company in the dark. How long they would have remained thus is uncertain, for neither of them had sagacity enough to undo a complicated entanglement; fortunately, however, in his energetic tugs at the line, Crusoe's sharp teeth partially severed it, and a sudden start on the part of Charlie caused it to part. Before he could escape, Crusoe again seized the end of it and led him slowly but steadily back to the Indian camp, never halting or turning aside until he had placed the line in Dick Varley's hand. "Hallo, pup! where have ye bin. How did ye bring him here?" exclaimed Dick, as he gazed in amazement at his foam-covered horse. Crusoe wagged his tail, as if to say, "Be thankful that you've got him, Dick, my boy, and don't ask questions that you know I can't answer." "He must ha' broke loose and jined the stampedo," remarked Joe, coming out of the chief's tent at the moment; "but tie him up, Dick, and come in, for we want to settle about startin' to-morrow or nixt day." Having fastened Charlie to a stake, and ordered Crusoe to watch him, Dick re-entered the tent where the council had re-assembled, and where Pee-eye-em--having, in the recent struggle, split the blue surtout completely up to the collar, so that his backbone was visible throughout the greater part of its length--was holding forth in eloquent strains on the subject of peace in general and peace with the Blackfeet, the ancient enemies of the Shirry-dikas, in particular. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. PLANS AND PROSPECTS--DICK BECOMES HOME-SICK, AND HENRI METAPHYSICAL--THE INDIANS ATTACK THE CAMP--A BLOW-UP. On the following day the Indians gave themselves up to unlimited feasting, in consequence of the arrival of a large body of hunters with an immense supply of buffalo meat. It was a regular day of rejoicing. Upwards of six hundred buffaloes had been killed, and as the supply of meat before their arrival had been ample, the camp was now overflowing with plenty. Feasts were given by the chiefs, and the medicine-men went about the camp uttering loud cries, which were meant to express gratitude to the Great Spirit for the bountiful supply of food. They also carried a portion of meat to the aged and infirm who were unable to hunt for themselves, and had no young men in their family circle to hunt for them. This arrival of the hunters was a fortunate circumstance, as it put the Indians in great good-humour, and inclined them to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, who for some time continued to drive a brisk trade in furs. Having no market for the disposal of their furs, the Indians of course had more than they knew what to do with, and were therefore glad to exchange those of the most beautiful and valuable kind for a mere trifle, so that the trappers laid aside their traps for a time and devoted themselves to traffic. Meanwhile Joe Blunt and his friends made preparations for their return journey. "Ye see," remarked Joe to Henri and Dick, as they sat beside the fire in Pee-eye-em's lodge, and feasted on a potful of grasshopper soup, which the great chiefs squaw had just placed before them,--"ye see, my calc'lations is as follows. Wot with trappin' beavers and huntin', we three ha' made enough to sot us up, an it likes us, in the Mustang Valley--" "Ha!" interrupted Dick, remitting for a few seconds the use of his teeth in order to exercise his tongue,--"ha! Joe, but it don't like _me_! What, give up a hunter's life and become a farmer? I should think not!" "Bon!" ejaculated Henri, but whether the remark had reference to the grasshopper soup or the sentiment, we cannot tell. "Well," continued Joe, commencing to devour a large buffalo steak with a hunter's appetite, "ye'll please yourselves, lads, as to that; but, as I wos sayin', we've got a powerful lot o' furs, an' a big pack o' odds and ends for the Injuns we chance to meet with by the way, an' powder and lead to last us a twelve-month, besides five good horses to carry us an' our packs over the plains; so if it's agreeable to you, I mean to make a bee-line for the Mustang Valley. We're pretty sure to meet with Blackfeet on the way, and if we do we'll try to make peace between them an' the Snakes. I 'xpect it'll be pretty well on for six weeks afore we git to home, so we'll start to-morrow." "Dat is fat vill do ver' vell," said Henri; "vill you please donnez me one petit morsel of steak." "I'm ready for anything, Joe," cried Dick, "you are leader. Just point the way, and I'll answer for two o' us followin' ye--eh! won't we, Crusoe?" "We will," remarked the dog quietly. "How comes it," inquired Dick, "that these Indians don't care for our tobacco?" "They like their own better, I s'pose," answered Joe; "most all the western Injuns do. They make it o' the dried leaves o' the shumack and the inner bark o' the red-willow, chopped very small an' mixed together. They call this stuff _Kinnekinnik_, but they like to mix about a fourth o' our tobacco with it, so Pee-eye-em tells me, an' he's a good judge; the amount that red-skinned mortal smokes _is_ oncommon." "What are they doin' yonder?" inquired Dick, pointing to a group of men who had been feasting for some time past in front of a tent within sight of our trio. "Goin' to sing, I think," replied Joe. As he spoke, six young warriors were seen to work their bodies about in a very remarkable way, and give utterance to still more remarkable sounds, which gradually increased until the singers burst out into that terrific yell, or war-whoop, for which American savages have long been famous. Its effect would save been appalling to unaccustomed ears. Then they allowed their voices to die away in soft, plaintive tones, while their action corresponded thereto. Suddenly the furious style was revived, and the men wrought themselves into a condition little short of madness, while their yells rung wildly through the camp. This was too much for ordinary canine nature to withstand, so all the dogs in the neighbourhood joined in the horrible chorus. Crusoe had long since learned to treat the eccentricities of Indians and their curs with dignified contempt. He paid no attention to this serenade, but lay sleeping by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take leave of their host, and return to the camp of the fur-traders. The remainder of that night was spent in making preparations for setting forth on the morrow, and when, at grey dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down to snatch a few hours' repose, the yells and howling in the Snake camp were going on as vigorously as ever. The sun had arisen, and his beams were just tipping the summits of the Rocky Mountains, causing the snowy peaks to glitter like flame, and the deep ravines and gorges to look sombre and mysterious by contrast, when Dick, and Joe, and Henri mounted their gallant steeds, and, with Crusoe gambolling before, and the two pack-horses trotting by their side, turned their faces eastward, and bade adieu to the Indian camp. Crusoe was in great spirits. He was perfectly well aware that he and his companions were on their way home, and testified his satisfaction by bursts of scampering over the hills and valleys. Doubtless he thought of Dick Varley's cottage, and of Dick's mild, kind-hearted mother. Undoubtedly, too, he thought of his own mother, Fan, and felt a glow of filial affection as he did so. Of this we feel quite certain. He would have been unworthy the title of hero if he hadn't. Perchance he thought of Grumps, but of this we are not quite so sure. We rather think, upon the whole, that he did. Dick, too, let his thoughts run away in the direction of _home_. Sweet word! Those who have never left it cannot, by any effort of imagination, realise the full import of the word "home." Dick was a bold hunter, but he was young, and this was his first long expedition. Oftentimes, when sleeping under the trees and gazing dreamily up through the branches at the stars, had he thought of home, until his longing heart began to yearn to return. He repelled such tender feelings, however, when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly, and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the chase, but latterly his efforts were in vain. He became thoroughly home-sick, and, while admitting the fact to himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades. He thought that he was successful in this attempt. Poor Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human nature. Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master, although he could not exactly make out what it was. But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his memory. He jotted down the peculiar phases of his master's new disease with the care and minute exactness of a physician; and, we doubt not, ultimately added the knowledge of the symptoms of homesickness to his already well-filled stores of erudition. It was not till they had set out on their homeward journey that Dick Varley's spirits revived, and it was not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the green sward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been. "D'ye know, Joe," he said confidentially, reining up his gallant steed after a sharp gallop, "d'ye know I've bin feelin' awful low for some time past." "I know it, lad," answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in which there was a dash of something that implied he knew more than he chose to express. Dick felt surprised, but he continued, "I wonder what it could have bin. I never felt so before." "'Twas homesickness, boy," returned Joe. "How d'ye know that?" "The same way as how I know most things, by experience an' obsarvation. I've bin home-sick myself once--but it was long, long agone." Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical, and were hard to be understood. Most conversations that were not connected with eating and hunting were of this nature to Henri. "Hom'-sik," he cried, "veech mean bein' sik of hom'! hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de expedition. Oui, vraiment." "I always packs up," continued Joe, paying no attention to Henri's remark,--"I always packs up an' sots off for home when I gits home-sick; it's the best cure, an' when hunters are young like you, Dick, it's the only cure. I've know'd fellers a'most die o' homesickness, an' I'm told they _do_ go under altogether sometimes." "Go onder!" exclaimed Henri; "oui, I vas all but die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom'. If I have not git away, I not be here to-day." Henri's idea of homesickness was so totally opposed to theirs, that his comrades only laughed, and refrained from attempting to set him right. "The fust time I was took bad with it wos in a country somethin' like that," said Joe, pointing to the wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted with clusters of trees and wandering streamlets, that lay before them; "I had bin out about two months, an wos makin' a good thing of it, for game wos plenty, when I began to think somehow more than usual o' home. My mother wos alive then." Joe's voice sank to a deep, solemn tone as he said this, and for a few minutes he rode on in silence. "Well, it grew worse and worse, I dreamed o' home all night, an' thought of it all day, till I began to shoot bad, an' my comrades wos gittin' tired o' me; so says I to them one night, says I, `I give out, lads, I'll make tracks for the settlement to-morrow.' They tried to laugh me out of it at first, but it was no go, so I packed up, bid them good-day, an' sot off alone on a trip o' five hundred miles. The very first mile o' the way back I began to mend, and before two days I wos all right again." Joe was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of a solitary horseman on the brow of an eminence not half a mile distant. The three friends instantly drove their pack-horses behind a clump of trees, but not in time to escape the vigilant eye of the Red-man, who uttered a loud shout, which brought up a band of his comrades at full gallop. "Remember, Henri," cried Joe Blunt, "our errand is one of _peace_." The caution was needed, for in the confusion of the moment Henri was making preparation to sell his life as dearly as possible. Before another word could be uttered, they were surrounded by a troop of about twenty yelling Blackfeet Indians. They were, fortunately, not a war-party, and, still more fortunately, they were peaceably disposed, and listened to the preliminary address of Joe Blunt with exemplary patience; after which the two parties encamped on the spot, the council-fire was lighted, and every preparation made for a long palaver. We will not trouble the reader with the details of what was said on this occasion. The party of Indians was a small one, and no chief of any importance was attached to it. Suffice it to say that the pacific overtures made by Joe were well received, the trifling gifts made thereafter were still better received, and they separated with mutual expressions of good will. Several other bands which were afterwards met with were equally friendly, and only one war-party was seen. Joe's quick eye observed it in time to enable them to retire unseen behind the shelter of some trees, where they remained until the Indian warriors were out of sight. The next party they met with, however, were more difficult to manage, and, unfortunately, blood was shed on both sides before our travellers escaped. It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war-party of Blackfeet were seen riding along a ridge on the horizon. It chanced that the prairie at this place was almost destitute of trees or shrubs large enough to conceal the horses. By dashing down the grassy wave into the hollow between the two undulations, and dismounting, Joe hoped to elude the savages, so he gave the word,--but at the same moment a shout from the Indians told that they were discovered. "Look sharp, lads, throw down the packs on the highest point of the ridge," cried Joe, undoing the lashings, seizing one of the bales of goods, and hurrying to the top of the undulation with it; "we must keep them at arm's length, boys--be alive. War-parties are not to be trusted." Dick and Henri seconded Joe's efforts so ably, that in the course of two minutes the horses were unloaded, the packs piled in the form of a wall in front of a broken piece of ground, the horses picketted close beside them, and our three travellers peeping over the edge, with their rifles cocked, while the savages--about thirty in number--came sweeping down towards them. "I'll try to git them to palaver," said Joe Blunt, "but keep yer eye on 'em, Dick, an' if they behave ill, shoot the _horse_ o' the leadin' chief. I'll throw up my left hand as a signal. Mind, lad, don't hit human flesh till my second signal is given, and see that Henri don't draw till I git back to ye." So saying, Joe sprang lightly over the slight parapet of their little fortress, and ran swiftly out, unarmed, towards the Indians. In a few seconds he was close up with them, and in another moment was surrounded. At first the savages brandished their spears and rode round the solitary man, yelling like fiends, as if they wished to intimidate him; but as Joe stood like a statue, with his arms crossed, and a grave expression of contempt on his countenance, they quickly desisted, and, drawing near, asked him where he came from, and what he was doing there. Joe's story was soon told; but instead of replying, they began to shout vociferously, and evidently meant mischief. "If the Blackfeet are afraid to speak to the Pale-face, he will go back to his braves," said Joe, passing suddenly between two of the warriors and taking a few steps towards the camp. Instantly every bow was bent, and it seemed as if our bold hunter were about to be pierced by a hundred arrows, when he turned round and cried:-- "The Blackfeet must not advance a single step. The first that moves his _horse_ shall die. The second that moves _himself_ shall die." To this the Blackfoot chief replied scornfully, "The Pale-face talks with a big mouth. We do not believe his words. The Snakes are liars, we will make no peace with them." While he was yet speaking, Joe threw up his hand; there was a loud report, and the noble horse of the savage chief lay struggling in death agony on the ground. The use of the rifle, as we have before hinted, was little known at this period among the Indians of the far west, and many had never heard the dreaded report before, although all were aware, from hearsay, of its fatal power. The fall of the chief's horse, therefore, quite paralysed them for a few moments, and they had not recovered from their surprise when a second report was heard, a bullet whistled past, and a second horse fell. At the same moment there was a loud explosion in the camp of the Pale-faces, a white cloud enveloped it, and from the midst of this a loud shriek was heard, as Dick, Henri, and Crusoe bounded over the packs with frantic gestures. At this the gaping savages wheeled their steeds round, the dismounted horsemen sprang on behind two of their comrades, and the whole band dashed away over the plains as if they were chased by evil spirits. Meanwhile Joe hastened towards his comrades in a state of great anxiety, for he knew at once that one of the powder-horns must have been accidentally blown up. "No damage done, boys, I hope?" he cried on coming up. "Damage!" cried Henri, holding his hands tight over his face. "Oh! oui, great damage--moche damage, me two eyes be blowed out of dere holes." "Not quite so bad as that, I hope," said Dick, who was very slightly singed, and forgot his own hurts in anxiety about his comrade. "Let me see?" "My eye!" exclaimed Joe Blunt, while a broad grin overspread his countenance, "ye've not improved yer looks, Henri." This was true. The worthy hunter's hair was singed to such an extent that his entire countenance presented the appearance of a universal frizzle. Fortunately the skin, although much blackened, was quite uninjured, a fact which, when he ascertained it beyond a doubt, afforded so much satisfaction to Henri, that he capered about shouting with delight, as if some piece of good fortune had befallen him. The accident had happened in consequence of Henri having omitted to replace the stopper of his powder-horn, and when, in his anxiety for Joe, he fired at random amongst the Indians, despite Dick's entreaties to wait, a spark communicated with the powder-horn and blew him up. Dick and Crusoe were only a little singed, but the former was not disposed to quarrel with an accident which had sent their enemies so promptly to the right-about. This band followed them for some nights, in the hope of being able to steal their horses while they slept; but they were not brave enough to venture a second time within range of the death-dealing rifle. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. DANGERS OF THE PRAIRIE--OUR TRAVELLERS ATTACKED BY INDIANS, AND DELIVERED IN A REMARKABLE MANNER. There are periods in the life of almost all men when misfortunes seem to crowd upon them in rapid succession, when they escape from one danger only to encounter another, and when, to use a well-known expression, they succeed in leaping out of the frying-pan at the expense of plunging into the fire. So was it with our three friends upon this occasion. They were scarcely rid of the Blackfeet, who found them too watchful to be caught napping, when, about daybreak one morning they encountered a roving band of Camanchee Indians, who wore such a warlike aspect that Joe deemed it prudent to avoid them if possible. "They don't see us yit, I guess," said Joe, as he and his companions drove the horses into a hollow between the grassy waves of the prairie, "any if we only can escape their sharp eyes till we're in yonder clump o' willows, we're safe enough." "But why don't you ride up to them, Joe," inquired Dick, "and make peace between them and the Pale-faces, as you ha' done with other bands?" "Because it's o' no use to risk our scalps for the chance o' makin' peace wi' a rovin' war-party. Keep yer head down, Henri! If they git only a sight o' the top o' yer cap, they'll be down on us like a breeze o' _wind_." "Hah! let dem come!" said Henri. "They'll come without askin' yer leave," remarked Joe drily. Notwithstanding his defiant expression, Henri had sufficient prudence to induce him to bend his head and shoulders, and in a few minutes they reached the shelter of the willows unseen by the savages. At least so thought Henri, Joe was not quite sure about it, and Dick hoped for the best. In the course of half an hour the last of the Camanchees was seen to hover for a second on the horizon, like a speck of black against the sky, and then to disappear. Immediately the three hunters bolted on their steeds and resumed their journey; but before that evening closed they had sad evidence of the savage nature of the band from which they had escaped. On passing the brow of a slight eminence, Dick, who rode first, observed that Crusoe stopped and snuffed the breeze in an anxious, inquiring manner. "What is't, pup?" said Dick, drawing up, for he knew that his faithful dog never gave a false alarm. Crusoe replied by a short, uncertain bark, and then bounding forward, disappeared behind a little wooded knoll. In another moment a long, dismal howl floated over the plains. There was a mystery about the dog's conduct which, coupled with his melancholy cry, struck the travellers with a superstitious feeling of dread, as they sat looking at each other in surprise. "Come, let's clear it up," cried Joe Blunt, shaking the reins of his steed, and galloping forward. A few strides brought them to the other side of the knoll where, scattered upon the torn and bloody turf, they discovered the scalped and mangled remains of about twenty or thirty human beings. Their skulls had been cleft by the tomahawk, and their breasts pierced by the scalping-knife; and from the position in which many of them lay, it was evident that they had been slain while asleep. Joe's brow flushed, and his lips became tightly compressed, as he muttered between his set teeth, "Their skins are white." A short examination sufficed to show that the men who had thus been barbarously murdered while they slept had been a band of trappers, or hunters; but what their errand had been, or whence they came, they could not discover. Everything of value had been carried off, and all the scalps had been taken. Most of the bodies, although much mutilated, lay in a posture that led our hunters to believe they had been killed while asleep; but one or two were cut almost to pieces, and from the blood-bespattered and trampled sward around, it seemed as if they had struggled long and fiercely for life. Whether or not any of the savages had been slain, it was impossible to tell, for if such had been the case, their comrades, doubtless, had carried away their bodies. That they had been slaughtered by the party of Camanchees who had been seen at daybreak, was quite clear to Joe; but his burning desire to revenge the death of the white men had to be stifled, as his party was so small. Long afterwards it was discovered that this was a band of trappers who, like those mentioned at the beginning of this volume, had set out to avenge the death of a comrade; but God, who has retained the right of vengeance in His own hand, saw fit to frustrate their purpose, by giving them into the hands of the savages whom they had set forth to slay. As it was impossible to bury so many bodies, the travellers resumed their journey, and left them to bleach there in the wilderness; but they rode the whole of that day almost without uttering a word. Meanwhile the Camanchees, who had observed the trio, and had ridden away at first for the purpose of deceiving them into the belief that they had passed unobserved, doubled on their track, and took a long sweep in order to keep out of sight until they could approach under the shelter of a belt of woodland towards which the travellers now approached. The Indians adopted this course instead of the easier method of simply pursuing so weak a party, because the plains at this part were bordered by a long stretch of forest into which the hunters could have plunged, and rendered pursuit more difficult, if not almost useless. The detour thus taken was so extensive that the shades of evening were beginning to descend before they could put their plan into execution. The forest lay about a mile to the right of our hunters, like some dark mainland, of which the prairie was the sea, and the scattered clumps of wood the islands. "There's no lack o' game here," said Dick Varley, pointing to a herd of buffaloes which rose at their approach, and fled away towards the wood. "I think we'll ha' thunder soon," remarked Joe. "I never feel it onnatteral hot like this without looking out for a plump." "Hah! den ve better look hout for one goot tree to get b'low," suggested Henri. "Voila!" he added, pointing with his finger towards the plain; "dere am a lot of wild hosses." A troop of about thirty wild horses appeared, as he spoke, on the brow of a ridge, and advanced slowly towards them. "Hist!" exclaimed Joe, reining up; "hold on, lads. Wild horses! my rifle to a pop-gun there's wilder men on t'other side o' them." "What mean you, Joe?" inquired Dick, riding close up. "D'ye see the little lumps on the shoulder o' each horse?" said Joe. "Them's Injun's _feet_; an' if we don't want to lose our scalps we'd better make for the forest." Joe proved himself to be in earnest by wheeling round and making straight for the thick woods as fast as his horse could run. The others followed, driving the pack-horses before them. The effect of this sudden movement on the so-called "wild horses" was very remarkable, and to one unacquainted with the habits of the Camanchee Indians, must have appeared almost supernatural. In the twinkling of an eye every steed had a rider on its back, and before the hunters had taken five strides in the direction of the forest, the whole band were in hot pursuit, yelling like furies. The manner in which these Indians accomplish this feat is very singular, and implies great activity and strength of muscle on the part of the savages. The Camanchees are low in stature, and usually are rather corpulent. In their movements on foot they are heavy and ungraceful, and they are, on the whole, a slovenly and unattractive race of men. But the instant they mount their horses they seem to be entirely changed, and surprise the spectator with the ease and elegance of their movements. Their great and distinctive peculiarity as horsemen is the power they have acquired of throwing themselves suddenly on either side of their horse's body, and clinging on in such a way that no part of them is visible from the other side save the foot by which they cling. In this manner they approach their enemies at full gallop, and without rising again to the saddle, discharge their arrows at them over their horses' backs, or even under their necks. This apparently magical feat is accomplished by means of a halter of horsehair, which is passed round under the neck of the horse, and both ends braided into the mane, on the withers, thus forming a loop which hangs under the neck and against the breast. This being caught by the hand, makes a sling, into which the elbow falls, taking the weight of the body on the middle of the upper arm. Into this loop the rider drops suddenly and fearlessly, leaving his heel to hang over the horse's back, to steady him, and also to restore him to his seat when desired. By this stratagem the Indians had approached on the present occasion almost within rifle range before they were discovered, and it required the utmost speed of the hunters' horses to enable them to avoid being overtaken. One of the Indians, who was better mounted than his fellows, gained on the fugitives so much that he came within arrow range, but reserved his shaft until they were close on the margin of the wood, when, being almost alongside of Henri, he fitted an arrow to his bow. Henri's eye was upon him, however; letting go the line of the pack-horse which he was leading, he threw forward his rifle, but at the same moment the savage disappeared behind his horse, and an arrow whizzed past the hunter's ear. Henri fired at the horse, which dropped instantly, hurling the astonished Camanchee upon the ground, where he lay for some time insensible. In a few seconds pursued and pursuers entered the wood, where both had to advance with caution, in order to avoid being swept off by the overhanging branches of the trees. Meanwhile the sultry heat of which Joe had formerly spoken increased considerably, and a rumbling noise, as if of distant thunder, was heard; but the flying hunters paid no attention to it, for the led horses gave them so much trouble, and retarded their flight so much, that the Indians were gradually and visibly gaining on them. "We'll ha' to let the packs go," said Joe, somewhat bitterly, as he looked over his shoulder. "Our scalps 'll pay for't if we don't." Henri uttered a peculiar and significant _hiss_ between his teeth, as he said, "P'raps ve better stop and fight!" Dick said nothing, being resolved to do exactly what Joe Blunt bid him; and Crusoe, for reasons best known to himself, also said nothing, but bounded along beside his master's horse, casting an occasional glance upwards to catch any signal that might be given. They had passed over a considerable space of ground, and were forcing their way, at the imminent hazard of their necks, through a densely-clothed part of the wood, when the sound above referred to increased, attracting the attention of both parties. In a few seconds the air was filled with a steady and continuous rumbling sound, like the noise of a distant cataract. Pursuers and fugitives drew rein instinctively, and came to a dead stand, while the rumbling increased to a roar, and evidently approached them rapidly, though as yet nothing to cause it could be seen, except that there was a dense, dark cloud overspreading the sky to the southward. The air was oppressively still and hot. "What can't be?" inquired Dick, looking at Joe, who was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed with concern, at the southern sky. "Dunno, boy. I've bin more in the woods than in the clearin' in my day, but I niver heerd the likes o' that." "It am like t'ondre," said Henri; "mais it nevair do stop." This was true. The sound was similar to continuous, uninterrupted thunder. On it came with a magnificent roar that shook the very earth, and revealed itself at last in the shape of a mighty whirlwind. In a moment the distant woods bent before it, and fell like grass before the scythe. It was a whirling hurricane, accompanied by a deluge of rain such as none of the party had ever before witnessed. Steadily, fiercely, irresistibly, it bore down upon them, while the crash of falling, snapping, and uprooting trees mingled with the dire artillery of that sweeping storm like the musketry on a battle-field. "Follow me, lads!" shouted Joe, turning his horse and dashing at full speed towards a rocky eminence that offered shelter. But shelter was not needed. The storm was clearly defined. Its limits were as distinctly marked by its Creator as if it had been a living intelligence sent forth to put a belt of desolation round the world; and, although the edge of devastation was not five hundred yards from the rock behind which the hunters were stationed, only a few drops of ice-cold rain fell upon them. It passed directly between the Camanchee Indians and their intended victims, placing between them a barrier which it would have taken days to cut through. The storm blew for an hour, then it travelled onward in its might, and was lost in distance. Whence it came and whither it went none could tell; but, far as the eye could see on either hand, an avenue a quarter of a mile wide was cut through the forest. It had levelled everything with the dust; the very grass was beaten flat, the trees were torn, shivered, snapped across, and crushed; and the earth itself in many places was ploughed up and furrowed with deep scars. The chaos was indescribable, and it is probable that centuries will not quite obliterate the work of that single hour. While it lasted, Joe and his comrades remained speechless and awe-stricken. When it passed, no Indians were to be seen. So our hunters remounted their steeds, and, with feelings of gratitude to God for having delivered them alike from savage foes and from the destructive power of the whirlwind, resumed their journey towards the Mustang Valley. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. ANXIOUS FEARS FOLLOWED BY A JOYFUL SURPRISE--SAFE HOME AT LAST, AND HAPPY HEARTS. One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given an account in the last chapter, old Mrs Varley was seated beside her own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were far away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested idly on her knee, grasping the knitting wires to which was attached a half-finished stocking. On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day of the shooting match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy had an anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time to the widow's face. "Did ye say, my boy, that they were _all_ killed?" inquired Mrs Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh. "Every one," replied Marston. "Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said they wos all lyin' dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o' white men." Mrs Varley sighed again, and her face assumed an expression of anxious pain as she thought of her son Dick being exposed to a similar fate. Mrs Varley was not given to nervous fears; but as she listened to the boy's recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news of which had just reached the valley, her heart sank, and she prayed inwardly to Him who is the husband of the widow that her dear one might be protected from the ruthless hand of the savage. After a short pause, during which young Marston fidgeted about and looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would fain leave unsaid, Mrs Varley continued:-- "Was it far off where the bloody deed was done?" "Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found a knife that looked like the one wot belonged to--to--" the lad hesitated. "To whom, my boy? Why don't ye go on?" "To your son Dick." The widow's hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had not Marston caught her. "O mother dear, don't take on like that!" he cried, smoothing down the widow's hair as her head rested on his breast. For some time Mrs Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence, while her breast laboured with anxious dread. "Tell me all," she said at last, recovering a little. "Did Jim see-- Dick?" "No," answered the boy. "He looked at all the bodies, but did not find his; so he sent me over here to tell ye that p'raps he's escaped." Mrs Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly thanked God; but her fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner, and recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related of the savages. While she was still engaged in closely questioning the lad, Jim Scraggs himself entered the cottage, and endeavoured in a gruff sort of way to re-assure the widow. "Ye see, mistress," he said, "Dick is a oncommon tough customer, an' if he could only git fifty yards start, there's not a Injun in the west as could git hold o' him agin; so don't be takin' on." "But what if he's bin taken prisoner?" said the widow. "Ay, that's jest wot I've comed about. Ye see it's not onlikely he's bin took; so about thirty o' the lads o' the valley are ready jest now to start away and give the red riptiles chase, an' I come to tell ye; so keep up heart, mistress." With this parting word of comfort, Jim withdrew, and Marston soon followed, leaving the widow to weep and pray in solitude. Meanwhile an animated scene was going on near the block-house. Here thirty of the young hunters of the Mustang Valley were assembled, actively engaged in supplying themselves with powder and lead, and tightening their girths, preparatory to setting out in pursuit of the Indians who had murdered the white men, while hundreds of boys and girls, and not a few matrons, crowded round and listened to the conversation, and to the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered ever and anon by the younger men. Major Hope, too, was among them. The worthy major, unable to restrain his roving propensities, determined to revisit the Mustang Valley, and had arrived only two days before. Backwoodsmen's preparations are usually of the shortest and simplest. In a few minutes the cavalcade was ready, and away they went towards the prairies, with the bold major at their head. But their journey was destined to come to an abrupt and unexpected close. A couple of hours' gallop brought them to the edge of one of those open plains which sometimes break up the woodland near the verge of the great prairies. It stretched out like a green lake towards the horizon, on which, just as the band of horsemen reached it, the sun was descending in a blaze of glory. With a shout of enthusiasm, several of the younger members of the party sprang forward into the plain at a gallop; but the shout was mingled with one of a different tone from the older men. "Hist!--hallo!--hold on, ye cat-a-mounts! There's Injuns ahead!" The whole band came to a sudden halt at this cry, and watched eagerly, and for some time in silence, the motions of a small party of horsemen who were seen in the far distance, like black specks on the golden sky. "They come this way, I think," said Major Hope, after gazing steadfastly at them for some minutes. Several of the old hands signified their assent to this suggestion by a grunt, although to unaccustomed eyes the objects in question looked more like crows than horsemen, and their motion was for some time scarcely perceptible. "I sees pack-horses among them," cried young Marston in an excited tone; "an' there's three riders; but there's somethin' else, only wot it be I can't tell." "Ye've sharp eyes, younker," remarked one of the men, "an' I do b'lieve yer right." Presently the horsemen approached, and soon there was a brisk fire of guessing as to who they could be. It was evident that the strangers observed the cavalcade of white men, and regarded them as friends, for they did not check the headlong speed at which they approached. In a few minutes they were clearly made out to be a party of three horsemen driving pack-horses before them, and _somethin'_ which some of the hunters guessed was a buffalo calf. Young Marston guessed too, but his guess was different. Moreover, it was uttered with a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest of all the savages. "Crusoe!" he shouted, while at the same moment he brought his whip heavily down on the flank of his little horse, and sprang over the prairie like an arrow. One of the approaching horsemen was far ahead of his comrades, and seemed as if encircled with the flying and voluminous mane of his magnificent horse. "Hah! ho!" gasped Marston in a low tone to himself, as he flew along. "Crusoe! I'd know ye, dog, among a thousand! A buffalo calf! Ha! git on with ye!" This last part of the remark was addressed to his horse, and was followed by a whack that increased the pace considerably. The space between two such riders was soon devoured. "Hallo! Dick,--Dick Varley!" "Eh! why, Marston, my boy!" The friends reined up so suddenly, that one might have fancied they had met like the knights of old in the shock of mortal conflict. "Is't yerself, Dick Varley?" Dick held out his hand, and his eyes glistened, but he could not find words. Marston seized it, and pushing his horse close up, vaulted nimbly off and alighted on Charlie's back behind his friend. "Off ye go, Dick! I'll take ye to yer mother." Without reply, Dick shook the reins, and in another minute was in the midst of the hunters. To the numberless questions that were put to him he only waited to shout aloud, "We're all safe! They'll tell ye all about it," he added, pointing to his comrades, who were now close at hand; and then, dashing onward, made straight for home, with little Marston clinging to his waist like a monkey. Charlie was fresh, and so was Crusoe; so you may be sure it was not long before they all drew up opposite the door of the widow's cottage. Before Dick could dismount, Marston had slipped off, and was already in the kitchen. "Here's Dick, mother!" The boy was an orphan, and loved the widow so much that he had come at last to call her mother. Before another word could be uttered, Dick Varley was in the room. Marston immediately stepped out, and softly shut the door. Reader, we shall not open it! Having shut the door, as we have said, Marston ran down to the edge of the lake, and yelled with delight--usually terminating each paroxysm with the Indian war-whoop, with which he was well acquainted. Then he danced, and then he sat down on a rock, and became suddenly aware that there were other hearts there, close beside him, as glad as his own. Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long-lost son. Crusoe and his mother Fan were scampering round each other in a manner that evinced powerfully the strength of their mutual affection. Talk of holding converse! Every hair on Crusoe's body, every motion of his limbs, was eloquent with silent language. He gazed into his mother's mild eyes as if he would read her inmost soul (supposing that she had one). He turned his head to every possible angle, and cocked his ears to every conceivable elevation, and rubbed his nose against Fan's, and barked softly, in every imaginable degree of modulation, and varied these proceedings by bounding away at full speed over the rocks of the beach, and in among the bushes and out again, but always circling round and round Fan, and keeping her in view! It was a sight worth seeing, and young Marston sat down on a rock, deliberately and enthusiastically, to gloat over it. But perhaps the most remarkable part of it has not yet been referred to. There was yet another heart there that was glad--exceeding glad--that day. It was a little one too, but it was big for the body that held it. Grumps was there, and all that Grumps did was to sit on his haunches and stare at Fan and Crusoe, and wag his tail as well as he could in so awkward a position! Grumps was evidently bewildered with delight, and had lost nearly all power to express it. Crusoe's conduct towards him, too, was not calculated to clear his faculties. Every time he chanced to pass near Grumps in his elephantine gambols, he gave him a passing touch with his nose, which always knocked him head over heels; whereat Grumps invariably got up quickly and wagged his tail with additional energy. Before the feelings of those canine friends were calmed, they were all three ruffled into a state of comparative exhaustion. Then young Marston called Crusoe to him, and Crusoe, obedient to the voice of friendship, went. "Are you happy, my dog?" "You're a stupid fellow to ask such a question; however, it's an amiable one. Yes, I am." "What do _you_ want, ye small bundle o' hair?" This was addressed to Grumps, who came forward innocently, and sat down to listen to the conversation. On being thus sternly questioned, the little dog put down its ears flat, and hung its head, looking up at the same time with a deprecatory look as if to say, "Oh, dear! I beg pardon; I--I only want to sit near Crusoe, please, but if you wish it I'll go away, sad and lonely, with my tail _very_ much between my legs--indeed I will, only say the word, but--but I'd _rather_ stay if I might." "Poor bundle!" said Marston, patting its head, "you can stay then. Hooray! Crusoe, are you happy, I say? Does your heart bound in you like a cannon ball that wants to find its way out and can't--eh?" Crusoe put his snout against Marston's cheek, and, in the excess of his joy, the lad threw his arms round the dog's neck and hugged it vigorously, a piece of impulsive affection which that noble animal bore with characteristic meekness, and which Grumps regarded with idiotic satisfaction. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. REJOICINGS--THE FEAST AT THE BLOCK-HOUSE--GRUMPS AND CRUSOE COME OUT STRONG--THE CLOSING SCENE. The day of Dick's arrival with his companions was a great day in the annals of the Mustang Valley, and Major Hope resolved to celebrate it by an impromptu festival at the old block-house; for many hearts in the valley had been made glad that day, and he knew full well that, under such circumstances, some safety-valve must be devised for the escape of overflowing excitement. A messenger was sent round to invite the population to assemble without delay in front of the block-house. With backwoods-like celerity the summons was obeyed; men, women, and children hurried towards the central point wondering, yet more than half suspecting, what was the major's object in calling them together. They were not long in doubt. The first sight that presented itself as they came trooping up the slope in front of the log hut, was an ox roasting whole before a gigantic bonfire. Tables were being extemporised on the broad level plot in front of the gate. Other fires there were, of smaller dimensions, on which sundry steaming pots were placed, and various joints of wild horse, bear, and venison roasted, and sent forth a savoury odour as well as a pleasant hissing noise. The inhabitants of the block-house were self-taught brewers, and the result of their recent labours now stood displayed in a row of goodly casks of beer--the only beverage with which the dwellers in these far-off regions were wont to regale themselves. The whole scene--as the cooks moved actively about upon the lawn, and children romped round the fires, and settlers came flocking through the forests--might have recalled the revelry of merry England in the olden time, though the costumes of the far west were, perhaps, somewhat different from those of old England. No one of all the band assembled there on that day of rejoicing required to ask what it was all about. Had any one been in doubt for a moment, a glance at the centre of the crowd assembled round the gate of the western fortress would have quickly enlightened him; for there stood Dick Varley, and his mild-looking mother, and his loving dog, Crusoe. There, too, stood Joe Blunt, like a bronzed warrior returned from the fight, turning from one to another as question poured in upon question almost too rapidly to permit of a reply. There, too, stood Henri, making enthusiastic speeches to whoever chose to listen to him,--now glaring at the crowd, with clenched fists and growling voice, as he told of how Joe and he had been tied hand and foot, and lashed to poles and buried in leaves, and threatened with a slow death by torture,--at other times bursting into a hilarious laugh as he held forth on the predicament of Mahtawa when that wily chief was treed by Crusoe in the prairie. Young Marston was there too, hanging about Dick, whom he loved as a brother and regarded as a perfect hero. Grumps, too, was there, and Fan. Do you think, reader, that Grumps looked at any one but Crusoe? If you do you are mistaken. Grumps on that day became a regular, an incorrigible, utter, and perfect nuisance to everybody--not excepting himself, poor beast! Grumps was a dog of one idea, and that idea was Crusoe. Out of that great idea there grew one little secondary idea, and that idea was, that the only joy on earth worth mentioning was to sit on his haunches, exactly six inches from Crusoe's nose, and gaze steadfastly into his face. Wherever Crusoe went Grumps went. If Crusoe stopped Grumps was down before him in an instant. If Crusoe bounded away, which, in the exuberance of his spirits, he often did, Grumps was after him like a bundle of mad hair. He was in everybody's way--in Crusoe's way, and being, so to speak, "beside himself," was also in his own way. If people trod upon him accidentally, which they often did, Grumps uttered a solitary heart-rending yell, proportioned in intensity to the excruciating nature of the torture he endured, then instantly resumed his position and his fascinated stare. Crusoe generally held his head up, and gazed over his little friend at what was going on around him, but if for a moment he permitted his eye to rest on the countenance of Grumps, that creature's tail became suddenly imbued with an amount of wriggling vitality that seemed to threaten its separation from the body. It was really quite interesting to watch this unblushing, and disinterested, and utterly reckless display of affection on the part of Grumps, and the amiable way in which Crusoe put up with it--we say put up with it, advisedly, because it must have been a very great inconvenience to him, seeing that if he attempted to move, his satellite moved in front of him, so that his only way of escaping, temporarily, was by jumping over Grumps's head. Grumps was everywhere all day. Nobody, almost, escaped trampling on part of him. He tumbled over everything, into everything, and against everything. He knocked himself, singed himself, and scalded himself, and in fact forgot himself altogether; and when, late that night, Crusoe went with Dick into his mother's cottage, and the door was shut, Grumps stretched his ruffled, battered, ill-used, and dishevelled little body down on the doorstep, thrust his nose against the opening below the door, and lay in humble contentment all night, for he knew that Crusoe was there. Of course such an occasion could not pass without a shooting match. Rifles were brought out after the feast was over, just before the sun went down into its bed on the western prairies, and "the nail" was soon surrounded by bullets, tipped by Joe Blunt and Jim Scraggs, and, of course, driven home by Dick Varley, whose silver rifle had now become, in its owner's hand, a never-failing weapon. Races, too, were started, and here again Dick stood pre-eminent, and when night spread her dark mantle over the scene, the two best fiddlers in the settlement were placed on empty beer-casks, and some danced by the light of the monster fires, while others listened to Joe Blunt as he recounted their adventures on the prairies and among the Rocky Mountains. There were sweethearts, and wives, and lovers at the feast, but we question whether any heart there was so full of love, and admiration, and gratitude as that of the Widow Varley as she watched her son Dick, throughout that merry evening. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Years rolled by, and the Mustang Valley prospered. Missionaries went there, and a little church was built, and to the blessings of a fertile land were added the far greater blessings of Christian light and knowledge. One sad blow fell on the Widow Varley's heart. Her only brother, Daniel Hood, was murdered by the Indians. Deeply and long she mourned, and it required all Dick's efforts and those of the pastor of the settlement to comfort her. But from the first the widow's heart was sustained by the loving hand that dealt the blow, and when time blunted the keen edge of her feelings, her face became as sweet and mild, though not so lightsome, as before. Joe Blunt and Henri became leading men in the councils of the Mustang Valley, but Dick Varley preferred the woods, although, as long as his mother lived, he hovered round her cottage--going off sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week, but never longer. After her head was laid in the dust, Dick took altogether to the woods with Crusoe and Charlie the wild horse as his only companions, and his mother's Bible in the breast of his hunting shirt. And soon Dick, the bold hunter, and his dog Crusoe, became renowned in the frontier settlements from the banks of the Yellow Stone River to the Gulf of Mexico. Many a grizzly bear did the famous "silver rifle" lay low, and many a wild exciting chase and adventure did Dick go through, but during his occasional visits to the Mustang Valley, he was wont to say to Joe Blunt and Henri--with whom he always sojourned--that "nothin' he ever felt or saw came up to his first grand dash over the Western Prairies into the heart of the Rocky Mountains." And in saying this, with enthusiasm in his eye and voice, Dick invariably appealed to, and received a ready affirmative glance from, his early companion, and his faithful loving friend--the dog Crusoe. THE END. 
37330	----	Aileen Aroon, A Memoir With other Tales of Faithful Friends and Favourites By Gordon Stables Published by S.W. Partridge & Co., 9 Paternoster Row, London. This edition dated 1884. Aileen Aroon, A Memoir, by Gordon Stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ AILEEN AROON, A MEMOIR, BY GORDON STABLES. PREFACE. Prefaces are not always necessary; but when an author has either to acknowledge a courtesy, or to make an apology, then a preface becomes a duty. I have to do both. Firstly, then, as regards acknowledgment. I have endeavoured in this book to give sketches--as near to nature as a line could be drawn--of a few of my former friends and favourites in the animal world, and many of these have appeared from time to time in the magazines and periodicals, to which I have the honour to contribute. I have to thank, then, the good old firm of Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, for courteously acceding to my request to be allowed to republish "My Cabin Mates and Bedfellows," and "Blue-Jackets' Pets," from their world-known Journal. I have also to thank Messrs. Cassell and Co., London, for the re-appearance herein of several short stories I wrote for their charming magazine _Little Folks_, on the pages of which, by the way, the sun never sets. Mr Dean, one of my publishers, kindly permitted me to reprint the story of my dead-and-gone darling "Tyro," and the story of "Blucher." This gentleman I beg to thank. I have also to thank Messrs. Routledge and Son for a little tale from my book, "The Domestic Cat." Nor must I forget to add that I have taken a few sketches, though no complete tales, from some of my contributions to that queen of periodicals yclept _The Girl's Own Paper_, to edit which successfully, requires as much skill and taste, as an artist displays in the culling and arrangement of a bouquet of beautiful flowers. With the exception of these tales and sketches, all else in the book is original, and, I need hardly add, painted from the life. Secondly, as regards apology. The wish to have, in a collected form, the life-stories of the creatures one has loved; to have, as it were, the graves of the pets of one's past life arranged side by side, is surely only natural; no need to apologise for that, methinks. But, reader, I have to apologise, and I do so most humbly, for the too frequent appearance of the "_ego_" in this work. I have had no wish to be autobiographical, but my own life has been as intimately mixed up with the lives of the creatures that have called me "master," as is the narrow yellow stripe, in the tartan plaid of the Scottish clan to which I belong. And so I crave forgiveness. Gordon Stables. _Gordon Grove, Twyford, Berks_. CHAPTER ONE. PROLOGISTIC. Scene: A lofty pine wood, from which can be caught distant glimpses of the valley of the Thames. "Aileen Aroon," a noble Newfoundland, has thrown herself down by her master's side. All the other dogs at play in the wood. Aileen's master (_speaks_): "And so you have come and laid yourself down beside me, Aileen, and left your playmates every one? left your playmates roaming about among the trees, while you stay here by me? "Yes, you may put your head on my knee, dear, honest Aileen, or your chin at all events, for you yourself, old girl, have no idea of the weight of your whole head. No, Aileen, thank you, not a paw as well; you are really attempting now to take the advantage of my good nature. So be content, `Sable' [Note 1]--my good, old, silly, simple Sable. There, I smooth your bonnie brow to show you that the words `old' and `silly' are truly terms of endearment, and meant neither as a scoff at your age, nor to throw disparagement upon the amount or quality of your intellect. Intellect? Who could glance for a single moment at that splendid head of yours, my Aileen, and doubt it to be the seat of a wisdom almost human, and of a benevolence that might easily put many of our poor fallen race to shame. And so I smooth your bonnie brow thus, and thus. But now, let us understand each other, Aileen. We must have done with endearments for a little time. For beautiful though the day be, blue the sky, and bright the sunshine, I really have come out here to the quiet woods to work. It is for that very purpose I have seated myself beneath this great tree, the branches of which are close and thick enough to defend us against yonder shower, that comes floating up the valley of the Thames, if indeed it can ever reach this height, my Sable. "No noisy school children, no village cries to disturb and distract one here, and scatter his half-formed ideas to the winds, or banish his best thoughts to the shades of oblivion. Everything is still around us, everything is natural; the twittering of the birds, the dreamy hum of insect life, the sweet breath of the fir-trees, combine to calm the mind and conduce to thought. "Why do I not come and romp and play? you ask. I cannot explain to you why. There _are_ some things, Aileen, that even the vast intellect of a Newfoundland cannot comprehend; the electric telegraph, for instance, the telephone, and why a man must work. You do not doubt the existence of what you do not understand, however, my simple Sable. We poor mortal men do. What a thing faith is even in a Newfoundland! "No, Sable, I must work. Here look, is proof of the fifteenth chapter of my serial tale, copy of the sixteenth must go to town with that. In this life, Aileen, one must keep ahead of the printer. This is all Greek to you, is it? Well then, for just one minute I will talk to you in language that you do understand. "There, you know what I mean, don't you, when I fondle your ear, and smooth it and spread it over my note-book? What a great ear it is, Aileen! No, I positively refuse to have that paw on my knee in addition to your head. Don't be offended, I know you love me. There, put back that foot on the grass. "Yes, Aileen, it _was_ very good of you, I admit, to leave your fan and your romps, and come and lay your dear kindly head on my lap. The other dogs prefer to play. Even `Theodore Nero,' your husband, is tumbling on the ground on that broad back of his, with his four immense legs pointing skywards, and his whole body convulsed with merriment. The three collies are in chase of a hare, the occasional excited yelp that is borne along on the breeze can tell us that; we pray they may not meet the keeper. The Dandie Dinmont is hidden away in the dark depths of a rabbit burrow, and the two wiry wee Scotch terriers are eagerly watching the hole 'gainst the rabbit bolts. "Fun and romps did I say, Aileen? Alas! dear doggie, these are hardly the words to apply to your little games, for you seldom play or romp with much heart, greatly though it rejoices me to see you lively. You seldom play with much heart, mavourneen, and when you do play, you seem but to play to please me and you tire all too soon. I know you have a deep sorrow at your heart, for you lost your former master, Aileen, and you are not likely to forget him. There always is a sad look in those hazel eyes of yours, and forgive me for mentioning it, but you are turning very grey around the lips. Your bright saucy-eyed husband yonder is three years older than you, Sable, and he isn't grey. But, Aileen, I know something that you don't know, poor pet, for I'm very learned compared to you. The seeds of that terrible disease, phthisis, are in your blood, I fear, and will one day take you from me, and I'll have to sit and write under this tree--alone. I'm talking Greek again, am I? It is as well, Aileen, it should be Greek to you. Why do my eyes get a trifle moist, you seem to ask me. Never mind. There! the sad thoughts have all flown away for a time, but, my dear, loving dog, when you have gone to sleep at last and for ever, I'll find a quiet corner to lay your bones in, and--I'll write your story. Yes, I promise you that, and it is more than any one will ever do for me, Aileen. "Don't sigh like that. You have a habit of sighing, you tell me. Very well, so be it, but I thought at first that it was the wind soughing through this old pine-tree of ours. Yes, _ours_--yours and mine, Aileen. Now, _do_ let me work. See, I'll put my note-book close to your great nose, and your chin shall touch my left hand; you can lie so and gaze all the time in my face. That will help me materially. But by-and-by you'll fall asleep and dream, and I'll have to wake you, because you'll be giving vent to a whole series of little ventriloquistic barks and sobs and sighs, and I will not know whether you are in pain or whether your mind is but reverting to-- "`Visions of the chase, Of wild wolves howling over hills of snow, Slain by your stalwart fathers, long ago.'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The subject of this memoir was called `Sable' before she came into my possession. She is well remembered by all lovers of the true Newfoundland, as Sable One of the show benches, and was generally admitted to be the largest and most handsome of her breed and sex ever exhibited.--The Author. CHAPTER TWO. INTRODUCING AILEEN AROON. "With eye upraised his master's looks to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man, The rich man's guardian, and the poor man's friend, The only creature faithful to the end." Crabbe. "The Newfoundland, take him all in all, is unsurpassed, and possibly unequalled as the companion of man."--_Idstone_. "These animals are faithful, good-natured, and friendly. They will allow no one to injure either their master or his property, however great be the danger. They only want the faculty of speech to make their good wishes understood."--"_Newfoundland Dogs_," in _McGregor's "Historical and Descriptive Sketches of British America_." _Dog Barks_. Shepherd.--"Heavens! I could hae thocht that was `Bronte.'" _Christopher North_.--"No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound." _Shepherd_.--"Purple black was he all over, as the raven's wing. Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness lay deep down within the quiet lustre of his eye, that tauld ye, had he been angered he could hae torn in pieces a lion." _North_.--"Not a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward."--"_Noctes Ambrosianae_." "Heigho!" I sighed, as I sat stirring the fire one evening in our little cosy cottage. "So that little dream is at an end." "Twenty guineas," said my wife, opening her eyes in sad surprise. "Twenty guineas! It is a deal of money, dear." "Yes," I assented, "it is a deal of money for us. Not, mind you, that Sable isn't worth double. She has taken the highest honours on the show benches; her pedigree is a splendid one, and all the sporting papers are loud in her praises. She is the biggest and grandest Newfoundland ever seen in this country. But twenty guineas! Yes, that is a deal of money." "I wish I could make the money with my needle, dear," my wife remarked, after a few minutes' silence. "I wish I could make the money with my pen, Dot," I replied; "but I fear even pen and needle both together won't enable us to afford so great a luxury for some time to come. There are bills that must be paid; both baker and butcher would soon begin to look sour if they didn't get what they call their little dues." "Yes," said Dot, "and there are these rooms to be papered and painted." "To say nothing of a new carpet to be bought," I said, "and oilcloth for the lobby, and seeds for the garden." "Yes, dear," said my wife, "and that American rocking-chair that you've set your heart upon." "Oh, that can wait, Dot. There are plenty other things needed more than that. But it is quite evident, Sable is out of the question for the present." I looked down as I spoke, and patted the head of my champion Newfoundland Theodore Nero, who had entered unseen and was gazing up in my face with his bonnie hazel eyes as if he comprehended every word of the conversation. "Poor Nero," I said, "I _should_ have liked to have had Sable just to be a mate and companion for you, old boy." The great dog looked from me to my wife, and back again at me, and wagged his enormous tail. "I've got you, master," he seemed to say, "and my dear mistress. What more could I wish?" Just as I pen these lines, gentle reader, two little toddlers are coming home from forenoon school, with slates under their arms; but when the above conversation took place, no toddlers were on the books, as they say in the navy. We were not long married. It was nine long years ago, or going on that way. The previous ten years of my life had been spent at sea; but service in Africa had temporarily ruined my health, so that invaliding on a modicum of half-pay seemed more desirable than active service on full. These were the dear old days of poverty and romance. Retirement from active duty afloat and--marriage. It is too often the case that he who marries for love has to work for siller. Henceforward, literature was to be my staff, if not the crutch on which I should limp along until "my talents should be recognised," as my wife grandly phrased it. "Poor and content is rich, and rich enough," says the greatest William that ever lived. There is nothing to be ashamed of in poverty, and just as little to boast about. Naval officers who retire young are all poor. I know some who once upon a time were used to strut the quarter-deck or ship's bridge in blue and gold, and who are now, God help them, selling tea or taking orders for wine. "With all my worldly goods I thee endow." I squeezed the hand of my bride at the altar as I spoke the words, and well she knew the pressure was meant to recall to her mind a fact of which she was already cognisant, that "all my worldly goods" consisted of a Cremona fiddle, and my Newfoundland dog, and my old sea-chest; but the bottom of that was shaky. But to resume my story. "Hurrah!" I shouted some mornings after, as I opened the letters. "Here's news, Dot. We're going to have Sable after all. Hear how D. O'C writes. He says-- "`Though I have never met you, judging from what I have seen of your writings, I would rather you accepted Sable as a gift, than that any one else should have my favourite for money,' and so on and so forth." These are not the exact words of the letter, but they convey the exact meaning. Sable was to come by boat from Ireland, and I was to go to Bristol, a distance of seventy miles, to meet her, for no one who values the life and limbs of a dog, would trust to the tender mercies of the railway companies. "I'll go with you, Gordon," said my dear friend, Captain D--. Like myself, he had been a sailor, but unmarried, for, as he used to express it, "he had pulled up in time." He had taken _Punch's_ advice to people about to marry--"Don't." Captain D--didn't. "Well, Frank," I said, "I'll be very glad indeed of your company." So off we started the night before, for the boat would be in the basin at Hotwells early the next morning. The scene and the din on board that Irish boat beggars description, and I do not know which made the most noise, the men or the pigs. I think if anything the pigs did. It seemed to me that evil spirits had entered into the pigs, and they wanted to throw themselves into the sea. I believe evil spirits had entered into the men, too; some of them, at all events, _smelt_ of evil spirits. "Is it a thremendeous big brute 'av a black dog you've come to meet, sorr?" said the cook to me. "Yes," I replied, "a big black dog, but not a brute." "Well, poor baste, sorr, it's in my charge she has been all the way, and she's had lashin's to ate and to drink. Thank you koindly, sir, and God bless your honour. Yonder she is, sorr, tied up foreninst the horse-box, and she's been foighting with the pigs all the noight, sorr." She certainly had been fighting with the pigs, for she herself was wounded, and the ears of some of the pigs were in tatters. Sable was looking very sour and sulky. She certainly had not relished the company she had been placed among. She permitted me to lead her on shore; then she gave me one glance, and cast one towards my friend. "You'll be the _man_ that has come for me," she said; she did not say "the gentleman." "Who is your fat friend?" she added. We both caressed her without eliciting the slightest token on her part of any desire to improve our acquaintance. "You may pat me," she told us, "and call me pet names as much as you please. I won't bite you as I did the pigs, but I don't care a bone for either of you, and, what is more, I never intend to. I have left my heart in Ireland; my master is there." "Come on, Sable," I said; "we'll go now and have some breakfast." "Don't pull," said Sable; "I'm big enough to break the chain and bolt if I wish to. I'll go with you, but I'll neither be dragged nor driven." No dog ever had a better breakfast put before her, but she would not deign even to look at it. "Yes," she seemed to say, "it is very nice, and smells appetising, and I'm hungry, too; a bite of a sow's ear is all I've had since I left home; but for all that I don't mean to eat; I'm going to starve myself to death, that is what I'm going to do." It is very wrong and unfair to bring home any animal, whether bird or beast, to one's house without having previously made everything needful ready for its reception. Sable's comfort had not been forgotten, and on her arrival we turned her into the back yard, where, in a small wooden house, was a bed of the cleanest straw, to say nothing of a dish of wholesome food, and a bowl of the purest water. The doors to the yard were locked, but no chain was put on the new pet, for the walls were seven feet high or nearly so, and her safety was thus insured. So we thought, but, alas for our poor logic! We had yet to learn what Sable's jumping capabilities were. When I wrote next day, and told her old master that Sable had leapt the high wall and fled, the reply was that he regretted very much not having told me, that she was the most wonderful dog to jump ever he had seen or heard tell of. Meanwhile Sable was gone. But where or whither? The country is well-wooded, but there are plenty of sheep in it. Judging from Sable's pig-fighting qualities, I felt sure she would not starve, if she chose to feed on sheep. But one sheep a day, even for a week, would make a hole in my quarter's half-pay, and I shuddered to think of the little bill Sable might in a very short time run me up. No one had seen Sable. So days passed; then came a rumour that some school children had been frightened nearly out of their little wits by the appearance of an enormous bear, in a wood some miles from our cottage. My hopes rose; the bear must be Sable. So an expedition was organised to go in search of her. The rank and file of this expedition consisted of schoolboys. I myself was captain, and Theodore Nero, the Newfoundland, was first lieutenant. We were successful. My heart jumped for joy as I saw the great dog in the distance. But she would not suffer any one to come near her. That was not her form. I must walk on and whistle, and she would follow. I was glad enough to close with the offer, and gladder still when we reached home before she changed her mind and went off again. Chaining now became imperative until Sable became reconciled to her situation in life, until I had succeeded in taming her by kindness. This was by no means an easy task. For weeks she never responded to either kind word or caress, but one day Sable walked up to me as I sat writing, and, much to my surprise, offered me her great paw. "Shake hands," she seemed to say as she wagged her tail, "Shake hands. You're not half such a bad fellow as I first took you for." My friend, Captain D--, was delighted, and we must needs write at once to Sable's old master to inform him of the unprecedented event. Sable became every day more friendly and loving in her own gentle undemonstrative and quiet fashion. But as yet she had never barked. One day, however, on throwing a stick to Nero, she too ran after it, and on making pretence to throw it again, Sable began to caper. Not gracefully perhaps, but still it was capering, and finally she barked. When I told friend Frank he was as much overjoyed as I was. I suggested writing at once to Ireland and making the tidings known. "A letter, Gordon," said my friend emphatically, "will not meet the requirements of the case. Let us telegraph. Let us wire, thus--`_Sable has barked_.'" The good dog's former master was much pleased at the receipt of the information. "She will do now," he wrote; "and I'm quite easy in my mind about her." Now all this may appear very trivial to some of my readers, but there really was for a time, a probability that Sable would die of sheer grief, as, poor dog, she eventually succumbed to consumption. We were, if possible, kinder to Sable, or Aileen Aroon, as she was now called, than ever. She became the constant companion of all our walks and rambles, and developed more and more excellences every week. Without being what might be called brilliant, Aileen was clever and most teachable. She never had been a trained or educated dog. Theodore Nero had, and whether he took pity on his wife's ignorance or not, I cannot say, but he taught her a very great deal she never knew anything about before. Here is a proof that Aileen's reasoning powers were of no mean order. When Master Nero wanted a tit-bit he was in the habit of making a bow for it. The bow consisted in a graceful inclination or lowering of the chest and head between the outstretched fore-paws. Well, Aileen was not long in perceiving that the performing of this little ceremony always procured for her husband a morsel of something nice to eat, that "To boo, and to boo, and to boo," was the best of policies. She therefore took to it without any tuition, and to see those "twa dogs," standing in front of me when a biscuit or two were on the board, and booing, and booing, and booing, was a sight to have made a dray-horse smile. I am sure that Nero soon grew exceedingly fond of his new companion, and she of him in her quiet way. I may state here parenthetically, that Master Nero had had a companion before Aileen. His previous experience of the married state, however, had not been a happy one. His wife, "Bessie" to name, had taken to habits of intemperance. She had been used to one glass of beer a day before she came to me, and it was thought it might injure her to stop it. If she had kept to this, it would not have mattered, but she used to run away in the evenings, and go to a public-house, where she would always find people willing to treat her for the mere curiosity of seeing a dog drink. When she came home she was not always so steady as she might be, but foolishly affectionate. She would sit down by me and insist upon shaking hands about fifteen times every minute, or she would annoy Nero by pawing him till he growled at her, and told her, or seemed to tell her, she ought to be ashamed of herself for being in the state she was. She was very fat, and after drinking beer used to take Nero's bed from him and sleep on her back snoring, much to his disgust. This dog was afterwards sold to Mr Montgomery, of Oxford, who stopped her allowance for some months, after which she would neither look at ale nor gin-and-water, of which latter she used to be passionately fond. Aileen and Nero used to be coupled together in the street with a short chain attached to their collars. But not always; they used to walk together jowl to jowl, whether they were coupled or not, and these two splendid black dogs were the wonder and admiration of all who beheld them. Whatever one did the other did, they worked in couple. When I gave my stick to Nero to carry, Aileen must have one end of it. When we went shopping they carried the stick thus between them, with a bag or basket slung between, and their steadiness could be depended on. They used to spring into the river or into the sea from a boat both together, and both together bring out whatever was thrown to them. Their immense heads above the water both in friendly juxta-position, were very pretty to look at. They were in the habit of hunting rats or rabbits in couples, one going up one side of the hedge, the other along the other side. I am sorry to say they used at times, for the mere fun of the thing, and out of no real spirit of ill-nature, to hunt horses as well as rabbits, one at one side of the horse the other at the other, and likewise bicyclists; this was great fun for the dogs, but the bicyclists looked at the matter from quite another point of view. But I never managed to break them altogether of these evil habits. It has often seemed to me surprising how one dog will encourage another in doing mischief. A few dogs together will conceive and execute deeds of daring, that an animal by himself would never even dream of attempting. As I travelled a good deal by train at that time, and always took my two dogs with me, it was more convenient to go into the guard's van with my pets, than take a first or second class carriage by storm. I shall never forget being put one day with the two dogs into a large almost empty van. It was almost empty, but not quite. There was a ram tied up at the far end of it. Now if this ram had chosen to behave himself, as a ram in respectable society ought to, it would have saved me a deal of trouble, and the ram some danger. But no sooner had the train started than the obstreperous brute began to bob his head and stamp his feet at me and my companions in the most ominous way. Luckily the dogs were coupled; I could thus more easily command them. But no sooner had the ram begun to stamp and bob, than both dogs commenced to growl, and wanted to fly straight at him. "Let us kill that insolent ram," said Nero, "who dares to stamp and nod at us." "Yes," cried Aileen, "happy thought! let us kill him." I was ten minutes in that van before the train pulled up, ten minutes during which I had to exercise all the tact of a great general in order to keep the peace. Had the ram, who was just as eager for the fray as the dogs, succeeded in breaking his fastenings, hostilities would have commenced instantly, and I would have been powerless. By good luck the train stopped in time to prevent a catastrophe, and we got out, but for nearly a week, as a result of my struggle with the dogs, I ached all over and felt as limp as a stranded jelly-fish. CHAPTER THREE. CONTAINING THE STORY OF ONE OF AILEEN'S FRIENDS. "The straw-thatched cottage, or the desert air, To him's a palace if his master's there." Just eighteen months after the events mentioned in last chapter, as novelists say, things took a turn for the better, and we retired a little farther into the country into a larger house. A bigger house, though certainly not a mansion; but here are gardens and lawn and paddock, kennels for dogs, home for cats, and aviaries for birds, many a shady nook in which to hang a hammock in the summer months, and a garden wigwam, which makes a cool study even in hot weather, bedraped as it is in evergreens, and looks a cosy wee room in winter, when the fire is lighted and the curtains are drawn. "Ah! Gordon," dear old Frank used to say--and there was probably a grain of truth in the remark--"there is something about the quiet contented life you lead in your cottage, with its pleasant surroundings, that reminds me forcibly of the idyllic existence of your favourite bard, Horace, in his home by the banks of the Anio. "`Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, Ut prisca gens mortalium, Patenta rure bubus exercet suis Solutus omni fenore, Neque excitatur classico miles truci Neque horret iratum mare.'" "True, Frank," I replied, "at sea I often thought I would dearly love a country life. My ambition--and I believe I represent quite a large majority of my class--used to be, that one day I might be able to retire on a comfortable allowance--half-pay, for instance--take a house with a morsel of land, and keep a cow and a pony, and go in for rearing poultry, fruit, and all that sort of thing. Such was my dream. "There were six of us in our mess in the saucy little `Pen-gun.' "It was hot out there on the East Coast of Africa, where we were stationed, and we did our best to make it hotter--for the dhows which we captured, at all events, because we burned them. Nearly all day, and every day, we were in chase, mostly of slave dhows, but sometimes of jolly three-masters. "Away out in the broad channel of the blue Mozambique, with never a cloud in the sky, nor a ripple on the ocean's breast, tearing along at the rate of twelve knots an hour, with the chase two miles ahead, and happy in the thoughts of quite a haul of prize-money, it wasn't half bad fun, I can assure you. Then we could whistle `A sailor's life is the life for me,' and feel the mariner all over. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "But, when the chase turned out to be no prize, but only a legitimate trader, when the night closed in dark and stormy, with a roaring wind and a chopping sea, then, it must be confessed, things did not look quite so much _couleur de rose_, dot a mariner's life so merry-o! "On nights like these, when the fiddles were shipped across the table to keep things straight--for a lively lass was the saucy `Pen-gun,' and thought no more of breaking half-a-dozen wine-glasses, than she did of going stem first in under a wave she was too lazy to mount--when the fiddles were shipped, when we had wedged ourselves into all sorts of corners, so as we shouldn't slip about and fall, when the steward had brought the coffee and the biscuits called ships', then it was our wont to sit and sip and talk and build our castles in the air. "`It's all very fine,' one of us would say, `to talk of the pleasures of a sailor's life, it's all very well in songs; but, if I could only get on shore now, on retired pay--' "`Why, what would you do?'--a chorus. "`Why, go in for the wine trade like a shot,' from the first speaker. `That's the way to make money. Derogatory, is it? Well, I don't see it; I'd take to tea--' "Chorus again: `Oh! come, I say!' "Some one, more seriously and thoughtfully: `No; but wouldn't you like to be a farmer?' The ship kicks, a green sea breaks over her. We are used to it, but don't like it, even although we do take the cigars from our lips, as we complacently view the water pouring down the hatchway and rising around our chairs' legs. "`A farmer, you know, somewhere in the midland counties; green fields and lowing kine; a nice stream, meandering--no not meandering, but-- "`Chattering over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, Bubbling into eddying bays. Babbling o'er the pebbles; Winding about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.' "`Yes,' from another fellow, `and of course a comfortable house of solid English masonry, and hounds not very far off, so as one could cut away to a hunt whenever he liked.' "`And of course balls and parties, and a good dinner _every_ day.' "`And picnics often, and the seaside in season, and shooting all the year round.' "`And I'd go in for bees.' "`Oh! yes, I think every fellow would go in for bees.' "`And have a field of Scottish heather planted on purpose for them: fancy how nice that would look in summer!' "`And I'd have a rose garden.' "`Certainly; nothing could be done without a rose garden.' "`Then one could go in for poultry, and grow one's own eggs.' "`Hear the fellow!--fancy _growing_ eggs!' "`Well, lay them, then--it's all the same. I'm not so green as to imagine eggs grow on trees.' "`And think of the fruit one might have.' "`And the mushroom beds.' "`And brew one's own beer and cider.' "`And of course one could go in for dogs.' "`Oh! la! yes--have them all about the place. Elegant Irish setters, dainty greyhounds, cobby wee fox-terriers, a noble Newfoundland or two, and a princely bloodhound at each side of the hall-door.' "`That's the style!' "`Now, give us a song, Pelham!' "`What shall it be--Dibdin?' "`No, Pelham, give us, "Sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane," or something in that style. Let us fancy we are farmers. Doesn't she pitch and roll, though! Dibdin and Russell are all very well on shore, or sitting under an awning in fine weather when homeward bound. We're not homeward bound--worse luck!--so heave round with the "Flower o' Dumblane."' "My dream has in some measure been fulfilled, my good friend Frank; I can sit now under my own vine and my own fig-tree, but still look back with a certain degree of pleasure to many a night spent on board that heaving, pitching, saucy, wee ship." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Our new home nestles among trees not far from a very primitive wee town indeed. We have only to descend along the hill-side through the pine-trees, wind some way round the knoll, and there at our feet lies _our_ village--Fernydale, to wit. It might just as well be called Sleepy Hollow, such a dreamy little spot it is. Not very far from a great line of rails--just far enough to subdue the roar of the trains, that night and day go whirling past in a drowsy monotone, like the distant sound of falling water. Everything and everybody about our little village looks quiet and drowsy; the little church itself, that nestles among the wealth of foliage, looks the picture of drowsiness, and the very smoke seems as if it preferred lingering in Fernydale to ascending upwards and joining the clouds. We have a mill here--oh! such a drowsy old mill! No one was ever known to be able to pass that mill without nodding. Intoxicated lieges, who have lain down to rest opposite that mill, have been known to sleep the sleep that knows no waking; and if at any time you stop your horse for a moment on the road, while you talk to the miller, the animal soon begins to nod; and he nods, and nods, and nid-nid-nods, and finally goes to sleep entirely, and it takes no end of trouble to start him off again. Our very birds are drowsy. The larks don't care to sing a bit more than suffices for conjugal felicity, and the starlings are constantly tumbling down our bedroom chimney, and making such a row that we think the burglars have come. The bees are drowsy; they don't gather honey with any degree of activity; they don't seem to care whether they gather it or not. They are often too lazy to fly back to hive, and don't go home till morning; and if you were to take a walk along our road at early dawn--say 11:45 a.m.--you would often find these bees sitting limp-winged and half asleep on fragrant thistle-tops, and if you poked at them with a stalk of hay, and tried to reason with them, they would just lift one lazy fore-leg and beckon you off, as much as to say, peevishly-- "Oh! what was I born for? _Can't_ you leave a poor fellow alone? What do ye come pottering around here at midnight for?" Such is the hum-drum drowsiness of little Fernydale. But bonny is our cottage in spring and summer, when the pink-eyed chestnuts are all ablaze at the foot of the lawn, when flowers bloom white on the scented rowans, when the yellow gorse on the knoll beyond glints through the green of the trees, when the merlin sings among the drooping limes, and the croodling pigeons make soft-eyed love on the eaves; and there is beauty about it, too, even in winter, when the world is robed in snow, when the leafless branches point to leaden skies, and the robin, tired of his sweet little song, taps on the panes with his tiny bill, for the crumbs he has never to ask for in vain. It was one winter's evening in the year eighteen hundred and seventy something, that Frank stood holding our parlour-door in his hand, while he gazed with a pleased smile at the group around the fire. It wasn't a large group. There were Dot and Ida knitting: and my humble self sitting, book in hand and pipe in mouth. Then there were the Newfoundland dogs on the hearth, and pussy singing on the footstool, singing a duet with the kettle on the hob. And I must not forget to mention "Poll," the parrot. Nobody knew how old Polly was, but with her extreme wisdom you couldn't help associating age. She didn't speak much at a time; like many another sage, she went in for being laconic, pithy, and to the point. I think, however, that some day or other Polly will tell us quite a long story, for she often clears her throat and says, "_Now_," in quite an emphatic manner; then she cocks her head, and says "Are you listening?" "We are all attention, Polly," we reply. So Polly begins again with her decided "_Now_;" but up to this date she has not succeeded in advancing one single sentence farther towards the completion of her story. Well, upon the winter's evening in question Frank stood there, holding the door and smiling to himself, and any one could see at a glance that Frank was pregnant with an idea. "I've been thinking," said Frank, "that there is nothing needed to complete the happiness of the delightful evenings we spend here, except a story-teller." "No one better able than yourself, Frank, to fill the post," I remarked. "Well, now," said Frank, "for that piece of arrant flattery, I fine you a story." "Read us that little sketch about `Dandie,'" my wife said. "Yes, do," cried Ida, looking up from her work. If a man is asked to do anything like this he ought to do it heartily. Dandie, I may premise, is, or rather was, a contemporary of Aileen Aroon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ OUR DANDIE. A very long doggie is Dandie, with little short bits of legs, nice close hanging ears, hair as strong and rough as the brush you use for your hair, and a face--well, some say it is ugly; I myself, and all my friends, think it is most engaging. To be sure, it is partially hidden with bonnie soft locks of an ambery or golden hue; but push those locks aside, and you will see nothing in those beautiful dark hazel eyes but love and fun. For Dandie is fall of fun. Oh! doesn't she enjoy a run out with the children! On the road she goes feathering, here, there, and everywhere. Her legs are hardly straight, you must understand--the legs of very few Dandies are, for they are so accustomed to go down drains, and all sorts of holes, and go scraping here, and scraping there, that their feet and fore-legs turn at last something like a mole's. Dandie wasn't always the gentle loving creature she is now, and this is the reason I am writing her story. Here, then, is how I came by Dandie. I was sitting in my study one morning, writing as usual, when a carriage stopped at the door, and presently a friend was announced. "Why, Dawson, my boy!" I cried, getting up to greet him, "what wind blew you all the way here?" "Not a good one, by any means," said Dawson; "I came to see you." "Well, well, sit down, and tell me all about it. I sincerely hope Miss Hall is well." "Well! yes," he replied abstractedly. "I think I've done all for the best; though that policeman nearly had her. But she left her mark on him. Ha! ha!" I began to think my friend was going out of his mind. "Dawson," I said, "what have you done with her?" "She's outside in the carriage," replied Dawson. I jumped up to ring the bell, saying, "Why, Dawson, pray have the young lady in. It is cruel to leave her by herself." Dawson jumped up too, and placing his hand on my arm, prevented me from touching the bell-rope. "Nay, nay!" he cried, almost wildly, I thought; "pray do not think of it. She would bite you, tear you, rend you. Oh, she is a _vixen_!" This last word he pronounced with great emphasis, and sinking once more into the chair, and gazing abstractedly at the fire, he added, "And still I love her, good little thing!" I now felt quite sorry for Dawson. A moment ago I merely _thought_ he was out of his mind, now I felt perfectly sure of it. There was a few minutes' silence; and then suddenly my friend rushed to the window, exclaiming-- "There, there! She's at it again! She has got the cabby by the coat-tails, and she'll eat her way through him in five minutes, if I don't go." And out he ran; and I followed, more mystified than ever; and there in the carriage was no young lady at all, but only the dear little Dandie whose story I am writing. She was most earnestly engaged in tearing the driver's blue coat into the narrowest strips, and growling all the while most vigorously. She quieted down, however, immediately on perceiving her master, jumped into his arms, and began to lick his face. So the mystery was cleared up; and half an hour afterwards I was persuaded to become the owner of that savage Dandie, and Dawson had kissed her, and left lighter in heart than when he had come. I set aside one of the best barrel kennels for her, had a quantity of nice dry straw placed therein, and gave her two dishes, one to be filled daily with pure clean water--without which, remember, no dog can be healthy--and the other to hold her food. Now, I am not afraid of any dog. I have owned many scores in my time, and by treating them gently and firmly, I always managed to subdue even the most vicious among them, and get them to love me. But I must confess that this Dandie was the most savage animal that I had ever yet met. When I went to take her dish away next morning, to wash and replenish it, only my own celerity in beating a retreat prevented my legs from being viciously bitten. I then endeavoured to remove the dish with the stable besom. Alas for the besom! Howling and growling with passion, with scintillating eyes and flashing teeth, she tore that broom to atoms, and then attacked the handle. But I succeeded in feeding her, after which she was quieter. Now, dogs, to keep them in health, need daily exercise, and I determined Dandie should not want that, wild though she seemed to be. There was another scene when I went to unloose her; and I found the only chance of doing so was to treat her as they do wild bulls in some parts of the country. I got a hook and attached it to the end of a pole the same length as the chain. I could then keep her at a safe distance. And thus for a whole week I had to lead her out for exercise. I lost no opportunity of making friends with her, and in about a fortnight's time I could both take her dish away without a broom and lead her out without the pole. She was still the vixen, however, which her former master had called her. When she was presented with a biscuit, she wouldn't think of eating it, before she had had her own peculiar game with it. She would lay it first against the back of the barrel, and for a time pretend not to see it, then suddenly she would look round, next fly at it, growling and yelping with rage, and shake it as she would a rat. Into such a perfect fury and frenzy did she work herself during her battle with the biscuit, that sometimes on hearing her chain rattle she would turn round and seize and shake it viciously. I have often, too, at these times seen her bite her tail because it dared to wag--bite it till the blood sprang, then with a howl of pain bite and bite it again and again. At last I made up my mind to feed her only on soil food, and that resolution I have since stuck to. Poor Dandie had now been with us many months, and upon the whole her life, being almost constantly on the chain, was by no means a very happy one. Her hair, too, got matted, and she looked altogether morose and dirty, and it was then that the thought occurred to my wife and me that she would be much better _dead_. I considered the matter in all its bearings for fully half an hour, and it was then I suddenly jumped up from my chair. "What _are_ you going to do?" asked my wife. "I'm going to wash Dandie; wash her, comb out all her mats, dry her, and brush her, for, do you know, I feel quite guilty in having neglected her." My wife, in terror of the consequences of washing so vicious a dog, tried to dissuade me. But my mind was made up, and shortly after so was Dandie's bed--of clean dry straw in a warm loft above the stable. "Firmly and kindly does it," I had said to myself, as I seized the vixen by the nape of the neck, and in spite of her efforts to rend any part of my person she could lay hold of, I popped her into the tub. Vixen, did I say? She was popped into the tub a vixen, sure enough, but I soon found out I had "tamed the shrew," and after she was rinsed in cold water, well dried, combed, and brushed, the poor little thing jumped on my knee and kissed me. Then I took her for a run--a thing one ought never to neglect after washing a dog. And you wouldn't have known Dandie now, so beautiful did she look. Dandie is still alive, and lies at my feet as I write, a living example of the power of kindness. She loves us all, and will let my sister, wife, or little niece do anything with her, but she is still most viciously savage to nearly all strangers. She is the best guard-dog that I ever possessed, and a terror to tramps. She is very wise too, this Dandie of mine, for when out walking with any one of my relations, she is as gentle as a lamb, and will let anybody fondle her. She may thus be taken along with us with impunity when making calls upon friends, but very few indeed of those friends dare go near her when in her own garden or kennel. We have been well rewarded for our kindness to Dandie, for although her usual residence by day is her own barrel, and by night she has a share of the straw with the other dogs, she is often taken into the house, and in spite of our residence being in a somewhat lonely situation, whenever I go from home for the night she becomes a parlour boarder, and I feel quite easy in my mind because _Dandie is in the house_. "Well," said Frank, when I had finished, "if that little story proves anything, it proves, I think, that almost any dog can be won by kindness." "Or any animal of almost any kind," I added. "Ah!" cried Frank, laughing, "but you failed with your hyaena. Didn't you?" "Gratitude," I replied, smiling, "does not occupy a very large corner in a hyaena's heart, Frank." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. Since writing the above, poor Dandie has gone to her little grave in the orchard. CHAPTER FOUR. DEDICATED TO GIRLS AND BOYS ONLY. "A little maiden, frank and fair, With rosy lips apart, And sunbeams glinting in her hair, And sunshine at her heart." In my last chapter I mentioned the name of Ida. Ida Graham was my little niece. Alas! she no longer brightens our home with the sunshine of her smile. Poor child, she was very beautiful. We all thought so, and every one else who saw her. I have but to close my eyes for a moment and I see her again knitting quietly by the fire on a winter's evening, or reading by the open window in the cool of a summer's day; or, reticule in hand, tripping across the clovery lea, the two great dogs, Aileen and Nero, bounding in front of her; or blithely singing as she feeds her canaries; or out in the yard beyond, surrounded by hens and cocks, pigeons, ducks, and geese, laughing gaily as she scatters the barley she carries in her little apron. It was not a bit strange that every creature loved Ida Graham, from the dogs to the bees. We lost her one day, I remember, in summer-time, and found her at last sound asleep by the foot of a tree, with deer browsing quietly near her, a hare washing its face within a yard of her, and wild birds hopping around and on her. Such was Ida. It is no wonder, then, that we miss the dear child. Very often I would have Ida all to myself for a whole day, when my wife was in town or visiting, and Frank was gardening or had the gout, for he suffered at times from that aristocratic but tantalising ailment. On these occasions, when the weather was fine, we always took the dogs and went off to spend an hour or two in the woods. If it rained we stayed indoors, seated by the open window in order to be near the birds. But wet day or fine, Ida generally managed to get a story from me. It was in the wood, and seated beneath the old pine-tree, that I told her the following. I called it-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ PUFF: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PERSIAN PUSSY. I am one of seven. Very much to the grief and sorrow of my poor patient mother, all the rest of my little brothers and sisters met with a watery grave. I did not know what mother meant when she told me this, with tears in her eyes. I was too young then, but I think I know now. But I was left to comfort my parent's heart. This was humane at least in my mistress, because, although it seems the fate of us poor pussies that very many of us come into the world to be speedily drowned, it is cruel, for many reasons, to destroy all a mother's darlings at once. Well, the very earliest thing that I can remember is being taken up in the arms of a pretty young lady. I was two months old then, and had been playing with a ball of worsted, which I had succeeded in getting entangled among the chair-legs. "Oh, what a dear, beautiful, wee puss!" said this young miss, holding me round, so that she might look at my face. "And, oh!" she added, "it has such lovely eyes, and such a nice long coat." "You may have it, Laura dear," said my mistress, "if you will be kind to it." "Thank you so very much," said Laura, "and I know I shall be fond of it always." And I do not doubt for a moment that Laura meant what she said. Her fault, however, and my misfortune lay, as you shall see, in the fact that she did not know a bit how to treat a pussy in order to make it happy. Laura liked me, and romped with me morning and night, it is true; but although cats are ever so fond of attention and of romps, they cannot live upon either, and often and often I have gone hungry to my saucer and found it empty, which made me feel very cold and sad and dispirited. Yet, in spite of this, I grew to be very fond indeed of my new mistress, and as I sometimes managed to catch a mouse I was not so very badly off after all. When I gazed at Miss Laura's gentle face and her sweet eyes--they were just like my own--I could not help thinking that if she only knew how hungry and cold I often was, she would surely feed me twice a day at least. But my crowning sorrow was to come; and this was nothing less than the loss, I fear entirely, of my mistress's affection. My grief was all the more bitter in that I was in some measure to blame for it myself. You see, I was a growing cat, and every day the pangs of hunger seemed more difficult to bear; so one day, when left by myself in the kitchen, I found out a way to open the cupboard, and--pray do not blame me; I do think if you had seen all the nice things therein, and felt as hungry as I felt, you would have tasted them too. One little sin begets another, and before two months were over I was known in the kitchen as "that thief of a cat." I do not think Miss Laura knew of my depredations downstairs, for I was always honest in the parlour, and she would, I feel certain, have forgiven me even if she had known. As I could not be trusted in the kitchen, I was nearly always tamed out-of-doors of a night. This was exceedingly unkind, for it was often dark and rainy and cold, and I could find but little shelter. On dry moonlight nights I did not mind being out, for there was fun to be got--fun and field-mice. Alas! I wish now I had kept to fun and field-mice; but I met with evil company, vagrant outdoor cats, who took a delight in mewing beneath the windows of nervous invalids; who despised indoor life, looked upon theft as a fine art, and robbed pigeon-lofts right and left. Is it any wonder, then, that I soon turned as reckless as any of them? I always came home at the time the milk arrived in the morning, however; and even now, had my young mistress only fed me, I would have changed my evil courses at once. But she did not. Now this constant stopping out in all weathers began to tell on my beautiful coat; it was no longer silky and beautiful. It became matted and harsh, and did show the dirt, so much so that I was quite ashamed to look in the glass. And always, too, I was so tired, all through my wanderings, when I returned of a morning, that I did nothing all day but nod drowsily over the fire. No wonder Miss Laura said one day-- "Oh, pussy, pussy! you do look dirty and disreputable. You are no longer the lovely creature you once were; I cannot care for such a cat as you have grown." But I still loved her, and a kind word from her lips, or a casual caress was sure to make me happy, even in my dullest of moods. The end came sooner than I expected, for one day Miss Laura went from home very early in the morning. As soon as she was gone, Mary Jane, the servant, seized me rudely by the neck. I thought she was going to kill me outright. "I'll take good care, my lady," she said, "that you don't steal anything, at any rate for four-and-twenty hours to come." Then she marched upstairs with me, popped me into my mistress's bedroom, locked the door, and went away chuckling. There was no one else in the room, only just myself and the canary. And all that long day no one ever came near me with so much as a drop of milk. When night came I tried to sleep on Miss Laura's bed, but the pangs of hunger effectually banished slumber. When day broke I felt certain somebody would come to the door. But no. I thought this was so cruel of Mary Jane, especially as I had no language in which to tell my mistress, on her return, of my sufferings. Towards the afternoon I felt famishing, and then my eyes fell upon the canary. "Poor little thing!" said I; "you, too, are neglected and starving." "Tweet, tweet!" said the bird, looking down at me with one eye. "Now, dicky," I continued, "I'm going to do you a great kindness. If you were a very, very large bird, I should ask you to eat me and put me out of all this misery." "Tweet, tweet!" said the bird very knowingly, as much as to say, "I would do it without the slightest hesitation." "Well," said I, "I mean to perform the same good office for you. I cannot see you starving there without trying to ease your sufferings, and so--" Here I sprang at the cage. I draw a veil over what followed. And now my appetite was appeased, but my conscience was awakened. How ever should I be able to face my mistress again? Hark! what is that? It is Miss Laura's footstep on the stair. She is singing as sweetly as only Laura can. She approaches the door; her hand is on the latch. I can stand it no longer. With one bound, with one wild cry, I dash through a pane of glass, and drop almost senseless on to the lawn beneath the window. It was sad enough to have to leave my dear mistress and my dear old home, which, despite all I had endured, I had learned to love, as only we poor pussies can love our homes. But my mind was made up. I had eaten Miss Laura's pet canary, and I dare never, never look her in the face again. Till this time I had lived in the sweet green country, but I now wandered on and on, caring little where I went or what became of me. By day I hid myself in burrows and rat-haunted drains, and at night came forth to seek for food and continue my wanderings. So long as the grass and trees were all around me, I was never in want of anything to eat; but in time all this changed, and gradually I found myself caning nearer and nearer to some great city or town. First, rows upon rows of neatly-built villas and cottages came into view, and by-and-by these gave place to long streets where never a green thing grew, and I passed lofty, many-windowed workshops, from which issued smoke and steam, and much noise and confusion. I met with many cats in this city, who, like myself, seemed to be outcasts, and had never known the pleasures of home and love. They told me they lived entirely by stealing, at which they were great adepts, and on such food as they picked out of the gutter. They listened attentively to my tales of the far-off country, where many a rippling stream meandered through meadows green, in which the daisies and the yellow cowslips grew; of beautiful flowers, and of birds in every bush. Very much of what I told them was so very new to them that they could not understand it; but they listened attentively, nevertheless, and many a night kept me talking to them until I was so tired I felt ready to drop. In return for my stories they taught me--or rather, tried to teach me--to steal cleverly, not clumsily, as country cats do. But, alas! I could not learn, and do as I would I barely picked up a living; then my sufferings were increased by the cruelty of boys, who often pelted me with stones and set wild wicked dogs to chase me. I got so thin at last that I could barely totter along. One evening a large black tom-cat who was a great favourite of mine, and often brought me tit-bits, said to me, "There's a few of us going out shopping to-night; will you come?" "I'll try," I answered feebly, "for I do feel faint and sick and hungry." We tried some fishmongers' shops first, and were very successful; then we went to another shop. Ill as I was, I could not help admiring the nimble way my Tom, as I called him, sprang on to a counter and helped himself to a whole string of delicious sausages. I tried to emulate Tom's agility, but oh, dear! I missed my footing and fell down into the very jaws of a terrible dog. How I got away I never could tell, but I did; and wounded and bleeding sorely, I managed to drag myself down a quiet street and into a garden, and there, under a bush, I lay down to die. It was pitilessly cold, and the rain beat heavily down, and the great drops fell through the bush and drenched me to the skin. Then the cold and pain seemed all at once to leave me. I had fallen into an uneasy doze, and I was being chased once more by dogs with large eyes and faces, up and down in long wet streets where the gas flickered, through many a muddy pool. Then I thought I found myself once again in the fields near my own home, with the sun brightly shining and the birds making the air ring with their music. Then I heard a gentle voice saying-- "Now, Mary, I think that will do. The cheese-box and cushion make such a fine bed for her; and when she awakes give the poor thing that drop of warm milk and sugar." I did awake, and was as much surprised as pleased to find myself in a nice snug room, and lying not far from the fire. A neatly-dressed servant-girl was kneeling near me, and not far off a lady dressed in black sat sewing. This, then, was my new mistress, and--_I was saved_. How different she was from poor Miss Laura, who, you know, did not _mean_ to be cruel to me. This lady was very, very kind to me, though she made but little fuss about it. Her thoughtfulness for all my comforts and her quiet caresses soon wooed me back again to life, and now I feel sure I am one of the happiest cats alive. I am not dirty and disreputable now, nor is my fur matted. I am no longer a thief, for I do not need to steal. My mistress has a canary, but I would not touch it for worlds--indeed, I love to hear it sing, although its music is not half so sweet to me as that of the teakettle. Of an evening when the gas is lighted, and a bright fire burning in the grate, we all sing together--that is, the kettle, canary, and myself. They say I am very beautiful, and I believe they are right, for I have twice taken a prize at a cat show, and hope to win another. And if you go to the next great exhibition of cats, be sure to look for me. I am gentle in face and short in ears, my fur is long, and soft, and silky, and my eyes are as blue as the sea in summer. So you are sure to know me. Ida sat silent, but evidently thinking, for some time after I had finished. "That is quite a child's story, isn't it?" she said at last. "Yes," I replied; "but don't you like it?" "Oh yes, I do," she said--"I like all your stories; so now just tell me one more." "No, no," I cried, "it is quite time we returned; your auntie will be back, and dinner waiting; besides, we have about three miles to walk." "Just one little, little tale," she pleaded. "Well," I replied, "it must be a very little, little one, and then we'll have to run. I shall call the story--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LOST; OR, LITTLE NELLIE'S FAVOURITE. "It was a bitterly cold morning in the month of February, several years ago. How the time does fly, to be sure! Snow had been lying on the ground for weeks, and more had fallen during the night; the wind, too, blew high from the east, and the few passengers who were abroad made the best of their way along the street, I can assure you, and looked as though they would rather be at home and at the fireside. I myself was out in the cold from force of habit. It had long been my custom to take a short walk before breakfast, and as the post-office of our village was only half a mile from my residence, going down for the letters that arrived by the first mail afforded me just sufficient excuse for my early ramble. But on this particular morning, as I was returning homewards, I was very much surprised to find my little friend Nellie May standing at her gate bare-headed, and with her pretty auburn hair blowing hither and thither in the wind. "`Why, Nellie, dear!' I exclaimed, `what can have sent you out of the house so early? It is hardly eight o'clock, and the cold will kill you, child.' "`I was watching for you, sir,' said Nellie, looking as serious as a little judge. `Do come and tell me what I shall do with this poor dog. He was out in the snow, looking so unhappy, and has now taken up his abode in the shed, and neither Miss Smith nor I can entice him out, or get him to go away. And we are afraid to go near him.' "I followed Nellie readily enough, and there, lying on a sack, which he had taken possession of, was the dog in question. To all intents and purposes he was of a very common kind. Nobody in his senses would have given sixpence for him, except perhaps his owner, and who that might be was at present a mystery. "`Will you turn him out and send him away?' asked Nellie. "The dog looked in my face, oh, so pleadingly! "`Kind sir,' he seemed to say, `do speak a word for me; I'm so tired, my feet are sore, I've wandered far from home, and I am full of grief.' "`Send him away?' I replied to Nellie. `No, dear; you wouldn't, would you, if you thought he was weary, hungry, and in sorrow for his lost mistress? Look how thin he is.' "`Oh!' cried Nellie, her eyes filling with tears, `I'll run and bring him part of my own breakfast.' "`Nellie,' I said, as we parted, `be kind to that poor dog; he may bring you good fortune.' "I do not know even now why I should have made that remark, but events proved that my words were almost prophetic. It was evident that the dog had travelled a very long way; but under Nellie's tender care he soon recovered health and strength and spirits as well, and from that day for three long years you never would have met the girl unaccompanied by `Tray,' as we called him. "Now it came to pass that a certain young nobleman came of age, and a great fete was given to his tenantry at P--Park, and people came from quite a long distance to join in it. I saw Nellie the same evening. It had been a day of sorrow for her. Tray had found his long lost mistress. "`And, oh, such an ugly little old woman!' said Nellie almost spitefully, through her tears. `Oh, my poor Tray, I'll never, never see him more!' "Facts are stranger than fiction, however, and the little old lady whom Nellie thought so ugly adopted her (for she was an orphan), and Nellie became in time very fond of her. The dog Tray, whose real name by the way was Jumbo, had something to do with this fondness, no doubt. "The old lady is not alive now; but Nellie has been left all she possessed, Jumbo included. He is by this time very, very old; his lips are white with age, he is stiff too, and his back seems all one bone. As to his temper--well, the less I say about that the better, but he is always cross with everybody--except Nellie." CHAPTER FIVE. EMBODYING A LITTLE TALE AND A LITTLE ADVENTURE. "Reason raise o'er instinct as you can-- In this 'tis Heaven directs, in that 'tis man." If ever two days passed by without my seeing the portly form of my friend Captain D--, that is Frank, heaving in sight about twelve o'clock noon, round the corner of the road that led towards our cottage, then I at once concluded that Frank either had the gout or was gardening, and whether it were the fit of the gout or merely a fit of gardening, I felt it incumbent upon me to walk over to his house, a distance of little more than two miles, and see him. Welcome? Yes; I never saw the man yet who could give one a heartier welcome than poor Frank did. He was passionately fond of my two dogs, Nero and Aileen Aroon, and the love was mutual. But Frank had a dog of his own, "Meg Merrilees" to name, a beautiful and kind-hearted Scotch collie. Most jealous though she was of her master's affections, she never begrudged the pat and the caress Nero and Aileen had, and, indeed, she used to bound across the lawn to meet and be the first to welcome the three of us. On the occasion of my visits to Frank, I always stopped and dined with him, spending the evening in merry chatter, and tales of "auld lang syne," until it was time for me to start off on the return journey. When I had written anything for the magazines during the day, I made a practice of taking it with me, and reading over the manuscript to my friend, and a most attentive and amused listener he used to be. The following is a little _jeu d'esprit_ which I insert here, for no other reason in the world than that Frank liked it, so I think there _must_ be a little, _little_ bit of humour in it. It is, as will be readily seen, a kind of burlesque upon the show-points and properties of the Skye-terrier. I called the sketch-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "THAT SKYE-TERRIER."--A BURLESQUE. "He's a good bred 'un, sir." This is the somewhat unclassical English with which "Wasp's" Yorkshire master introduced the puppy to me as he consigned it to my care, in return for which I crossed his hand five times with yellow gold. "And," he added, "he's a game 'un besides." I knew the former of these statements was quite correct from young Wasp's pedigree, and of the latter I was so convinced, before a week was over, that I consented to sell him to a parson for the same money I gave for him--and glad enough to get rid of him even then. At this time the youthful Wasp was a mere bundle of black fluff, with wicked blue eyes, and flashing teeth of unusually piercing properties. He dwelt in a distant corner of the parson's kitchen, in a little square basket or creel, and a servant was told off to attend upon him; and, indeed, that servant had about enough to do. Wasp seemed to know that Annie was his own particular "slavey," and insisted on her being constantly within hail of him. If she dared to go upstairs, or even to attend the door-bell, Wasp let all the house hear of it, and the poor good-natured girl was glad to run back for peace' sake. Another thing he insisted on was being conveyed, basket and all, to Annie's bedroom when she retired for the night. He also intimated to her that he preferred eating the first of his breakfasts at three o'clock every morning sharp, upon pain of waking the parson; his second at four; third at five, and so on until further notice. I was sorry for Annie. From the back of his little basket, where he had formed a fortress, garrisoned by Wasp himself, and provisioned with bones, boots, and slippers enough to stand a siege of any length of time, he used to be always making raids and forays on something. Even at this early age the whole aim of his existence seemed to be doing mischief. If he wasn't tearing Annie's Sunday boots, it was because he was dissecting the footstool; footstool failing, it was the cat. The poor cat hadn't a dog's life with him. He didn't mind pussy's claws a bit; he had a way of his own of backing stern on to her which defied her and saved his eyes. When close up he would seize her by the paw, and shake it till she screamed with pain. I was sorry for the cat. If you lifted Wasp up in your arms to have a look at him, he flashed his alabaster teeth in your face one moment, and fleshed them in your nose the next. He never looked you straight in the face, but aslant, from the corners of his wicked wee eyes. In course of time--not Pollok's--Wasp's black puppy-hair fell off, and discovered underneath the most beautiful silvery-blue coat ever you saw in your life; but his puppy-manners did not mend in the least. In his case the puppy was the father of the dog, and if anything the son was worse than the father. Talk of growing, oh! he did grow: not to the height--don't make any mistake, please; Wasp calculated he was plenty high enough already--but to the length, if you like. And every day when I went down to see him Annie would innocently ask me-- "See any odds on him this morning, doctor?" "Well, Annie," I would say, "he really does seem to get a little longer about every second day." "La! yes, sir, he do grow," Annie would reply--"'specially when I puts him before the fire awhile." Indeed, Annie assured me she could see him grow, and that the little blanket with which she covered him of a night would never fit in the morning, so that she had to keep putting pieces to it. As he got older, Wasp used to make a flying visit upstairs to see the parson, but generally came flying down again; for the parson isn't blessed with the best of tempers, anyhow. Quickly as he returned, Wasp was never down in time to avoid a kick from the clergyman's boot, for the simple reason that when Wasp's fore-feet were at the kitchen-door his hindquarters were never much more than half-way down the stairs. N.B.--I forgot to say that this story may be taken with a grain of salt, if not found spicy enough to the taste. There was a stove-pipe that lay in a back room; the pipe was about two yards long, more or less. Wasp used to amuse himself by running in at one end of it and out at the other. Well, one day he was amusing himself in this sort of way, when just as he entered one end for the second time, what should he perceive but the hindquarters of a pure-bred Skye just disappearing at the other. (You will please to remember that the stove-pipe was two yards long, more or less.) Day after day Wasp set himself to pursue this phantom Skye, through the pipe and through the pipe, for Wasp couldn't for the life of him make out why the animal always managed to keep just a _little_ way ahead of him. Still he was happy to think that day after day he was gaining on his foe, so he kept the pot a-boiling. And one day, to his intense joy, he actually caught the phantom by the tail, in the pipe. Joy, did I say? I ought to have said sorrow, for the tail was his own; but, being a game 'un, he wouldn't give in, but hung on like grim death until the plumber came and split the pipe and relieved him. (Don't forget the length of the pipe, please.) Even after he _was_ clear he spun round and round like a Saint Catherine's wheel, until he had to give in from sheer exhaustion. Yes, he was a long dog. And it came to pass, or was always coming to pass, that he grew, and he grew, and he grew, and the more he grew, the longer and thicker his hair grew, till, when he had grown his full length--and I shouldn't like to say how long that was--you couldn't have told which was his head and which was his tail till he barked; and even Annie confessed that she frequently placed his dish down at the wrong end of him. It was funny. If you take half a dozen goat-skins and roll them separately, in cylinders, with the hairy side out, and place them end to end on the floor, you will have about as good an idea of Wasp's shape and appearance as any I can think about. You know those circular sweeping-machines with which they clean the mud off the country roads? Well, Wasp would have done excellently well as the roller of one of those; and indeed, he just looked like one of them--especially when he was returning from a walk on a muddy morning. It was funny, too, that any time he was particularly wet and dirty, he always came to the front door, and made it a point of duty always to visit the drawing-room to have a roll on the carpet previously to being kicked downstairs. Getting kicked downstairs was Wasp's usual method of going below. I believe he came at last to prefer it--it saved time. Wasp's virtues as a house-dog were of a very high order: he always barked at the postman, to begin with; he robbed the milkman and the butcher, and bit a half-pound piece out of the baker's leg. No policeman was safe who dared to live within a hundred yards of him. One day he caught one of the servants of the gas company stooping down taking the state of the metre. This man departed in a very great hurry to buy sticking-plaster and visit his tailor. I lost sight of Wasp for about six months. At the end of that time I paid the parson a visit. When I inquired after my longitudinal friend, that clergyman looked very grave indeed. He did not answer me immediately, but took two or three vigorous draws at his meerschaum, allowing the smoke to curl upwards towards the roof of his study, and following it thoughtfully with his eyes; then he slowly rose and extracted a long sheet of blue foolscap from his desk, and I imagined he was going to read me a sermon or something. "Ahem!" said the parson. "I'll read you one or two casual items of Wasp's bill, and then you can judge for yourself how he is getting on." There is no mistake about it-- Wasp was a "well bred 'un and a game 'un." At the same time, I was sorry for the parson. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I am really vexed that it is so dark and wet," said Frank that night, as he came to the lawn-gate to say good-bye. "I wish I could walk in with you, but my naughty toe forbids; or, I wish I could ask you to stay, but I know your wife and Ida would feel anxious." "Indeed they would," I replied; "they would both be out here in the pony and trap. Good-night; I'll find my way, and I've been wet before to-night." "Good-night; God bless you," from Frank. Now the lanes of Berkshire are most confusing even by daylight, and cabmen who have known them for years often go astray after dark, and experience considerable difficulty in finding their way to their destination. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that I, almost a stranger to them, should have lost myself on so dark a night. Aileen Aroon and Nero were coupled together, and from the centre of the short chain depended a small bicycle lamp, which rendered the darkness visible if it did nothing else. I led the dogs with a leathern strap. "It is the fourth turning to the right, then the second to the left, and second to the right again; so you are not going that way." I made this remark to the dogs, who had stopped at a turning, and wanted to drag me in what I considered the wrong direction. "The fourth turning, Aileen," I repeated, forcing them to come with me. The night seemed to get darker, and the rain heavier every moment, and that fourth turning seemed to have been spirited away. I found it at last, or thought I had done so, then the second to the left, and finally the second to the right. By this time the lights of the station should have appeared. They did not. We were lost, and evidently long miles from home. Lost, and it was near midnight. We were cold and wet and weary; at least I was, and I naturally concluded the poor dogs were so likewise. We tried back, but I very wisely left it to the two Newfoundlands now to find the way if they could. "Go home," I cried, getting behind them; and off they went willingly, and at a very rapid pace too. Over and over again, I felt sure that the poor animals were bewildered, and were going farther and farther astray. Well, at all events, I was bewildered, and felt still more so when I found myself on the brow of a hill, looking down towards station lights on the right instead of on the left, they ought to have been. They were our station lights, nevertheless, and a quarter of an hour afterwards we were all having supper together, the Newfoundlands having been previously carefully dried with towels. Did ever dogs deserve supper more? I hardly think so. CHAPTER SIX. AILEEN AND NERO--A DOG'S RECEIPT FOR KEEPING WELL--DOG'S IN THE SNOW IN GREENLAND--THE LIFE-STORY OF AILEEN'S PET, "FAIRY MARY." "Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace." Simplicity was one of the most prominent traits of Aileen's character. In some matters she really was so simple and innocent, that she could hardly take her own part. Indeed, in the matter of food, her own part was often taken from her, for any of the cats, or the smaller dogs, thought nothing of helping the noble creature to drink her drop of milk of a morning. Aileen, when they came to her assistance in this way, would raise her own head from the dish, and look down at them for a time in her kindly way. "You appear to be very hungry," she would seem to say, "perhaps more so than I am, and so I'll leave you to drink it all." Then Aileen would walk gently away, and throw herself down beneath the table with a sigh. There was a time when illness prevented me from leaving my room for many days, but as I had some serials going on in magazines, I could not afford to leave off working; I used, therefore, to write in my bedroom. As soon as she got up of a morning, often and often before she had her breakfast, Aileen would come slowly upstairs. I knew her quiet but heavy footsteps. Presently she would open the door about half-way, and look in. If I said nothing she would make a low and apologetic bow, and when I smiled she advanced. "I'm not sure if my feet be over clean," she would seem to say as she put her head on my lap with the usual deep-drawn sigh, "but I really could not help coming upstairs to see how you were this morning." Presently I would hear more padded footsteps on the stairs. This was the saucy champion Theodore Nero himself, there could be no mistake about that. He came upstairs two or three steps at a time, and flung the half-open door wide against the wall, then bounded into the room like a June thunderstorm. He would give one quick glance at Aileen. "Hallo!" he would say, talking with eyes and tail, "you're here, are you, old girl? Keeping the master company, eh? Well, I'm not very jealous. How goes it this morning, master?" Nero always brought into the sick-room about a hundredweight at least of jollity, sprightliness, life, and love. It used to make me better to see him, and make me long to be up and about, and out in the dear old pine woods again. "You always seem to be well and happy, Nero," I said to him one day; "how do you manage it?" "Wait," said Nero, "till I've finished this chop bone, and I'll tell you what you should do in order to be always the same as I am now." As there is some good in master Nero's receipt, I give it here in fall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A DOG'S RECEIPT FOR KEEPING WELL. "Get up in the morning as soon as the birds begin to sing, and if you're not on chain, take a good run round the garden. Always sleep in the open air. Don't eat more breakfast than is good for you, and take the same amount of dinner. Don't eat at all if you're not hungry. Eat plenty of grass, or green vegetables, if you like that better. Take plenty of exercise. Running is best; but if you don't run, walk, and walk, and walk till you're tired; you will sleep all the better for it. One hour's sleep after exercise is deeper, and sweeter, and sounder, and more refreshing than five hours induced by port-wine negus. Don't neglect the bath; I never do. Whenever I see a hole with water in it, I just jump in and swim around, then come out and dance myself dry. Do good whenever you can; I always do. Be brave, yet peaceful. Be generous, charitable, and honest. Never refuse a bit to a beggar, and never steal a bone from a butcher; so shall you live healthfully and happy, and die of the only disease anybody has any right to die of-- sheer old age." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I never saw a dog appreciate a joke better than did poor Nero. He had that habit of showing his teeth in a broad smile, which is common to the Newfoundland and collie. Here is a little joke that Nero once unintentionally perpetrated. He had a habit of throwing up the gravel with his two immense hinder paws, quite regardless of consequences. A poor little innocent mite of a terrier happened one day to be behind master Nero, when he commenced to scrape. The shower of stones and gravel came like the discharge from a _mitrailleuse_ on the little dog, and fairly threw him on his back. Nero happened to look about at the same time, and noticed what he had done. "Oh!" he seemed to say as he broke into a broad grin, "this is really too ridiculous, too utterly absurd." Then bounding across a ditch and through a hedge, he got into a green field, where he at once commenced his usual plan of working off steam, when anything extra-amusing tickled him, namely, that of running round and round and round in a wide circle. Many dogs race like this, no doubt for this reason: they can by so doing enjoy all the advantages of a good ran, without going any appreciable distance away from where master is. _Apropos_ of dogs gambolling and racing for the evident purpose of getting rid of an extra amount of animal electricity, I give an extract here from a recent book of mine [Note 1]. The sketch is painted from real life. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DOGS IN THE SNOW IN GREENLAND. "The exuberance of great `Oscar's' joy when out with his master for a walk was very comical to witness. Out for a _walk_ did I say? Nay, that word but poorly expresses the nature of Oscar's pedal progression. It was not a walk, but a glorious compound of dance, scamper, race, gallop, and gambol. Had you been ever so old it would have made you feel young again to behold him. He knew while Allan was dressing that he meant to go out, and began at once to exhibit signs of impatience. He would yawn and stretch himself, and wriggle and shake; then he would open his mouth, and try to round a sentence in real verbal English, and tailing in this, fall back upon dog language, pure and simple, or he would stand looking at Allan with his beautiful head turned on one side, and his mouth a little open, just sufficiently so to show the tip of his bright pink tongue, and his brown eyes would speak to his master. `Couldn't you,' the dog would seem to ask--`couldn't you get on your coat a little--oh, _ever_ so little--faster? What can you want with a muffler? _I_ don't wear a muffler. And now you are looking for your fur cap, and there it is right before your very eyes!' "`And,' the dog would add, `I daresay we are off at last,' and he would hardly give his master time to open the companion door for him. "But once over the side, `Hurrah!' he would seem to say, then away he would bound, and away, and away, and away, straight ahead as crow could fly, through the snow and through the snow, which rose around him in feathery clouds, till he appeared but a little dark speck in the distance. This race straight ahead was meant to get rid of his super-extra steam. Having expended this, back he would come with a rush, and a run, make pretence to jump his master down, but dive past him at the last moment. Then he would gambol in front of his master in such a daft and comical fashion that made Allan laugh aloud; and, seeing his master laughing, Oscar would laugh too, showing such a double regiment of white, flashing, pearly teeth, that, with the quickness of the dog's motions, they seemed to begin at his lips and go right away down both sides of him as far as the tail. "Hurroosh! hurroosh! Each exclamation, reader, is meant to represent a kind of a double-somersault, which I verily believe Oscar invented himself. He performed it by leaping off the ground, bending sideways, and going right round like a top, without touching the snow, with a spring like that of a five-year-old salmon getting over a weir. "Hurroosh! hurroosh! "Then Allan would make a grab at his tail. "`Oh, that's your game!' Oscar would say; `then down _you_ go!' "And down Allan would roll, half buried in the powdery snow, and not be able to get up again for laughing; then away Oscar would rush wildly round and round in a complete circle, having a radius of some fifty yards, with Allan McGregor on his broad back for a centre." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Theodore Nero was as full of sauciness and _chique_ as ever was an Eton boy home for the holidays, or a midshipman on shore for a cruise. The following anecdote will illustrate his merry sauciness and Aileen's good-natured simplicity at the same time. Nero was much quicker in all his motions than Aileen, so that although she never failed to run after my walking-stick, she was never quick enough to find first. Now one day in throwing my stick it fell among a bed of nettles. Nero sprang after it as light as a cork, and brought it out; but having done so, he was fain to put it down on the road till he should rub his nose and sneeze, for the nettles had stung him in a tender part. To see what he would do, I threw the stick again among the nettles. But mark the slyness of the dog: he pretended not to see where it had fallen, and to look for it in quite another place, until poor simple Aileen had found it and fetched it. As soon as she got on to the road she must needs put down the stick to rub her nose, when, laughing all over, he bounded on it and brought it back to me. I repeated the experiment several times, with precisely the same result. Aileen was too simple and too good-natured to refuse to fetch the stick from the nettle-bed. About five minutes afterwards the fun was over. Nero happened to look at Aileen, who had stopped once more to rub her still stinging nose. Then the whole humour of the joke seemed to burst upon his imagination. Simply to smile was not enough; he must needs burst through a hedge, and get into a field, and it took ten minutes good racing round and round, as hard as his four legs could carry him, to restore this saucy rascal's mental equilibrium. Aileen Aroon was as fond of the lower animals, pet mice, cats, and rats, as any dog could be. Our pet rats used to eat out of her dish, run all over her, sit on her head while washing their faces, and go asleep under her chin. I saw her one day looking quite unhappy. She wanted to get up from the place where she was lying, but two piebald rats had gone to sleep in the bend of her forearm, and she was afraid to move, either for fear of hurting the little pets or of offending me. Seeing the situation, I at once took the rats away and put them in the cage; then Aileen got up, made a low and grateful bow, and walked out. The following is the life-story of one of Aileen's especial favourites:-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "FAIRY MARY." My Mary is a rat. It is just as well to state this much at the outset. Candour, indeed, necessitates my doing so, because I know the very name of "rat" carries with it feelings which are far from pleasing to many. And now, having broken the ice, I may tell you that Mary is not an ordinary black or brown rat, but a rat of high, high caste indeed, having come from a far-away Oriental clime--Java, to wit. If you had never seen one of the same breed before, you would hardly take Mary to be a rat at all. Children are exceedingly fond of her; gentlemen admire her; old ladies dote on her, and young ones love her. I think even my black tom-cat is especially fond of her, judging from the notice he takes of her; he will sit for hours, and hardly ever take his green eyes off her cage. Black Tom once paid Mary a domiciliary visit, by way of appearing neighbourly. It was a grand spring, but missed by an inch, so Tom returned, looking inglorious. Having so far introduced my Mary, and confident you will like her better as you read on, let me try to describe the winsome wee thing. Mary--my rodent, let me call her--is smaller than a rat, and not quite the same in shape, for Mary's symmetry is elegance itself. Her eyes round, protrusive, but loving withal, are living burning garnets--garnets that speak. Her whole body is covered with long snowy fur, far richer than the finest ermine, and with an almost imperceptible golden tint at the tips, this tint being only seen in certain lights. Her tail is perhaps one of her principal points of beauty--long, sweeping, and graceful; she positively seems to talk with it. The forearms are very short and delicate, the hind-legs strong and muscular. Sitting on one end is Mary's almost constant position--kangaroo-like; then she holds up her little hands beseechingly before her. These latter are almost human in shape, and when she gives you her delicate, cold, transparent paw, you might easily fancy you were shaking hands with a fairy; and thus she is often called "Fairy Mary." Mary's hands are bare and pink, and the wrists are covered with very short downy fur, after which the coat suddenly elongates, so much so, that when she stands on end to watch a fly on the ceiling, you would imagine she wore a gown tight at the wrist, and with drooping sleeves. Now Mary is not only beautiful, but she is winning and graceful as well, for every one says so who sees her. And in under her soft fur Mary's skin is as clean and white and pure as mother-of-pearl. It only remains to say of this little pet, that in all her ways and manners she is as cleanly as the best-bred Persian cat, and her fur has not the faintest odour, musky or otherwise. Fairy Mary was originally one of three which came to me as a present. Alas for the fate of Mary's twin sister and only brother! A vagrant cat one evening in summer, while I was absent, entered by the open window, broke into the cage, and Mary alone was left alive. For a long time after this Mary was missing. She was seen at times, of an evening, flitting ghost-like across the kitchen floor, but she persistently refused to return to her desolated cage-home. She much preferred leading a free and easy vagrant kind of life between the cellar, the pantry, and the kitchen. She came out at times, however, and took her food when she thought nobody was looking, and she was known to have taken up her abode in one corner of the pantry, where once a mouse had lived. When she took this new house, I suppose she found it hardly large enough for her needs, because she speedily took to cleaning it out, and judging from the shovelfuls of rags, paper, shavings, and litter of all sorts, very industrious indeed must have been the lives of the "wee, tim'rous, cowerin' beasties" who formerly lived there. Then Mary built unto herself a new home in that sweet retirement, and very happy she seemed to be. Not happening to possess a cat just then, the mice had it all their own way; they increased and multiplied, if they didn't replenish the kitchen, and Mary reigned among them--a Bohemian princess, a gipsy queen. I used to leave a lamp burning in the kitchen on purpose to watch their antics, and before going to bed, and when all the house was still, I used to go and peep carefully through a little hole in the door. And there Fairy Mary would be, sure enough, racing round and round the kitchen like a mad thing, chased by at least a dozen mice, and every one of them squeaking with glee. But if I did but laugh--which, for the life of me, I could not sometimes help--off bolted the mice, leaving Fairy Mary to do an attitude wherever she might be. Then Mary would sniff the air, and listen, and so, scenting danger, hop off, kangaroo fashion, to her home in the pantry corner. It really did seem a pity to break up this pleasant existence of Mary's, but it had to be done. Mice eat so much, and destroy more. My mice, with Mary at their head, were perfect sappers and miners. They thought nothing of gutting a loaf one night, and holding a ball in it the next. So, eventually, Mary was captured, and once more confined to her cage, which she insisted upon having hung up in our sitting-room, where she could see all that went on. Here she never attempted, even once, to nibble her cage, but if hung out in the kitchen nothing could keep her in. At this stage of her existence, the arrangements for Mary's comfort were as follows: she dwelt in a nice roomy cage, with two perches in it, which she very much enjoyed. She had a glass dish for her food, and another for her milk, and the floor of the cage was covered with pine shavings, regularly changed once in two days, and among which Mary built her nest. Now, Fairy Mary has a very strong resemblance to a miniature polar bear, that is, she has all the motions of one, and does all his attitudes--in fact, acts the part of Bruin to perfection. This first gave me the notion--which I can highly recommend to the reader--of making Mary not only amusing, but ornamental to our sitting-room as well, for it must be confessed that a plain wooden cage in one's room is neither graceful nor pretty, however lovely the inmate may be. And here is how I managed it. At the back of our sitting-room is the kitchen, the two apartments being separated by a brick wall. Right through this wall a hole or tunnel was drilled big enough for Mary to run through with ease. The kitchen end of this tunnel was closed by means of a little door, which was so constructed that by merely touching an unseen spring in the sitting-room, it could be opened at will. Against the kitchen end of the tunnel a cage for Mary was hung. This was to be her dining-room, her nest, and sleeping-berth. Now, for the sitting-room end of the tunnel, I had a painting made on a sheet of glass, over two feet long by eighteen inches high. The scene represented is from a sketch in North Greenland, which I myself had made, a scene in the frozen sea--the usual blue sky which you always find over the ice, an expanse of snow, a bear in the distance, and a ship frozen in and lying nearly on her beam ends. A dreary enough look-out, in all conscience, but true to nature. There was a hole cut in the lower end of this glass picture, to match the diameter of the tunnel, and the picture was then fastened close against the wall. So far you will have followed me. The next thing was to frame this glass picture in a kind of cage, nine inches deep; the peculiarity of this cage being, that the front of it was a sheet of clear white glass, the sides only being of brass wire; the floor and top were of wood, the former being painted white, like the snow, and the latter blue, to form a continuation of the sky; a few imitation icebergs were glued on here and there, and one of these completely hides the entrance to the tunnel, forming a kind of rude cave--Fairy Mary's cave. In the centre of this cage was raised a small bear's pole steps and all complete. We call it the North Pole. The whole forms a very pretty ornament indeed, especially when Mary is acting on this little Greenland stage. Mary knows her name, and never fails to come to call, and indeed she knows a very great deal that is said to her. Whenever she pops through her tunnel, the little door at the kitchen end closes behind her, and she is a prisoner in Greenland until I choose to send her off. If she is in her kitchen cage, and I wish her to come north, and disport herself to the amusement of myself or friends--one touch to the spring, one cabalistic word, and there comes the little performer, all alive and full of fun. Now I wish the reader to remember that Fairy Mary is not only the very essence of cleanliness, but the pink of politeness as well. Hence, Mary is sometimes permitted to come to table. And Mary is an honest rat. She has been taught to look at everything, but handle nothing. Therefore there cannot be the slightest possible objection to her either sitting on my shoulder on one end, and gazing wonderingly around her, or examining my ear, or making a nest of my beard, or running down my arm, and having a dance over the tablecloth. I think I said Mary was an honest rat, but she has just one tiny failing in the way of honesty, which, as her biographer, I am bound to mention. She can't quite resist the temptation of a bit of butter. But she helps herself to just one little handful, and does it, too, with such a graceful air, that, for the life of me, I couldn't be angry with her. Well, except a morsel of butter, Mary will touch nothing on the table, nor will she take anything from your hand, if you offer it to her ever so coaxingly. She prefers to eat her meals in Greenland, or on the North Pole itself. Mary's tastes as regards food are various. She is partial to a bit of cheese, but would not touch bacon for the world. This is rather strange, because it was exactly the other way with her brother and sister. The great treat of the twenty-four hours with Mary is to get down in the evening, when the lamps are lighted, to have a scamper on the table. Her cage is brought in from the kitchen, and set down, and the door of it thrown open. This cage thus becomes Mary's harbour of refuge, from which she can sally forth and play tricks. Anything you place on the table is seized forthwith, and carried inside. She will carry an apple nearly as big as herself, and there will not be much of it left in the morning; for one of Mary's chief delights is to have a little feast all to herself, when the lights are out. Lettuce leaves she is partial to, and will carry them to her cage as fast as you can throw them down to her. She rummages the work-basket, and hops off with every thimble she can find. After Fairy Mary's private establishment was broken up in the kitchen, it became necessary to clean up the corner of the pantry where she had dwelt. Then was Mary's frugality and prudence as a housewife made clear to the light of day I could hardly be supposed to tell you everything she had stored up, but I remember there were crusts of bread, bits of cheese, lumps of dog-biscuit, halves of apples, small potatoes, and crumbs of sugar, and candle ends, and bones and herrings' heads, besides one pair of gold sleeve-links, an odd shirt-stud, a glass stopper from a scent-bottle, brass buttons, and, to crown the lot, one silver threepenny-piece of the sterling coin of the realm. And that is the story of my rat; and I'm sure if you knew her you, too, would like her. She is such a funny, wee, sweet little _mite_ of a Mary. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. "The Cruise of the _Snowbird_" published by Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton, Paternoster Row. CHAPTER SEVEN. ONLY A DOG. "Old dog, you are dead--we must all of us die-- You are gone, and gone whither? Can any one say? I trust you may live again, somewhat as I, And haply, `go on to perfection'--some way!" Tupper. Poor little Fairy Mary, the favourite pet of Aileen Aroon, went the way of all rats at last. She was not killed. No cat took her. Our own cats were better-mannered than to touch a pet. But we all went away on a summer holiday, and as it was not convenient to take every one of our pets with us, Mary was left at home in charge of the servants. When we returned she was gone, dead and buried. She had succumbed to a tumour in the head which was commencing ere we started. I think Aileen missed her very much, for she used to lie and watch the empty cage for an hour at a time, thinking no doubt that by-and-by Fairy Mary would pop out of some of her usual haunts. "Dolls" was one of Aileen's contemporaries, and one that she had no small regard for. Dolls was a dog, and a very independent little fellow he was, as his story which I here give will show. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DOLLS: HIS LITTLE STORY. There was a look in the dark-brown eyes of Dolls that was very captivating when you saw it. I say when you saw it, because it wasn't always you could see it, for Dolls' face was so covered with his dishevelled locks, that the only wonder was that he could find his way about at all. Dolls was a Scotch terrier--a _real_ Scotch terrier. Reddish or sandy was he all over--in fact, he was just about the colour of gravel in the gloaming; I am quite sure of this, because when he went out with me about the twilight hour, I couldn't see him any more than if he wasn't in existence; when it grew a little darker, strange to say, Dolls became visible once more. Plenty of coat had Dolls too. You could have hidden a glove under his mane, and nobody been a bit the wiser. When he sat on one end, gazing steadfastly up into a tree, from which some independent pussy stared saucily down upon him, Dolls looked for all the world like a doggie image draped in a little blanket. Dolls had a habit of treeing pussies. This, indeed, was about the only bad trait in Dolls' character. He hated a pussy more than sour milk, and nobody knew this better than the pussies themselves. Probably, indeed, they were partly to blame for maintaining the warfare. I've seen a cat in a tree, apparently trying her very best to mesmerise poor Dolls--Dolls blinking funnily up at her, she gazing cunningly down. There they would sit and sit, till suddenly down to the ground would spring pussy, and with a warlike and startling "Fuss!" that quite took the doggie's breath away, and made all his hair stand on end, clout Master Dolls in the face, and before that queer wee specimen of caninity could recover his equanimity, disappear through a neighbouring hedgerow. Now cats have a good deal more patience than dogs. Sometimes on coming trotting home of an evening, Dolls would find a cat perched up in the pear-tree sparrow-expectant. "Oh! _you're_ there, are you?" Dolls would say. "Well, I'm not in any particular hurry, I can easily wait a bit." And down he would sit, with his head in the air. "All right, Dolls, my doggie," Pussy would reply. "I've just eaten a sparrow, and not long ago I had a fine fat mouse, and, milk with it, and now I'll have a nap. Nice evening, isn't it?" Well, Master Dolls would watch there, maybe for one hour and maybe for two, by which time his patience would become completely exhausted. "You're not worth a wag of my tail," Dolls would say. "So good-night." Then off he would trot. But Dolls wasn't a beauty, by any manner of means. I don't think anybody who wasn't an admirer of doormats, and a connoisseur in heather besoms could have found much about Dolls to go into raptures over, but, somehow or other, the little chap always managed to find friends wherever he went. Dolls was a safe doggie with children, that is, with well-dressed, clean-looking children, but with the gutter portion of the population Dolls waged continual warfare. Doubtless, because they teased him, and made believe to throw pebbles at him, though I don't think they ever did in reality. Dolls was a great believer in the virtues of fresh air, and spent much of his time out of doors. He had three or four houses, too, in the village which he used to visit regularly once, and sometimes twice, a day. He would trot into a kitchen with a friendly wag or two of his little tail, which said, plainly enough, "Isn't it wet, though?" or "Here is jolly weather just!" "Come away, Dolls," was his usual greeting. Thus welcomed, Dolls would toddle farther in, and seat himself by the fire, and gaze dreamily in through the bars at the burning coals, looking all the while as serious as possible. I've often wondered, and other people used to wonder too, what Dolls could have been thinking about as he sat thus. Perhaps--like many a wiser head--he was building little morsels of castles in the air, castles that would have just the same silly ending as yours or mine, reader--wondering what he should do if he came to be a great big bouncing dog like Wolf the mastiff; how all the little doggies would crouch before him, and how dignified he would look as he strode haughtily away from them; and so on, and so forth. But perhaps, after all, Dolls was merely warming his mite of a nose, and not giving himself up to any line of thought in particular. Now, it wasn't with human beings alone that this doggie was a favourite; and what I am now going to mention is rather strange, if not funny. You see, Dolls always got out early in the morning. There was a great number of other little dogs in the village besides himself--poodles, Pomeranians, and Skyes, doggies of every denomination and all shades of colour, and many of these got up early too. There is no doubt early morn is the best time for small dogs, because little boys are not yet up, and so can't molest them. Well, it did seem that each of these doggies, almost every morning, made up its mind to come and visit Dolls. At all events, most of them _did_ come, and, therefore, Dolls was wont to hold quite a tiny _levee_ on the lawn shortly after sunrise. After making obeisance to General Dolls, these doggies would form themselves into a _conversazione_, and go promenading round the rose-trees in twos and twos. Goodness only knows what they talked about; but I must tell you that these meetings were nearly always of a peaceable, amicable nature. Only once do I remember a _conversazione_ ending in a general conflict. "Well," said Dolls, "if it _is_ going to be a free fight, I'm in with you." Then Dolls threw himself into it heart and soul. But to draw the story of Dolls to a conclusion, there came to live near my cottage home an old sailor, one of Frank's friends. This ancient mariner was one of the Tom Bowling type, for the darling of many a crew he had been in his time, without doubt. There was good-nature, combined with pluck, in every lineament of his manly, well-worn, red and rosy countenance, and his hair was whitened--not by the snows of well-nigh sixty winters, for I rather fancy it was the summers that did it, the summers' heat, and the _bearing of_ the brunt of many a tempest, and the anxiety inseparable from a merchant skipper's pillow. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes, that put you mightily in mind of the monks of old. And when he gave you his hand, it was none of your half-and-half shakes, let me tell you; that there was honesty in every throb of that man's heart you could tell from that very grasp. Yes, he was a jolly old tar, and a good old tar; and he hadn't seen Dolls and been in his company for two hours, before he fell in love with the dog downright, and, says he, "Doctor, you want a good home for Dolls; there is something in the little man's eye that I a sort of like. As long as he sails with me, he'll never want a good bed, nor a good dinner; so, if you'll give him to me, I'll be glad to take him." We shook hands. Now this was to be the last voyage that ever that ancient mariner meant to make, until he made that long voyage which we all must do one of these days. And it _was_ his last too; not, however, in the way you generally read of in stories, for the ship didn't go down, and he wasn't drowned, neither was Dolls. On the contrary, my friend returned, looking as hale and hearty as ever, and took a cottage in the country, meaning to live happily and comfortably ever after. And almost the first intimation I received of his return was carried by the doggie himself, for going out one fine morning, I found Dolls on the lawn, surrounded as usual, by about a dozen other wee doggies, to whom, from their spellbound look, I haven't a doubt he was telling the story of his wonderful adventures by sea and by land, for, mind you, Dolls had been all the way to Calcutta. And Dolls was so happy to see me again, and the lawn, and the rose-trees, and vagrant pussies, and no change in anything, that he was fain to throw himself at my feet and weep in the exuberance of his joy. Dolls' new home was at H--, just three miles from mine; and this is somewhat strange--regularly, once a month the little fellow would trot over, all by himself, and see me. He remained in the garden one whole day, and slept on the doormat one whole night, but could never be induced either to _enter the house or to partake of food_. So no one could accuse Dolls of cupboard love. When the twenty-four hours which he allotted to himself for the visit were over, Dolls simply trotted home again, but, as sure as the moon, he returned again in another month. A bitter, bitter winter followed quickly on the heels of that pleasant summer of 187--. The snow fell fast, and the cold was intense, thermometer at times sinking below zero. You could ran the thrushes down, and catch them by hand, so lifeless were they; and I could show you the bushes any day where blackbirds dropped lifeless on their perches. Even rooks came on to the lawn to beg; they said there wasn't a hip nor a haw to be found in all the countryside. And robin said he couldn't sing at all on his usual perch, the frost and the wind quite took his breath away; so he came inside to warm his toes. One wild stormy night, I had retired a full hour sooner to rest, for the wind had kept moaning so, as it does around a country house. The wind moaned, and fiercely shook the windows, and the powdery snow sifted in under the hall-door, in spite of every arrangement to prevent it. I must have been nearly asleep, but I opened my eyes and started at _that_--a plaintive cry, rising high over the voice of the wind, and dying away again in mournful cadence. Twice it was repeated, then I heard no more. It must have been the wind whistling through the keyhole, I thought, as I sunk to sleep. Perhaps it was, reader; but early next morning I found poor wee Dolls dead on the doorstep. CHAPTER EIGHT. A TALE TOLD BY THE OLD PINE-TREE. "Dumb innocents, often too cruelly treated, May well for their patience find future reward." Tupper. Bonnie Berkshire! It is an expression we often make use of. Bonnie Berks--bonnie even in winter, when the fields are robed in starry snow; bonnie in spring-time, when the fields are rolling clouds of tenderest green, when the young wheat is peeping through the brown earth, when primroses cluster beneath the hedgerows, and everything is so gay and so happy and hopeful that one's very soul soars heavenwards with the lark. But Berks I thought never looked more bonnie than it did one lovely autumn morning, when Ida and I and the dogs walked up the hill towards our favourite seat in the old pine wood. It was bright and cool and clear. The hedges alone were a sight, for blackthorn and brambles had taken leave of their senses in summer-time, and gone trailing here and climbing there, and playing all sorts of fantastic tricks, and now with the autumn tints upon them, they formed the prettiest patches of light and shade imaginable; and though few were the flowers that still peeped through the green moss as if determined to see the last of the sunshine, who could miss them with such gorgeous colour on thorn and tree? The leaves were still on the trees; only whenever a light gust of wind swept through the tall hedge with a sound like ocean shells, Ida and I were quite lost for a time, in a shower as of scented yellow snow. My niece put her soft little hand in mine, as she said--"You haven't forgotten the manuscript, have you?" "Oh! no," I said, smiling, "I haven't forgotten it." "Because," she added, "I do like you to tell me a story when we are all by ourselves." "Thank you," said I, "but this story, Ida, is one I'm going to tell to Aileen, because it is all about a Newfoundland dog." "Oh! never mind," she cried, "Nero and I shall sit and listen, and it will be all the same." "Well, Ida," I said, when we were seated at last, "I shall call my tale--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BLUCHER: THE STORY OF A NEWFOUNDLAND. "We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There was no rattling about the mail-coach, however, that morning, as she seemed to glide along towards the granite city, as fast as the steaming horses could tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and but for the rattle of harness, and champing of bits, you might have taken her for one of Dickens's phantom mails. It was a bitter winter's morning. The driver's face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of his fear-nothing coat; the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind the folds of their tartan plaids; the guard, poor man! had to look abroad on the desolate scene and his face was like a parboiled lobster in appearance. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although it was merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself to believe that he had any feet at all, for, as far as feeling went, his body seemed to end suddenly just below the knees, and when he attempted to emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed to freeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at the eighth-milehouse to change horses, and every one was glad to come down if only for a few moments. "The landlord,--remember, reader, I'm speaking of the far north, where mail-coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries still visible to the naked eye. The landlord was there himself to welcome the coach, and he rubbed his hands and hastened to tell everybody that it was a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall ere long, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans of mulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders for mulled porter and soft biscuits became general. "Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach once more resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it come down that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses' heads. "Well, there was something or other down there in the road that didn't seem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black, feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses' noses--here, there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a very sudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driver was a humane man, and pulled up at once. "`I've driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o' that fraternity,' he said; `some o' them's continually gettin' in the road at the wrang time. Gang doon, guard, and see aboot it. It howls for a' the warld like a young warlock.' "Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms the recipient of the accident. It was a jet-black Newfoundland puppy, who was whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had been badly crushed. "`Now,' cried the guard, `I'll sell the wee warlock cheap. Wha'll gie an auld sang for him? He is onybody's dog for a gill of whuskey.' "`I'll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it,' said a quiet-looking farmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once, and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed his purchase inside a fold of his plaid until the coach drew up before the door of the city hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed the little creature's wounded paw. "Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog was yet to be, with one of the darkest periods of his life's history. "Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended, and regularly fed, `Blucher,' as he was called, soon grew up into a very fine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity to his master, than for any large amount of good looks. "One day the farmer's shepherd brought in a poor little lamb, wrapped up in the corner of his plaid. He had found it in a distant nook of a field, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was brought up on the bottle by the farmer's little daughter, and as time wore on grew quite a handsome fellow. "The lamb was Blucher's only companion. The lamb used to follow Blucher wherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the two companions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb's head pillowed on the dog's neck, or _vice versa_, just as the case might be. Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over the country; they always came back safe enough, and looking pleased and happy, but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where they had been to. It all came out in good time, however. Blucher, it seems, in his capacity of _chaperon_ to his young friend, led the poor lamb into mischief. It was proved, beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in the daily habit of leading `Bonny' to different cabbage gardens, showing him how to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoying himself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing any injury or committing a crime. `At all events,' he might reason with himself, `it isn't I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn't poor Bonny have a morsel when he seems to like it so much?' "But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, for complaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in their gardens by the `twa thieves,' as they were called, became so numerous, that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with his life. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher, moaning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in a word, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost the only one we loved. But I should not say the only one that Blucher loved, for he still had his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himself more than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leave him, especially when the farmer's calling took him anywhere abroad. "About one year after Bonny's demise, the farmer began to notice a peculiar numbness in the limbs, but paid little attention to it, thinking that no doubt time--the poor man's physician--would cure it. Supper among the peasantry of these northern latitudes is generally laid about half-past six. Well, one dark December's day, at the accustomed hour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For some time little notice was taken of this, but as time flew by, and the night grew darker, his family began to get exceedingly anxious. "`Here comes father at last,' cried little Mary, the farmer's daughter. "Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, and demanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stood Blucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight, there wasn't a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher now attracted Mary's attention. He never had much affection for her, or for any one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as a dog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones, as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into the night, and vehemently wagging his tail. There was no mistaking such language. Any one could understand his meaning. Even one of those _strange people, who hate dogs_, would have understood him. Mary did, anyhow, and followed Blucher at once. On trotted the honest fellow, keeping Mary trotting too, and many an anxious glance he cast over his shoulder to her, saying plainly enough, `Don't you think you could manage to run just a _leetle_ faster?' Through many a devious path he led her, and Mary was getting very tired, yet fear for her father kept her up. After a walk, or rather run, of fully half an hour, honest Blucher brought the daughter to the father's side. "He was lying on the cold ground, insensible and helpless, struck down by that dreadful disease--paralysis. But for the sagacity and intelligence of his faithful dog, death from cold and exposure would certainly have ended his sufferings ere morning dawned. But Blucher's work was not yet over for the night, for no sooner did he see Mary kneeling down by her father's side, than he started off home again at full speed, and in less than half an hour was back once more, accompanied by two of the servants. "The rest of this dog's history can be told in very few words, and I am sorry it had so tragic an ending. "During all the illness which supervened on the paralysis, Blucher could seldom, if ever, be prevailed on to leave his master's bedside, and every one who approached the patient was eyed with extreme suspicion. I think I have already mentioned that Mary was no great favourite with Blucher, and Mary, if she reads these lines, must excuse me for saying, I believe it was her own fault, for if you are half frightened at a dog he always thinks you harbour some ill-will to him, and would do him an injury if you could. However, one day poor Mary came running in great haste to her father's bedside. Most incautious haste as it turned out, for the dog sprang up at once and bit her in the leg. For this, honest Blucher was _condemned to death_. I think, taking into consideration his former services, and the great love he bore to his afflicted master, he might have been forgiven just for this once. "That his friends afterwards repented of their rashness I do not doubt, for they have erected a monument over his grave. This monument tells how faithfully he served his master, and how he loved him, and saved his life, and although fifty years have passed since its erection, it still stands to mark the spot where faithful Blucher lies." CHAPTER NINE. TEA ON THE LAWN, AND THE STORY OF A STARLING. "Thy spangled breast bright sprinkled specks adorn, Each plume imbibes the rosy-tinted morn." "Sit down, Frank," said I; "my wife and Ida will be here presently. It is so pleasant to have tea out of doors." "Yes," said Frank, "especially such tea as this. But," he added, fishing a flower-spray from his cup with his spoon, "I do not want jasmine in mine." "Good wine needs no bush," I remarked. "Nor good tea no scent," said my friend. "Although, Frank, the Chinese do scent some of their Souchongs with jasmine, the _Jasminum Sambuc_." "Oh! dear uncle," cried Ida, "don't talk Latin. Maggie the magpie will be doing it next." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the pie called Maggie, who was very busy in the bottom of her cage. I never, by the way, heard any bird or human being laugh in such a cuttingly tantalising way as that magpie did. It was a sneering laugh, which made you feel that the remark you had just made previously was ridiculously absurd. As she laughed she kept on pegging away at whatever she was doing. "Go on," she seemed to say. "I am listening to all you are saying, but I really can't help laughing, even with my mouth full. Ha! ha! ha!" "Well, Ida dear," I said, "I certainly shall not talk Latin if there be the slightest chance of that impudent bird catching it up. Is this better? "`My slight and slender jasmine tree, That bloomest on my border tower, Thou art more dearly loved by me Than all the wealth of fairy bower. I ask not, while I near thee dwell, Arabia's spice or Syria's rose; Thy light festoons more freshly smell, Thy virgin white more freshly glows.'" "And now," said my wife, "what about the story?" "Yes, tea and a tale," cried Frank. "Do you know," I replied, "that the starling is the best of all talking pets? And I do wonder why people don't keep them more often than they do?" "They are difficult to rear, are they not?" "Somewhat, Frank, when young, as my story will show." "These," I continued, "are some kindly directions I have written about the treatment of these charming birds." "Dear me!" cried the magpie. "Hold your tongue, Maggie," I said, "or you'll go into the house, cage and all." Maggie laughed sneeringly, and all throughout the story she kept interrupting me with impudent remarks, which quite spoiled the effect of my eloquence. _The Starling's Cage_.--This should be as large and as roomy as possible, or else the bird will break his tail and lose other feathers, to the great detriment of his plumage and beauty. The cage may be a wicker-work one, or simply wire, but the bars must not be too wide. However much liberty you allow Master Dick in your presence, during your absence it will generally be as well to have him inside his dwelling-place; let the fastening of its door, then, be one which he cannot pick. Any ordinary wire fastening is of no use; the starling will find the cue to it in a single day. Tin dishes for the bird's food will be found best, and they must be well shipped, or else he will speedily tear them down. A large porcelain water fountain should be placed outside the cage; he will try to bathe even in this, and I hardly know how it can be prevented. Starlings are very fond of splashing about in the water, and ought to have a bath on the kitchen floor every day, unless you give them a proper bathing cage. After the bath place him in the sun or near the fire to dry and preen himself. _Cleanliness_.--This is most essential. The cage and his feeding and drinking utensils should be washed every day. The drawers beneath must be taken out, cleaned, washed, and _dried_ before being put back, and a little rough gravel scattered over the bottom of it. If you would wish your bird to enjoy proper health--and without that he will never be a good speaker or musician--keep all his surroundings dry and sweet, and never leave yesterday's food for to-day's consumption. _Food_.--Do not give the bird salt food, but a little of anything else that is going can always be allowed him. Perhaps bread soaked in water, the water squeezed out, and a little new milk poured over, forms the best staple of diet. But, in addition to this, shreds of raw meat should be given, garden worms, slugs, etc. Carry him round the room on your finger, stopping when you see a fly on the wall or a picture-frame, and holding the starling near it. He will thus soon learn to catch his own flies, and take such delight in this kind of stalking that, as soon as he can speak, he will pester you with his importunities to be thus carried round. White fish these birds are very fond of, and also fresh salmon. Fruit should be given to them now and then, a fig being considered by them an especial delicacy. A little chickweed or other green food is also relished. This may be placed on the top of the cage. Finally starlings, no matter how well you feed them, will not thrive without plenty of exercise. The male bird is the better talker, and more active and saucy, as well as more beautiful and graceful in shape and plumage. Be assured the bird is very young before purchasing it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MY STARLING "DICK." I feel very lonely now since my starling is gone. I could not bear to look upon his empty cage, his bath and playthings, so I have had them all stowed away; but the bird will dwell in my memory for many a day. The way in which that starling managed to insinuate itself into my heart and entwine its affections with mine, I can never rightly tell; and it is only now when it is gone that I really know how much it is possible for a human creature to love a little bird. The creature was nearly always with me, talking to me, whistling to me, or even doing mischief in a small way, to amuse me; and to throw down my pen, straighten my back, and have a romp with "Dick," was often the best relaxation I could have had. The rearing of a nest of starlings is always a very difficult task, and I found it peculiarly so. In fact, one young starling would require half-a-dozen servants at least to attend it. I was not master of those starlings, not a bit of it; they were masters of me. I had to get out of bed and stuff them with food at three o'clock every morning. They lived in a bandbox in a closet off my bedroom. I had to get up again at four o'clock to feed them, again at five, and again at six; in fact, I saw more sunrises during the infancy of that nest of starlings than ever I did before or since. By day, and all day long, I stuffed them, and at intervals the servant relieved me of that duty. In fact, it was pretty near all stuffing; but even then they were not satisfied, and made several ineffectual attempts to swallow my finger as well. At length-- and how happy I felt!--they could both feed themselves and fly. This last accomplishment, however, was anything but agreeable to me, for no sooner did I open their door than out they would all come, one after the other, and seat themselves on my head and shoulders, each one trying to make more noise than all the rest and outdo his brothers in din. I got so tired of this sort of thing at last, that one day I determined to set them all at liberty. I accordingly hung their cage outside the window and opened their door, and out they all flew, but back they came into the room again, and settled on me as usual. "Then," said I, "I'm going gardening." By the way they clung to me it was evident their answer was: "And so are we." And so they did. And as soon as I commenced operations with the spade they commenced operations too, by searching for and eating every worm I turned up, evidently thinking I was merely working for their benefit and pleasure. I got tired of this. "O bother you all!" I cried; "I'm sick of you." I threw down my spade in disgust; and before they could divine my intention, I had leaped the fence and disappeared in the plantation beyond. "Now," said I to myself, as I entered the garden that evening after my return, and could see no signs of starlings, "I'm rid of you plagues at last;" and I smiled with satisfaction. It was short-lived, for just at that moment "Skraigh, skraigh, skraigh" sounded from the trees adjoining; and before I could turn foot, my tormentors, seemingly mad with joy, were all sitting on me as usual. Two of them died about a week after this; and the others, being cock and hen, I resolved to keep. Both Dick and his wife soon grew to be very fine birds. I procured them a large roomy cage, with plenty of sand and a layer of straw in the bottom of it, a dish or two, a bath, a drinking fountain, and always a supply of fresh green weeds on the roof of their domicile. Besides their usual food of soaked bread, etc, they had slugs occasionally, and flies, and earthworms. Once a day the cage-door was thrown open, and out they both would fly with joyful "skraigh" to enjoy the luxury of a bath on the kitchen floor. One would have imagined that, being only two, they would not have stood on the order of their going; but they did, at least Dick did, for he insisted upon using the bath first, and his wife had to wait patiently until his lordship had finished. This was part of Dick's domestic discipline. When they were both thoroughly wet and draggled, and everything within a radius of two yards was in the same condition, their next move was to hop on to the fender, and flatter and gaze pensively into the fire; and two more melancholy-looking, ragged wretches you never saw. When they began to dry, then they began to dress, and in a few minutes "Richard was himself again," and so was his wife. Starlings have their own natural song, and a strange noise they make too. Their great faculty, however, is the gift of imitation, which they have in a wonderful degree of perfection. The first thing that Dick learned to imitate was the rumbling of carts and carriages on the street, and very proud he was of the accomplishment. Then he learned to pronounce his own name, with the prefix "Pretty," which he never omitted, and to which he was justly entitled. Except when sitting on their perch singing or piping, these two little pets were never tired engineering about their cage, and everything was minutely examined. They were perfect adepts at boring holes; by inserting the bill closed, and opening it like a pair of scissors, lo! the thing was done. Dick's rule of conduct was that he himself should have the first of everything, and be allowed to examine first into everything, to have the highest perch and all the tit-bits; in a word, to rule, king and priest, in his own cage. I don't suppose he hated his wife, but he kept her in a state of inglorious subjection to his royal will and pleasure. "Hezekiah" was the name he gave his wife. I don't know why, but I am sure no one taught him this, for he first used the name himself, and then I merely corrected his pronunciation. Sometimes Dick would sit himself down to sing a song; and presently his wife would join in with a few simple notes of melody; upon which Dick would stop singing instantly, and look round at her with indignation. "Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" he would say, which being interpreted, clearly meant: "Hezekiah, my dear, how can you so far forget yourself as to presume to interrupt your lord and master, with that cracked and quavering voice of yours?" Then he would commence anew; and Hezekiah being so good-natured, would soon forget her scolding and again join in. This was too much for Dick's temper; and Hezekiah was accordingly chased round and round the cage and soundly thrashed. His conduct altogether as a husband, I am sorry to say, was very far from satisfactory. I have said he always retained the highest perch for himself; but sometimes he would turn one eye downwards, and seeing Hezekiah sitting so cosily and contentedly on her humble perch, would at once conclude that her seat was more comfortable than his; so down he would hop and send her off at once. It was Dick's orders that Hezekiah should only eat at meal-times; that meant at all times when he chose to feed, _after he was done_. But I suppose his poor wife was often a little hungry in the interim, for she would watch till she got Dick fairly into the middle of a song and quite oblivions of surrounding circumstances, then she would hop down and snatch a meal on the sly. But dire was the punishment far the deceit if Dick found her out. Sometimes I think she used to long for a little love and affection, and at such times she would jump up on the perch beside her husband, and with a fond cry sidle close to him. "Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" he would exclaim; and if she didn't take that hint, she was soon knocked to the bottom of the cage. In fact, Dick was a domestic tyrant, but in all other respects a dear affectionate little pet. One morning Dick got out of his cage by undoing the fastening, and flew through the open window, determined to see what the world was like, leaving Hezekiah to mourn. It was before five on a summer's morning that he escaped; and I saw no more of him until, coming out of church that day, the people were greatly astonished to see a bird fly down from the steeple and alight upon my shoulder. He retained his perch all the way home. He got so well up to opening the fastening of his cage-door that I had to get a small spring padlock, which defied him, although he studied it for months, and finally gave it up, as being one of those things which no fellow could understand. Dick soon began to talk, and before long had quite a large vocabulary of words, which he was never tired using. As he grew very tame, he was allowed to live either out of his cage or in it all day long as he pleased. Often he would be out in the garden all alone for hours together, running about catching flies, or sitting up in a tree repeating his lessons to himself, both verbal and musical. The cat and her kittens were his especial favourites, although he used to play with the dogs as well, and often go to sleep on their backs. He took his lessons with great regularity, was an arduous student, and soon learned to pipe "Duncan Grey" and "The Sprig of Shillelah" without a single wrong note. I used to whistle these tunes over to him, and it was quite amusing to mark his air of rapt attention as he crouched down to listen. When I had finished, he did not at once begin to try the tune himself, but sat quiet and still for some time, evidently thinking it over in his own mind. In piping it, if he forgot a part of the air, he would cry: "Doctor, doctor!" and repeat the last note once or twice, as much as to say: "What comes after that?" and I would finish the tune for him. "Tse! tse! tse!" was a favourite exclamation of his, indicative of surprise. When I played a tune on the fiddle to him, he would crouch down with breathless attention. Sometimes when he saw me take up the fiddle, he would go at once and peck at Hezekiah. I don't know why he did so, unless to secure her keeping quiet. As soon as I had finished he would say "Bravo!" with three distinct intonations of the word, thus: "Bravo! doctor; br-r-ravo! bra-vo!" Dick was extremely inquisitive and must see into everything. He used to annoy the cat very much by opening out her toes, or even her nostrils, to examine; and at times pussy used to lose patience, and pat him on the back. "Eh?" he would say. "What is it? You rascal!" If two people were talking together underneath his cage, he would cock his head, lengthen his neck, and looking down quizzingly, say: "Eh? _What_ is it? _What_ do you say?" He frequently began a sentence with the verb, "Is," putting great emphasis on it. "Is?" he would say musingly. "Is what, Dick?" I would ask. "Is," he would repeat--"Is the darling starling a pretty pet?" "No question about it," I would answer. He certainly made the best of his vocabulary, for he trotted out all his nouns and all his adjectives time about in pairs, and formed a hundred curious combinations. "_Is_," he asked one day, "the darling doctor a rascal?" "Just as you think," I replied. "Tse! tse! tse! Whew! whew! whew!" said Dick; and finished off with "Duncan Grey" and the first half of "The Sprig of Shillelah." "Love is the soul of a nate Irishman," he had been taught to say; but it was as frequently, "Love is the soul of a nate Irish starling;" or, "_Is_ love the soul of a darling pretty Dick?" and so on. One curious thing is worth noting: he never pronounced my dog's name-- Theodore Nero--once while awake; but he often startled us at night by calling the dog in clear ringing tones--talking in his sleep. He used to be chattering and singing without intermission all day long; and if ever he was silent then I knew he was doing mischief; and if I went quietly into the kitchen, I was sure to find him either tracing patterns on a bar of soap, or examining and tearing to pieces a parcel of newly-arrived groceries. He was very fond of wines and spirits, but knew when he had enough. He was not permitted to come into the parlour without his cage; but sometimes at dinner, if the door were left ajar, he would silently enter like a little thief; when once fairly in, he would fly on to the table, scream, and defy me. He was very fond of a pretty child that used to come to see me. If Matty was lying on the sofa reading, Dick would come and sing on her head; then he would go through all the motions of washing and bathing on Matty's bonnie hair; which was, I thought, paying her a very pretty compliment. When the sun shone in at my study window, I used to hang Dick's cage there, as a treat to him. Dick would remain quiet for perhaps twenty minutes, then the stillness would feel irksome to him, and presently he would stretch his head down towards me in a confidential sort of way, and begin to pester me with his silly questions. "Doctor," he would commence, "_is_ it, is it a nate Irish pet?" "Silence, and go asleep," I would make answer. "I want to write." "Eh?" he would say. "_What_ is it? _What_ d'ye say?" Then, if I didn't answer-- "_Is_ it sugar--snails--sugar, snails, and brandy?" Then, "Doctor, doctor!" "Well, Dickie, what is it now?" I would answer. "Doctor--whew." That meant I was to whistle to him. "Shan't," I would say sulkily. "Tse! tse! tse!" Dickie would say, and continue, "Doctor, will you go a-clinking?" I never could resist that. Going a-clinking meant going fly-hawking. Dick always called a fly a clink; and this invitation I would receive a dozen times a day, and seldom refused. I would open the cage-door, and Dick would perch himself on my finger, and I would carry him round the room, holding him up to the flies on the picture-frames. And he never missed one. Once Dick fell into a bucket of water, and called lustily for the "doctor;" and I was only just in time to save him from a watery grave. When I got him out, he did not speak a word until he had gone to the fire and opened his wings and feathers out to dry, then he said: "Bravo! B-r-ravo" several times, and went forthwith and attacked Hezekiah. Dick had a little travelling cage, for he often had to go with me by train; and no sooner did the train start than Dick used to commence to talk and whistle, very much to the astonishment of the passengers, for the bird was up in the umbrella rack. Everybody was at once made aware of both my profession and character, for the jolting of the carriage not pleasing him, he used always to prelude his performance with, "Doctor, doctor, you r-r-rascal. What _is_ it, eh?" As Dick got older, I am sorry, as his biographer, to be compelled to say he grew more and more unkind to his wife--attacked her regularly every morning and the last thing at night, and half-starred her besides. Poor Hezekiah! She could do nothing in the world to please him. Sometimes, now, she used to peck him back again; she was driven to it. I was sorry for Hezekiah, and determined to play pretty Dick a little trick. So one day, when he had been bullying her worse than ever, I took Hezekiah out of the cage, and fastened a small pin to her bill, so as to protrude just a very little way, and returned her. Dick walked up to her at once. "What," he wanted to know, "did she mean by going on shore without leave?" Hezekiah didn't answer, and accordingly received a dig in the back, then another, then a third; and then Hezekiah turned, and let him have one sharp attack. It was very amusing to see how Dick jumped, and his look of astonishment as he said: "Eh? _What_ d'ye say? Hezekiah! Hezekiah!" Hezekiah followed up her advantage. It was quite a new sensation for her to have the upper hand, and so she courageously chased him round and round the cage, until I opened the door and let Dick out. But Hezekiah could not live always with a pin tied to her bill; so, for peace' sake, I gave her away to a friend, and Dick was left alone in his glory. Poor Dickie! One day he was shelling peas to himself in the garden, when some boys startled him, and he flew away. I suppose he lost himself, and couldn't find his way back. At all events I only saw him once again. I was going down through an avenue of trees about a mile from the house, when a voice above in a tree hailed me: "Doctor! doctor! What _is_ it?" That was Dick; but a rook flew past and scared him again, and away he flew--for ever. That same evening, Ida, who had been absent for some little time, returned, and shyly handed me a letter. "Whom is it from, I wonder, Ida," I said; "so late in the evening, too?" "Oh, it is from Maggie," Ida replied. "What!" I exclaimed; "from that impudent bird? Well, let us see what she has to say;" and opening the note, I read as follows:-- "Dear Master,--I fully endorse all you have written about the starling, especially as regards their treatment, and if you had added that they are pert, perky things, you wouldn't have been far out. Well, we magpies build our nests of sticks on the tops of tall trees, lining it first with clay, then with grass; our eggs are five in number, and if they weren't so like to a rook's they might be mistaken for a blackbird's. The nests are so big that before the little boys climb up the trees they think they have found a hawk's. In some parts of the country we are looked upon with a kind of superstitious awe. This is nonsense; there is nothing wrong about us; we may bring joy to people, as I do to you, dear Doctor, by my gentle loving ways, but we never bring grief. We like solitude, and keep ourselves in the wild state to ourselves. Perhaps if we went in flocks, and had as much to say for ourselves as those noisy brutes of rooks, we would be more thought of. Even in the domestic state we like our liberty, and think it terribly cruel to be obliged to mope all day long in a wicker cage. It is crueller still to hang us in draughts, or in too strong a sun; while to keep our cage damp and dirty cramps our legs and gives us such twinges of rheumatism in our poor unused wings, that we often long to die and be at rest. "The treatment, Doctor, you prescribe for starlings will do nicely for us, and you know how easily we are taught to talk; and I'm sure I _do_ love you, Doctor, and haven't I, all for your sake, made friends with your black Persian cat and your big Newfoundland dog? "No, I'm not a thief; I deny the charge. Only if you do leave silver spoons about, and gold pens, and shillings and sixpenny-bits--why--I-- I borrow them, that is all, and you can always find them in Maggie's cage. "We can eat all that starlings eat; yes, and a great many things they would turn up their supercilious bills at. But, remember, we do like a little larger allowance of animal food than starlings do. "No more at present, dear Doctor, but remains your loving and affectionate Magpie, Maggie." N.b.--The grammatical error in the last sentence is Maggie's, not mine. CHAPTER TEN. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ROOK TOBY. "A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads; Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night?" "It most have been on just such another night as this, Frank, that Southey penned these lines," I began. "How about the dewy freshness?" said my wife, who is usually more practical than poetic. "Don't you think, dear, that Ida had better go in?" "Oh! no, auntie," cried Ida; "I must stay and hear the story. It isn't nine o'clock." "No," Frank remarked, "barely nine o'clock, and yet the stars are all out; why, up in the north of Scotland people at this season of the year can see to read all night." "How delightful!" cried Ida. The nodding lilacs and starry syringas were mingling their perfume in the evening air. "Listen," said my wife; "yonder, close by us in the Portugal laurel, is the nightingale." "Yes," I replied, "but to-morrow morning will find the bird just a trifle farther afield, for some instinct tells him that our dark-haired Persian pussy is an epicure in her way, and would prefer philomel to fish for her matutinal meal." I am more convinced than ever that for the first two or three nights after their arrival in this country the nightingales do not go to sleep at all, but sing on all day as well as all night, the marvel being that they do not get hoarse. But after a week the night-song is not nearly so brilliant nor so prolonged, nor does it attain its pristine wild joyfulness until spring once more gilds the fields with buttercups. By day the song is not so noticeable, though ever and anon it sounds high over the Babel of other birds' voices. But, of course, the thrush must sing, the blackbird must pipe, and vulgar sparrows bicker and shriek, and talk Billingsgate to each other, for sparrows having but little music in their own nature, have just as little appreciation for the gift in others. "Look!" cried Frank; "yonder goes a bat." "Yes," I said, "the bats are abroad every night now in full force. What a wonderful power of flight is theirs; how quickly they can turn and wheel, and how nimbly gyrate!" "I much prefer the martin-swallow," said Ida. "We have no more welcome summer, or rather spring visitor, Ida, than the martin. "`He twitters on the apple-trees, He hails me at the dawn of day, Each morn the recollected proof Of time, that swiftly fleets away. Fond of sunshine, fond of shade, Fond of skies serene and clear, E'en transient storms his joys invade, In fairest seasons of the year.'" "But I must be allowed to say that I object to the word `twitter,' so usually applied to the song of the swallow. It is more than a meaningless twitter. Although neither loud nor clear, it is--when heard close at hand--inexpressibly sweet and soft and tender, more so than even that of the linnet, and there are many joyous and happy notes in it, which it is quite delightful to listen to. Indeed, hardly any one could attentively observe the song of our domestic martin for any length of time without feeling convinced that the dusky little minstrel was happy--inexpressibly happy. Few, perhaps, know that there is a striking similarity between the expressions by sound or, voice of the emotions of all animals in the world, whether birds or beasts, and whether those emotions be those of grief or pain, or joy itself. This is well worth observing, and if you live in the country you will have a thousand chances of doing so. Why does the swallow sing in so low a voice? At a little distance you can hardly hear it at all. I have travelled a good deal in forests and jungles and bush lands in Africa and the islands about it, and, of course, I always went alone, that is, I never had any visible companion--because only when alone can one enjoy Nature, and study the ways and manners of birds and beasts, and I have been struck by the silence of the birds, or, at all events, their absence of song in many of them." "Why should that be so, I wonder?" said Ida. "Probably," said Frank, "because the woods where the birds dwell are so full of danger that song would betray their presence, and the result be death. And the same reason may cause the house martins to lower their voices when they give vent to their little notes of tuneful joy." There was a moment's pause: Aileen came and put her head in my lap. "She is waiting for the story," said Frank. "Oh! yes," my wife remarked; "both the dogs are sure to be interested in `Toby's' tale." "Why?" said Frank. "Because," my wife replied, "Toby was a sheep." Here Theodore Nero must join Aileen. The very name or mention of the word "sheep," was sure to make that honest dog wag his tail. "Two heads are better than one," I once remarked in his presence. "Especially sheep's heads," said the dog. And now for the story. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TOBY: THE STORY OF A SAILOR SHEEP. Now Toby was a sheep, a sheep of middling size, lightly built, finely limbed, as agile as a deer, with dark intelligent gazelle-like eyes, and a small pair of neatly curled horns, with the points protruding about an inch from his forehead. And his colour was white except on the face, which was slightly darker. It was the good brig _Reliance_ of Arbroath, and she was bound from Cork to Galatz, on the banks of the blue Danube. All went well with the little ship until she reached the Grecian Archipelago, and here she was detained by adverse winds and contrary currents, making the passage through among the islands both a dangerous and a difficult one. When the mariners at length reached Tenedos, it was found that the current from the Dardanelles was running out like a mill-stream, which made it impossible to proceed; and accordingly the anchor was cast, the jolly-boat was lowered, and the captain took the opportunity of going on shore for fresh water, of which they were scarce. Having filled his casks, it was only natural for a sailor to long to treat himself to a mess of fresh meat as well as water. He accordingly strolled away through the little town; but soon found that butchers were unknown animals in Tenedos. Presently, however, a man came up with a sheep, which the captain at once purchased for five shillings. This was Toby, with whom, his casks of water, and a large basket of ripe fruit, the skipper returned to his vessel. There happened to be on board this ship a large and rather useless half-bred Newfoundland. This dog was the very first to receive the attentions of Master Toby, for no sooner had he placed foot on deck than he ran full tilt at the poor Newfoundland, hitting him square on the ribs and banishing almost every bit of breath from his body. "Only a sheep," thought the dog, and flew at Toby at once. But Toby was too nimble to be caught, and he planted his blows with such force and precision, that at last the poor dog was fain to take to his heels, howling with pain, and closely pursued by Toby. The dog only escaped by getting out on to the bowsprit, where of course Toby could not follow, but quietly lay down between the knight-heads to wait and watch for him. That same evening the captain was strolling on the quarter-deck eating some grapes, when Toby came up to him, and standing on one end, planted his feet on his shoulders, and looked into his face, as much as to say: "I'll have some of those, please." And he was not disappointed, for the captain amicably went shares with Toby. Toby appeared so grateful for even little favours, and so attached to his new master, that Captain Brown had not the heart to kill him. He would rather, he thought, go without fresh meat all his life. So Toby was installed as ship's pet. Ill-fared it then with the poor Newfoundland; he was so battered and so cowed, that for dear life's sake he dared not leave his kennel even to take his food. It was determined, therefore, to put an end to the poor fellow's misery, and he was accordingly shot. This may seem cruel, but it was the kindest in the main. Now, there was on board the _Reliance_ an old Irish cook. One morning soon after the arrival of Toby, Paddy (who had a round bald pate, be it remembered) was bending down over a wooden platter cleaning the vegetables for dinner, when Toby took the liberty of insinuating his woolly nose to help himself. The cook naturally enough struck Toby on the snout with the flat of the knife and went on with his work. Toby backed astern at once; a blow he never could and never did receive without taking vengeance. Besides, he imagined, no doubt, that holding down his bald head as he did, the cook was desirous of trying the strength of their respective skulls. When he had backed astern sufficiently for his purpose, Toby gave a spring; the two heads came into violent collision, and down rolled poor Paddy on the deck. Then Toby coolly finished all the vegetables, and walked off as if nothing had happened out of the usual. Toby's hatred of the whole canine race was invincible. While the vessel lay at Galatz she was kept in quarantine, and there was only one small platform, about four hundred yards long by fifty wide, on which the captain or crew of the _Reliance_ could land. This was surrounded by high walls on three sides, one side being the Pe'latoria, at which all business with the outside world was transacted through gratings. Inside, however, there were a few fruit-stalls. Crowds used to congregate here every morning to watch Toby's capers, and admire the nimbleness with which he used to rob the fruit-stalls and levy blackmail from the vegetable vendors. One day when the captain and his pet were taking their usual walk on this promenade, there came on shore the skipper of a Falmouth ship, accompanied by a large formidable-looking dog. And the dog only resembled his master, as you observe dogs usually do. As soon as he saw Toby he commenced to hunt his dog upon him; but Toby had seen him coming and was quite _en garde_; so a long and fierce battle ensued, in which Toby was slightly wounded and the dog's head was severely cut. Quite a multitude had assembled to witness the fight, and the ships' riggings were alive with sailors. At one time the brutal owner of the dog, seeing his pet getting worsted, attempted to assist him; but the crowd would have pitched him neck and crop into the river, had he not desisted. At last both dog and sheep were exhausted and drew off, as if by mutual consent. The dog seated himself close to the outer edge of the platform, which was about three feet higher than the river's bank, and Toby went, as he was wont to do, and stood between his master's legs, resting his head fondly on the captain's clasped hands, but never took his eyes off the foe. Just then a dog on board one of the ships happened to bark, and the Falmouth dog looked round. This was Toby's chance, and he did not miss it nor his enemy either. He was upon him like a bolt from a catapult. One furious blow knocked the dog off the platform, next moment Toby had leaped on top of him, and was chasing the yelling animal towards his own ship. There is no doubt Toby would have crossed the plank and followed him on board, had not his feet slipped and precipitated him into the river. A few minutes afterwards, when Toby, dripping with wet, returned to the platform to look for his master, he was greeted with ringing cheers; and many was the plaster spent in treating Toby to fruit. Toby was the hero of Galatz from that hour; but the Falmouth dog never ventured on shore again, and his master as seldom as possible. On her downward voyage, when the vessel reached Selina, at the mouth of the river, it became necessary to lighten her in order to get her over the bar. This took some time, and Toby's master frequently had to go on shore; but Toby himself was not permitted to accompany him, on account of the filth and muddiness of the place. When the captain wished to return he came down to the river-side and hailed the ship to send a boat. And poor Toby was always on the watch for his master if no one else was. He used to place his fore-feet on the bulwarks and bleat loudly towards the shore, as much as to say: "I see you, master, and you'll have a boat in a brace of shakes." Then if no one was on deck, Toby would at once proceed to rouse all hands fore and aft. If the mate, Mr Gilbert, pretended to be asleep on a locker, he would fairly roll him off on to the deck. Toby was revengeful to a degree, and if any one struck him, he would wait his chance, even if for days, to pay him out with interest in his own coin. He was at first very jealous of two little pigs which were bought as companions to him; but latterly he grew very fond of them, and as they soon got very fat, Toby used to roll them along the deck like a couple of footballs. There were two parties on board that Toby did not like, or rather that he liked to annoy whenever he got the chance, namely, the cook and the cat. He used to cheat the former and chase the latter on every possible occasion. If his master took pussy and sat down with her on his knee, Toby would at once commence to strike her off with his head. Finding that she was so soft and yielding that this did not hurt her, he would then lift his fore-foot and attempt to strike her down with that; failing in that, he would bite viciously at her; and if the captain laughed at him, then all Toby's vengeance would be wreaked on his master. But after a little scene like this, Toby would always come and coax for forgiveness. Toby was taught a great many tricks, among others to leap backward and forward through a life-buoy. When his hay and fresh provisions went down, Toby would eat pea-soup, invariably slobbering all his face in so doing, and even pick a bone like a dog. He was likewise very fond of boiled rice, and his drink was water, although he preferred porter and ale; but while allowing him a reasonable quantity of beer, the captain never encouraged him in the nasty habit the sailors had taught him of chewing tobacco. It is supposed that some animals have a prescience of coming storms. Toby used to go regularly to the bulwarks every night, and placing his feet against them sniff all around him. If content, he would go and lie down and fall fast asleep; but it was a sure sign of bad weather coming before morning, when Toby kept wandering among his master's feet and would not go to rest. Pea-soup and pork-bones are scarcely to be considered the correct food for a sheep, and so it is hardly to be wondered at that Toby got very thin before the vessel reached Falmouth. Once Toby was in a hotel coffee-room with his master and a friend of the latter's, when instead of calling for two glasses of beer, the captain called for three. "Is the extra glass for yourself or for me?" asked his friend. The extra glass was for Toby, who soon became the subject of general conversation. "I warrant noo," said a north-country skipper, "that thing would kick up a bonnie shine if you were to gang oot and leave him." "Would you like to try him?" replied Captain Brown. "I would," said the Scot, "vera muckle." Accordingly Toby was imprisoned in one corner of the room, where he was firmly held by the Scotch skipper; and Captain Brown, after giving Toby a glance which meant a great deal, left the room. No sooner had he gone than Toby struggled clear of the Scotchman, and took the nearest route for the door. This necessitated his jumping on to the middle of the table, and here Toby missed his footing and fell, kicking over glasses, decanters, and pewter pots by the half-dozen. He next floored a half-drunken fellow, over whose head he tried to spring, and so secured his escape, and left the Scotch skipper to pay the bill. One day Captain Brown was going up the steps of the Custom-house, when he found that not only Toby but Toby's two pigs were following close at his heels. He turned round to drive them all back; but Toby never thought for a moment that his master meant that _he_ should return. "It is these two awkward creatures of pigs," thought Toby, "that master can't bear the sight of." So Toby went to work at once, and first rolled one piggie downstairs, then went up and rolled the other piggie downstairs; but the one piggie always got to the top of the stairs again by the time his brother piggie was rolled down to the bottom. Thinking that as far as appearances went, Toby had his work cut out for the next half-hour, his master entered the Custom-house. But Toby and his friends soon found some more congenial employment; and when Captain Brown returned, he found them all together in an outer room, dancing about with the remains of a new mat about their necks, which they had just succeeded in tearing to pieces. Their practical jokes cost the captain some money one way or another. One day the three friends made a combined attack on a woman who was carrying a young pig in a sack; this little pig happened to squeak, when Toby and his pigs went to the rescue. They tore the woman's dress to atoms and delivered the little pig. Toby was very much addicted to describing the arc of a circle; that was all very good when it was merely a fence he was flying over, but when it happened that a window was in the centre of the arc, then it came rather hard on the captain's pocket. In order to enable him to pick up a little after his long voyage, Toby was sent to country lodgings at a farmer's. But barely a week had elapsed when the farmer sent him back again with his compliments, saying that he would not keep him for his weight in gold. He led his, the farmer's, sheep into all sorts of mischief that they had never dreamed of before, and he defied the dogs, and half-killed one or two of them. Toby returned like himself, for when he saw his master in the distance he baa-ed aloud for joy, and flew towards him like a wild thing, dragging the poor boy in the mud behind him. Toby next took out emigrants to New York, and was constantly employed all day in sending the steerage passengers off the quarter-deck. He never hurt the children, however, but contented himself by tumbling them along the deck and stealing their bread-and-butter. From New York Toby went to Saint Stephens. There a dog flew out and bit Captain Brown in the leg. It was a dear bite, however, for the dog, for Toby caught him in the act, and hardly left life enough in him to crawl away. At Saint Stephens Toby was shorn, the weather being oppressively hot. No greater insult could have been offered him. His anger and chagrin were quite ludicrous to witness. He examined himself a dozen times, and every time he looked round and saw his naked back he tried to run away from himself. He must have thought with the wee "wifiekie comin' frae the fair--This is no me surely, this is no me." But when his master, highly amused at his antics, attempted to add insult to injury by pointing his finger at him and laughing him to scorn, Toby's wrath knew no bounds, and he attacked the captain on the spot. He managed, however, to elude the blow, and Toby walked on shore in a pet. Whether it was that he was ashamed of his ridiculous appearance, or of attempting to strike his kind master in anger, cannot be known, but for three days and nights Toby never appeared, and the captain was very wretched indeed. But when he did return, he was so exceedingly penitent and so loving and coaxing that he was forgiven on the spot. When Toby arrived with his vessel in Queen's Dock, Liverpool, on a rainy morning, some nice fresh hay was brought on board. This was a great treat for Toby, and after he had eaten his fill, he thought he could not do better than sleep among it, which thought he immediately transmuted to action, covering himself all up except the head. By-and-by the owner of the ship came on board, and taking a survey of things in general, he spied Toby's head. "Hollo!" he said, "what's that?" striking Toby's nose with his umbrella. "Stuffed, isn't it?" Stuffed or not stuffed, there was a stuffed body behind it, as the owner soon knew to his cost, and a spirit that never brooked a blow, for next moment he found himself lying on his back with his legs waggling in the air in the most expressive manner, while Toby stood triumphantly over him waiting to repeat the dose if required. The following anecdote shows Toby's reasoning powers. He was standing one day near the dockyard foreman's house, when the dinner bell rang, and just at the same time a servant came out with a piece of bread for Toby. Every day after this, as soon as the same bell rang--"That calls me," said Toby to himself, and off he would trot to the foreman's door. If the door was not at once opened he used to knock with his head; and he would knock and knock again until the servant, for peace' sake, presented him with a slice of bread. And now Toby's tale draws near its close. The owner never forgave that blow, and one day coming by chance across the following entry in the ship's books, "Tenedos--to one sheep, five shillings," he immediately claimed Toby as his rightful property. It was all in vain that the captain begged hard for his poor pet, and even offered ten times his nominal value for him. The owner was deaf to all entreaties and obdurate. So the two friends were parted. Toby was sent a long way into the country to Carnoustie, to amuse some of the owner's children, who were at school there. But the sequel shows how very deeply and dearly even a sheep can love a kind-hearted master. After the captain left him, poor Toby refused all food and _died of grief in one week's time_. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A BIRD-HAUNTED LAWN IN JUNE--PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS. "Go, beautiful and gentle dove! But whither wilt thou go? For though the clouds tide high above. How sad and waste is all below. "The dove flies on. In lonely flight She flies from dawn to dark; And now, amidst the gloom of night, Comes weary to the ark. `Oh! let me in,' she seems to say, `For long and lone has been my way; Oh! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast.'" Rev W. Bowles. There is a kind of semi-wildness about our back lawn that a great many people profess to admire. It stretches downwards from my indoor study, from where the French windows open on to the trellised verandah, which in this sweet month of June, as I write, is all a smother of roses. The walk winds downwards well to one side, and not far from a massive hedge, but this hedge is hidden from view for the most part by a ragged row of trees. The Portuguese laurel, tasselled with charming white bloom at present, but otherwise an immense globe of green (you might swing a hammock inside it and no one know you were there), comes first; then tall, dark-needled Austrian pines, their branches trailing on the grass, with hazels, lilacs, and elders, the latter now in bloom. The lawn proper has it pretty much to itself, with the exception of the flower-beds, the rose-standards, and a sprinkling of youthful pines, and it is bounded on the other side by a tall privet hedge--that, too, is all bedecked in bloom. On the other ride of this hedge the view is shut in to some extent by tapering cypress trees, elms, and oaks, but here and there you catch glimpses of the hills and the lovely country beyond. Along this hedge, at present, wallflowers, and scarlet and white and pink-belled foxgloves are blooming. If you go along the winding pathway, past the bonnie nook--where is now the grave of my dear old favourite Newfoundland [the well-known champion, Theodore Nero]--and if you obstinately refuse to be coaxed by a forward wee side-path into a cool, green grotto, canopied with ivy and lilacs, you will land--nowhere you would imagine at first, but on pushing boughs aside you find a gate, which, supposing you had the key, would lead you out into open country, with the valley of the Thames, stretching from west to east, about a mile distant, and the grand old wooded hills, blue with the softening mist of distance, beyond that. But the lower part of the lawn near that hidden gate is bounded by a bank of glorious foliage--rhododendrons, syringas, trailing roses, and hero-laurels in front, with ash, laburnum, and tall holly trees behind. It may not be right to allow brambles to creep through this bank; nor raspberries, with their drooping cane-work; nor blue-eyed, creeping belladonna; but I like it. I dearly love to see things where you least expect them; to find roses peeping through hedgerows, strawberries building their nests at the foot of gooseberry clumps, and clusters of yellow or red luscious raspberries peeping out from the midst of rhododendron banks, as if fairy fingers were holding them up to view. I'm not sure that the grass on this pet lawn of mine, is always kept so cleanly shaven as some folks might wish, but for my own part I like it snowed over with daisies and white clover; and, what is more to the point, the birds and the bees like it. Indeed, the lawn is little more than a vast outdoor aviary--it is a bird-haunted lawn. There is a rough, shallow bath under a tree at the end of it, and here the blackbirds, thrushes, and starlings come to splash early in the morning, and stare up at my window as I dress, as coolly as if they had not been all up in the orchard trees breakfasting off the red-heart cherries. I have come now, after a lapse of four years, to believe that those cherries belong to the birds and not to me, just as a considerable number of pounds of the greengages belong to the wasps. The nightingales hop around the lawn all day, but they do not bathe, and they do not sing now; they devour terribly long earthworms instead. In the sweet spring-time, in the days of their wooing, they did nothing but sing, and they never slept. Now all is changed, and they do little else save sleep and eat. There are wild pigeons build here, though it is close to two roads, and I see turtle-doves on the lawn every day. "Did you commence the study of natural history at an early age, Gordon?" said Frank to me one evening, as we all sat together on this lawn. "In a practical kind of a way, yes, Frank," I replied, "and if I live for the next ten thousand years I may make some considerable progress in this study. _Ars longa vita brevia est_, Frank." "True; and now," he continued, "spin us a yarn or two about some of the pets you have had." "Well, Frank," I replied, "as you ask me in that off-hand way, you must be content to take my reminiscences in an off-hand way, too." "We will," said Frank; "won't we, Ida?" Ida nodded. "Given a pen and put in a corner, Frank, I can tell a story as well as my neighbours, but the _extempore_ business floors me. I'm shy, Frank, shy. Another cup of tea, Dot--thank you--ahem!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ PETS OF MY EARLY YEARS. There was no school within about three miles of a property my father bought when I was a little over two years of age. With some help from the neighbours my father built a school, which I believe is now endowed, but at that time it was principally supported by voluntary contributions. I was sent there as a first instalment. I was an involuntary contribution. Nurse carried me there every morning, but I always managed to walk coming back. By sending a child of tender years to a day-school, negative rather than positive good was all that was expected, for my mother frankly confessed that I was only sent to keep me out of mischief. The first few days of my school life flew past quickly enough, for my teacher, a little hunchback, be it remembered, whom you may know by the name of Dominie W--, was very kind to me, candied me and lollipopped me, and I thought it grand fun to sit all day on my little stool, turning over the pages of picture-books, and looking at the other boys getting thrashed. This latter part indeed was the best to me, for the little fellows used to screw their miserable visages so, and make such funny faces, that I laughed and crowed with delight. But I didn't like it when it came to my own turn. And here is how that occurred:--There was a large pictorial map that hung on the schoolroom wall, covered with delineations of all sorts of wild beasts. These were pointed out to the Bible-class one by one, and a short lecture given on the habits of each, which the boys and girls were supposed to retain in their memories, and retail again when asked to. One day, however, the dromedary became a stumbling-block to all the class; not one of them could remember the name of the beast. "Did ever I see such a parcel of numskulls?" said Dominie W--. "Why, I believe that child there could tell you." I felt sure I could, and intimated as much. "What is it, then, my dear?" said my teacher encouragingly. "Speak out, and shame the dunces." I did speak out, and with appalling effect. "It's a schoolmaster," I said. "A what?" roared the dominie. "A schoolmaster," I said, more emphatically; "it has a hump on its back." I didn't mean to be rude, but I naturally imagined that the hump was the badge of the scholastic calling, and that the dromedary was dominie among the beasts. "Oh! indeed," said Dominie W--; "well, you just wait there a minute, and I'll make a hump on your back." And he moved off towards the desk for the strap. As I didn't want a hump on my back, instant flight suggested itself to me, as the only way of meeting the difficulty; so I made tracks for the door forthwith. "Hold him, catch him!" cried the dominie, and a big boy seized me by the skirt of my dress. But I had the presence of mind to meet my teeth in the fleshy part of the lad's hand; then I was free to flee. Down the avenue I ran as fast as two diminutive shanks could carry me, but I had still a hundred yards to run, and capture seemed inevitable, for the dominie was gaining on me fast. But help was most unexpectedly at hand, for, to my great joy, our pet bull-terrier, "Danger," suddenly put in an appearance. The dog seemed to take in the whole situation at a glance, and it was now the dominie's turn to shake in his shoes. And Danger went for him in grand style, too. I don't know that he hurt him very much, but to have to return to school with five-and-thirty pounds of pure-bred bull-terrier hanging to one's hump, cannot be very grateful to one's feelings. I was not sent to that seminary any more for a year, but it dawned upon me even thus early that dogs have their uses. When I was a year or two older I had as a companion and pet a black-and-tan terrier called "Tip," and a dear good-hearted game little fellow he was; and he and I were always of the same mind, full of fan and fond of mischief. Tip could fetch and carry almost anything; a loose railway rug, for example, would be a deal heavier than he, but if told he would drag one up three flights of stairs walking backwards. Again, if you showed him anything, and then hid it, he would find it wherever it was. He was not on friendly terms with the cat though; she used him shamefully, and finding him one day in a room by himself she whacked him through the open window, and Tip fell two storeys. Dead? No. Tip fell on his feet. One day Tip was a long time absent, and when he came into the garden he came up to me and placed a large round ball all covered with thorns at my feet. "Whatever is it, Tip?" I asked. "That's a hoggie," said Tip, "and ain't my mouth sore just." I put down my hands to lift it up, and drew them back with pricked and bleeding fingers. Then I shrieked, and nursie came running out, and shook me, and whacked me on the back as if I had swallowed a bone. That's how she generally served me. "What is it now?" she cried; "you're never out of mischief; did Tip bite you?" "No, no," I whimpered, "the beastie bited me." Then I had three pets for many a day, Tip and the cat and the hedgehog, who grew very tame indeed. Maggie Hay was nursie's name. I was usually packed off to bed early in the evening, and got the cat with me, and in due time Maggie came. But one night the cat and I quarrelled, so I slipped out of bed, and crept quietly down to the back kitchen, and returned with my hoggie in the front of my nightdress, and went back to my couch. I was just in that blissful state of independence, between sleeping and waking, when Maggie came upstairs to bed. The hoggie had crept out of my arms, and had gone goodness knows whither, and I didn't care, but I know this much, that Maggie had no sooner got in and laid down, than she gave vent to a loud scream, and sprang on to the floor again, and stood shaking and shivering like a ghost in the moonlight. I suppose she had laid herself down right on top of my hoggie, and hoggie not being used to such treatment had doubtless got its spines up at once. I leave you to guess whether Maggie gave me a shaking or not. This pet lived for three long happy months, and its food was porridge and milk, morsels of green food, and beetles, which it caught on its own account. But I suppose it longed for its old gipsy life in the green fields, and missed the tender herbs and juicy slugs it had been wont to gather by the foot of the hedgerows. I don't know, but one morning I found my poor hoggie rolled up in a little ball with one leg sticking out; it was dead and stiff. Maggie took it solemnly up by that one leg as if it had been a handle and carried it away and buried it; then she came back with her eyes wet and kissed me, and gave me a large--very large--slice of bread with an extra allowance of treacle on it. But there seemed to be a big lump in my throat; I tried hard to eat, but failed miserably, only--I managed to lick the treacle off. My little friend Tip was of a very inquiring turn of mind, and this trait in his character led to his miserable end. One day some men were blasting stones in a neighbouring field, and Tip seeing what he took to be a rat's tail sticking out of a stone, and a thin wreath of blue smoke curling up out of it, went to investigate. He did not come back to tell tales; he was carried on high with the hurtling stones and _debris_, and I never saw my poor Tip any more. CHAPTER TWELVE. EARLY STUDIES IN NATURAL HISTORY. "Within a bush her covert nest A little birdie fondly prest; The dew sat chilly on her breast, Sae early in the morning." Burns. Shortly after the melancholy death of Tip, some one presented me with a puppy, and some one else presented me with a rook. My knowledge of natural history was thus progressing. That unhappy pup took the distemper and died. If treated for the dire complaint at all, it was no doubt after the rough and harsh fashion, common, till very lately, of battling with it. So my puppy died. As to the rook, a quicker fate was reserved for him. The bird and I soon grew as thick as thieves. He was a very affectionate old chap, and slept at night in a starling's cage in the bedroom. He was likewise a somewhat noisy bird, and very self-asserting, and would never allow us to sleep a wink after five in the morning. Maggie tried putting his breakfast into the cage the night before. This only made matters worse, for he got up at three o'clock to eat it, and was quite prepared for another at five. Maggie said she loved the bird, because he saved her so many scoldings by wakening her so punctually every morning. I should think he did waken her, with a vengeance too. He had a peculiar way of roaring "Caw! Caw!" that would have wakened Rip Van Winkle himself. Like the great Highland bagpipe, the voice of a healthy rook sounds very well about a mile off, but it isn't exactly the thing for indoor delectation. But my uncle sat down upon my poor rook one day, and the bird gave vent to one last "Caw!" and was heard again--nevermore. My mother told him he ought to be more careful. My uncle sat down on the same chair again next day, and, somehow, a pin went into him further than was pleasant. Then I told him he ought to be more careful, and he boxed my ears, and I bit him, and nursie came and shook me and whacked me on the back as if I had been choking; so, on the whole, I think I was rather roughly dealt with between the two of them. However, I took it out of Maggie in another way, and found her very necessary and handy in my study of natural history, which, even at this early age, I had developed a taste for. I had as a plaything a small wooden church, which I fondled all day, and took to bed with me at night. One fine day I had an adventure with a wasp which taught me a lesson. I had half-filled my little church with flies to represent a congregation, but as they wouldn't sing unless I shook them, and as Maggie told me nobody ever shook a real church to make the congregation sing, I concluded it was a parson they lacked, and went to catch a large yellow fly, which I saw on the window-ledge. _He_ would make them sing I had no doubt. Well, he made me sing, anyhow. It was long before I forgot the agony inflicted by that sting. Maggie came flying towards me, and I hurled church, congregation, and all at her head, and went off into a first-class fit. But this taught me a lesson, and I never again interfered with any animal or insect, until I had first discovered what their powers of retaliation were; beetles and flies were old favourites, whose attendance at church I compelled. I wasn't sure of the earthworm at first, nor of the hairy caterpillar, but a happy thought struck me, and, managing to secure a specimen of each, and holding them in a tea-cup, I watched my chance, and when nursie wasn't looking emptied them both down her back. When the poor girl wriggled and shrieked with horror, I looked calmly on like a young stoic, and asked her did they bite. Finding they didn't, they became especial favourites with me. I put every new specimen I found, instantly or on the first chance, down poor Maggie's back or bosom, and thus, day by day, while I increased in stature, day by day I grew in knowledge. I wasn't quite successful once, however, with a centipede. I had been prospecting, as the Yankees say, around the garden, searching for specimens, and I found this chap under a stone. He was about as long as a penholder, and had apparently as many legs as a legion of the Black Watch. Under these circumstances, thinks I to myself what a capital parson he'll make. So I dismissed all my congregation on the spot, and placed the empty church at his disposal, with the door thereof most invitingly open, but he wouldn't hear of going in. Perhaps, thought I, he imagines the church isn't long enough to hold him, so I determined, for his own comfort, to cut him in two with my egg-cup, then I could capture first one end of him, and then the other, and empty them down nursie's back, and await results. But, woe is me! I had no sooner commenced operations than the ungrateful beast wheeled upwards round my finger and bit it well. I went away to mourn. When nine years old my opportunities for studying birds and beasts were greatly increased, for, luckily for me, the teacher of my father's school nearly flogged the life out of me. It might have been more lucky still had he finished the job. However, this man was a bit of a dandy in his way, and was very proud of his school. And one fine day who should walk in at the open doorway but "Davy," my pet lamb. As soon as he spied me he gave vent to a joyful "Ba-a!" and as there was a table between us, and he couldn't reach me, he commenced to dance in front of it. "Good gracious!" cried the teacher, "a sheep of all things in my school, and positively dancing." On rushing to save my pet, whom he began belabouring with a cane, the man turned all his fury on me, with the above gratifying result. I was sent to a far-off seminary after this. Three miles was a long distance for a child to walk to school over a rough country. It was rough but beautiful, hill and dale, healthy moorlands, and pine woods. It was glorious in summer, but when the snows of winter fell and the roads were blocked, it was not quite so agreeable. I commenced forthwith, however, to make acquaintance with every living thing, whether it were a creepie-creepie living under a stone, or a bull in the fields. My pets, by the way, were a bull, that I played with as a calf, and could master when old and red-eyed and fierce, half a dozen dogs, and a peacock belonging to a farmer. This bird used to meet me every morning, not for crumbs--he never would eat--but for kind words and caresses. The wild birds were my especial favourites. I knew them all, and all about them, their haunts, their nests, their plumage, and eggs and habits of life. I lived as much in trees as on the ground, used to study in trees, and often fell asleep aloft, to the great danger of my neck. I do not think I was ever cruel--intentionally, at all events--to any bird or creature under my care, but I confess to having sometimes taken a young bird from the nest to make a pet of. I myself, when a little boy, have often sat for half an hour at a time swinging on the topmost branches of a tall fir-tree, with my waistcoat pocket filled with garden worms, watching the ways and motions of a nest of young rooks, and probably I would have to repeat my aerial visit more than once before I could quite make up my mind which to choose. I always took the sauciest, noisiest young rascal of the lot, and I was never mistaken in my choice. Is it not cruelty on my part, you may inquire, to counsel the robbery of a rook's nest? Well, there are the feelings of the parent birds to be considered, I grant you, but when you take two from five you leave three, and I do not think the rooks mourn many minutes for the missing ones. An attempt was made once upon a time to prove that rooks can't count farther than three. Thus: an ambush was erected in the midst of a potato field, where rooks were in the habit of assembling in their dusky thousands. When into this ambush there entered one man, or two men, or three men, the gentlemen in black quietly waited until the last man came forth before commencing to dig for potatoes, but when four men entered and _three_ came out, the rooks were satisfied and went to dinner at once. But I feel sure this rule of three does not hold good as far as their young ones are concerned. I know for certain that either cats or dogs will miss an absentee from a litter of even six or more. Books are very affectionate towards their owners, very tricky and highly amusing. They are great thieves, but they steal in such a funny way that you cannot be angry with them. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. ALL ABOUT MY BIRD PETS. "Ye ken where yon wee burnie, love, Runs roarin' to the sea, And tumbles o'er its rocky bed Like spirit wild and free. The mellow mavis tunes his lay, The blackbird swells his note, And little robin sweetly sings Above the woody grot." W. Cameron. "The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, The lintie in the bosky dell, No blither than your bonnie sel', My ain, my artless Mary." Idem. Scottish poets cannot keep birds out of their love-songs any more than they can the gloaming star, the bloom of flowers, the scent of golden gorse, or soft winds sighing through woods in summer. And well may the lovely wee linnet be compared to a young and artless maiden, so good and innocent, so gentle and unobtrusive is the bird, and yet withal so blithe. Nor could a better pet be found for girls of a quiet, retiring disposition than the linnet. Some call it a shy bird. This hardly coincides with my own experience, and I dearly like to study the characters of birds and animals of all kinds, and have often discovered something to love and admire even in the wildest beasts that ever roamed o'er prairie or roared in jungle. No, the linnet is not shy, but he is unostentatious; he seems to have the tact to know when a little music would be appreciated, and is by no means loath to trill his sweet song. He is also most affectionate, and if his mistress be but moderately kind to him, he may _like_ other people well enough, but he will _love_ but her alone, and will often and often pipe forth a few bars, in so low a key that she cannot but perceive they are meant for her ear only. Even in the wild state the rose-linnet courts retirement. Thinking about this bird brings me back once more to the days of my boyhood. I am a tiny, tiny lad trudging home from the distant day-school, over a wide, wild moorland with about a stone of books--Greek and Latin classics and lexicons--in a leather strap over my shoulder. I am--as I ever wished to be--alone. That is, I have no human companionship. But I have that of the wild birds, and the thousand and one wild creatures that inhabit this great stretch of heathy wold, and I fancy they all know me, from yonder hawk poised high in the air to the merlin that sings on a branch of broom; from the wily fox or fierce polecat to the wee mouse that nestles among the withered grass. I have about a score of nests to pay a visit to--the great long-winged screaming whaup's (curlew's) among the rushes; the mire-snipe's and wild duck's near the marsh; the water-hen's, with her charming red eggs, near the streamlet; the peewit's on the knoll; the stonechat's, with eggs of milky blue, in the cairn; the laverock's, the woodlark's, and the wagtail's, and last, but not least, the titlin's nest, with the cuckoo's egg in it. But I linger but a short time at any of these to-day, for on my way to school I saw a rose-linnet singing on a thorn, and have been thinking about it all day. I have been three times thrashed for Cicero, and condemned to detention for two hours after my schoolmates are gone. I have escaped through the window, however. I shall be thrashed for this in the morning, but I should be thrashed for something, at all events, so that matters nothing. The sun is still high in the heavens, summer days are long, I'll go and look for my linnet's nest; I haven't seen one this year yet. The heather is green as yet, and here and there on the moorland is a bush or patch of golden furze, not tall and straggling like the bushes you find in woods, that seem to stretch out their necks as if seeking in vain for the sunlight, but close, compact, hugging the ground, and seeming to weigh down the warm summer air around it with the sweetness of its perfume. Now, on one of those very bushes, and on the highest twig thereof, I find my cock linnet. His head is held well up, and his little throat swells and throbs with his sweet, melodious song. But I know this is all tact on the bird's part, and that his heart beats quick with fear as he sees me wandering searchingly from bush to bush. He is trying to look unconcerned. He saw me coming, and enjoined his pretty mate to lie close and not fly out, assuring her that if she did so all would be well. He does not even fly away at my approach. "There is no nest of mine anywhere near," he seems to say. "Is it likely I would be singing so blithely if there were?" "Ah! but," I reply, "I feel sure there is, else why are you dressed so gaily? why have you cast aside your sombre hues and donned that crimson vest?" Pop--I am at the right bush now, and out flies the modest wee female linnet. She had forgotten all her mate told her, she was so frightened she could not lie close. And now I lift a branch and keek in, and am well rewarded. A prettier sight than that little nest affords, to any one fond of birds, cannot easily be conceived. It is not a large one; the outside of it is built of knitted grass and withered weeds, and on the whole it is neat; but inside it is the perfection of beauty and rotundity, and softly and warmly lined with hair of horse and cow, with a few small feathers beneath, to give it extra cosiness. And the eggs-- how beautiful! Books simply tell you they are white, dotted, and speckled with red. They are more than this; the groundwork is white, to be sure, but it looks as if the markings were traced by the Angers of some artist fay. It looks as though the fairy artist had been trying to sketch upon them the map of some strange land, for here are blood-red lakes--square, or round, or oval--and rivers running into them and rivers rolling out, so that having once seen a rose-linnet's egg, you could never mistake it for any other. "I think," said Ida, "I should like a linnet, if I knew how to treat it." "Well," I continued, "let me give you a little advice. I have interested you in this bonnie bird, let me tell you then how you are to treat him if you happen to get one, so as to make him perfectly happy, with a happiness that will be reflected upon you, his mistress." I always counsel any one who has a pet of any kind to be in a manner jealous of it, for one person is enough to feed and tend it, and that person should be its owner. Of course, if you mean to have one as a companion you will procure a male bird, and one as pretty as possible, but even those less bright in colour sing well. Let his cage be a square or long one, and just as roomy as you please; birds in confinement cannot have too much space to move about in. Keep the cage exceedingly clean and free from damp, give the bird fresh water every morning, and see that he has a due allowance of clean dry seed. The food is principally canary-seed with some rape in it, and a small portion of flax; but although you may now and then give him a portion of bruised hemp seed, be careful and remember hemp is both stimulating and over-fattening. Many a bird gets enlargement of the liver, and heart disease and consequent asthma, from eating too freely and often of hemp. In summer it should never be given, but in cold weather it is less harmful. Green food should not be forgotten. The best is chic-weed--ripe--and groundsel, with--when you can get it--a little watercress. There are many seedling weeds which you may find in your walks by the wayside, which you may bring home to your lintie. If you make a practice of doing this, he will evince double the joy and pleasure at seeing you on your return. Never leave any green food longer than a day either in or over the cage. So shall your pet be healthy, and live for many years to give you comfort with his sweet fond voice. I may just mention that the linnet will learn the song of some other birds, notably that of the woodlark. Sea-sand may be put in the bottom of the cage, and when the bird begins to lose its feathers and moult, be extra kind and careful with it, covering the cage partly over, and taking care to keep away draughts. After the feathers begin to come you may put a rusty nail in the water. This is a tonic, but I do not believe in giving it too soon. Let me now say a word about another of my boyhood's pets--the robin. But I hardly know where or how I am to begin, nor am I sure that my theme will not run right away with me when I do commence. My winged horse--my Pegasus--must be kept well in hand while speaking about my little favourite, the robin. Happy thought, however! I will tell you nothing I think you know already. The robin, then, like the domestic cat, is too well known to need description. We who live in the country have him with us all the year round, and we know his charming song wherever we hear it. He may seem to desert our habitations for a few months in the early spring-time, for he is then very busy, having all the care and responsibility of a family on his head; but he is not far away. He is only in the neighbouring grove or orchard, and if we pay him a visit there he will sing to us very pleasantly, as if glad to see us. And one fine morning we find him on the lawn-gate again, bobbing and becking to us, and looking as proud as a pasha because he has his little wife and three of the family with him. His wife is not a Jenny Wren, as some suppose, but a lovely wee robin just like himself, only a trifle smaller, and not quite so red on the breast nor so bold as her partner. And the young ones, what charmingly innocent little things they look, with their broad beaks and their apologies for tails! I have often known them taken for juvenile thrushes, because their breasts are not red, but a kind of yellow with speckles in it. "Tcheet, tcheet!" cries Robin, on the gate, bobbing at you again; "throw out some crumbs. My wife is a bit shy; she has never been much in society; but just see how the young ones can eat." Well, Robin is one of the earliest birds of a morning that I know. He is up long before the bickering sparrows, and eke before the mavis. His song mingles with your morning dreams, and finally wakes you to the joys and duties of another day, and if you peep out at the window you will probably see him on the lawn, hauling some unhappy worm out of its hole. I have seen Robin get hold of too big a worm, and, after pulling a piece of it out as long as a penholder, fly away with a frightened "Tcheet, tcheet!" as much as to say, "Dear me! I didn't know there were yards and yards of you. You must be a snake or something." Robin sings quite late at night too, long after the mavis is mute and every other bird has retired. And all day long in autumn he sings. During the winter months, especially if there be snow on the ground, he comes boldly to the window-ledge, and doesn't ask, but demands his food, as brazenly as a German bandsman. Sparrows usually come with him, but if they dare to touch a bit of food that he has his eye on they catch it. My robin insists upon coming into my study in winter. He likes the window left open though, and I don't, and on this account we have little petulancies, and if I turn him out he takes revenge by flying against the French window, and mudding all the pane with his feet. Almost every country house has one or two robins that specially belong to it, and very jealous they are of any strange birds that happen to come nigh the dwelling. While bird-nesting one time in company with another boy, we found a robin's nest in a bank at the foot of a great ash tree. There were five eggs in it. On going to see it two days after, we found the nest and eggs intact, but two other eggs had been laid and deposited about a foot from the bank. We took the hint, and carried away these two, but did not touch the others. The eggs are not very pretty. While shooting in the wildest part of the Highlands, and a long way from home, I have often preferred a bed with my dog on the heather to the smoky hospitality of a hut; and I have found robins perched close by me of a morning, singing ever so sweetly and low. They were only trying to earn the right to pick up the crumbs my setter and I had left at supper, but this shows you how fond these birds are of human society. In a cage the robin will live well and healthily for many years, if kindly and carefully treated. He will get so tame that you needn't fear to let him have his liberty about the room. Let the cage be large and roomy, and covered partly over with a cloth. The robin loves the sunshine and a clean, dry cage, and, as to food, he is not very particular. Give him German paste--with a little bruised hemp and maw seed, with insects, beetles, grubs, garden and meal worms, etc. Let him have clean gravel frequently, and fresh water every morning. Now and then, when you think your pet is not particularly lively, put a rusty nail in the water. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE REDSTART, THE GOLDFINCH, THE MAVIS, AND MERLE. "They sang, as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd." Cowper. I was creeping, crawling, and scrambling one afternoon in the days of my boyhood, through tall furze at the foot of the Drummond Hill, which in England would be called a mountain. It was the Saturday half-holiday, and I was having a fine time of it among the birds. I was quite a mile away from any human dwelling, and, I flattered myself, from any human being either. I was speedily undeceived though. "Come out o' there, youngster," cried a terrible voice, almost to my ear. "I thought ye were a rabbit; I was just going to chuck a stone at your head." I crept forth in fear and trembling. A city rough of the lowest type--you could tell that from the texture of the ragged, second-hand garments he wore; from his slipshod feet, his horrid cap of greasy fur, and pale, unwholesome face. He proceeded to hoist a leafless branch, smeared with birdlime, in a conspicuous place, and not far off he deposited a cage, with a bird in it. Then he addressed me. "I'm goin' away for half an hour, and you'll stop here and watch. If any birds get caught on the twigs, when I come back I'll mebbe gie you something." When he came back he did "gie me something." He boxed my ears soundly, because I lay beside the cage, and talked to the little bird all the time instead of watching. You may guess how I loved that man. I have had the same amount of affection for the whole bird-catching fraternity ever since, and I do a deal every summer to spoil their sport. I look upon them as followers of a most sinful calling, and just as cruel and merciless as the slave-traders of Southern Africa. Many a little heart they break; they separate parent birds, and tear the old from their young, who are left to starve to death in the nest. The redstart was a great favourite with me in these joyous days. In size and shape he is not unlike the robin; but the bill is black, the forehead white, the rest of the upper part of the body a bluish grey. The wings are brownish, the bird wears a bib of black, but on the upper portion of the chest and all down the sides there is red, though not so bright in colour as the robin's breast. That is the plumage of the cock-bird, so these birds are easily known. They make charming cage pets, being very affectionate, and as merry as a maiden on May morning, always singing and gay, and so tame that you need not be afraid to let them out of the cage. Another was the wren. Some would love the mite for pity sake. It is very pretty and very gay, and possesses a sweet little voice of its own; it needs care, however. It must not, on the one hand, be kept too near a fire or in too warm a room, and on the other it should be well covered up at night; a draught is fatal to such a bird. There is also the golden-headed wren, the smallest of our British birds, but I do not remember ever having seen one kept in a cage. There is no accounting for tastes, however. I knew a young lady in Aberdeen who kept a golden eagle in a cage of huge dimensions. He was the admiration of all beholders, and the terror of inquisitive schoolboys, who, myself among the number, fully believed he ate a whole horse every week, and ever so many chickens. While gazing at the bird, you could not help feeling thankful you were on the _outside_ of the cage. I admired, but I did not love him much. He caught me by the arm one day, with true Masonic grip--I loved him even less after that. Wrens are fed in the same way as robins or nightingales are. In the wild state they build a large roundish nest, principally of green moss outside, and with very little lining. There is just one tiny hole left in the side capable of admitting two fingers. Eggs about ten in number, very small, white, and delicately ticked with red. If I remember rightly, the golden wren's are pure white. The nests I have found were in bushes, holly, fir, or furze, or under the branches of large trees close to the trunk. The back of the nest is nearly always towards the north and east. The stonechat or stone-checker is a nice bird as to looks, but possesses but little song. It would require the same treatment in cage or aviary as the robin. So I believe would the whinchat, but I have no practical knowledge of either as pets. With the exception of the kingfisher, I do not recollect any British bird with brighter or more charming plumage, than our friend the goldfinch. He is arrayed in crimson and gold, black, white, and brown, but the colours are so beautifully placed and blended, that, rich and gaudy though they be, they cannot but please the eye of the most artistic. The song of the goldfinch is very sweet, he is with all a most affectionate pet, and exceedingly clever, so much so that he may be taught quite a number of so-called tricks. In the wild state the bird eats a variety of seeds of various weeds that grow by the wayside, and at times in the garden of the sluggard. Dandelion and groundsel seed are the chief of these, and later on in the season thistle seed. So fond, indeed, is the goldfinch of the thistle that the only wonder is that our neighbours beyond the Tweed do not claim it as one of _the_ birds of Bonnie Scotland, as they do the curlew and the golden eagle. But, on the other hand, they might on the same plea claim a certain quadruped, whose length of ear exceeds its breadth of intellect. "Won't you tell us something," said Ida, "about the blackbird and thrush? Were they not pets of your boyhood?" "They were, dear, and if I once begin talking about them I will hardly finish to-night." "But just a word or two about them." It is the poet Mortimer Collins that says so charmingly: "All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon, And till the star of evening climbs The grey-blue East, a world too soon, There sings a thrush amid the limes." Whether in Scotland or England, the mavis, or thrush, is one of the especial favourites of the pastoral poet and lyrist. And well the bird deserves to be. No sweeter song than his awakes the echoes of woodland or glen. It is shrill, piping, musical. Tannahill says he "gars (makes) echo _ring_ frae tree to tree." That is precisely what the charming songster does do. It is a bold, clear, ringing song that tells of the love and joy at the birdie's heart. If that joy could not find expression in song, the bird would pine and die, as it does when caught, caged, and improperly treated. When singing he likes to perch himself among the topmost branches; he likes to see well about him, and perhaps the beauties he sees around him tend to make him sing all the more blithely. But though seeing, he is not so easily seen. I often come to the door of my garden study and say to myself, "Where can the bird be to-night?" This, however, is when the foliage is on orchard and oaks. But his voice sometimes sounds so close to my ear that I am quite surprised when I find him singing among the boughs of a somewhat distant tree. This is my mavis, my particular mavis. In summer he awakes me with his wild lilts, long ere it is time to get up, and he continues his song "till the star of evening climbs the grey-blue East," and sometimes for an hour or more after that. I think, indeed, that he likes the gloaming best, for by that witching time nearly all the other birds have retired, and there is nothing to interrupt him. In winter my mavis sings whenever the weather is mild and the grass is visible. But he does not think of turning up of a morning until the sun does, and he retires much earlier. I have known my mavis now nearly two years, and I think he knows me. But how, you may ask me, Frank, do I know that it is the selfsame bird. I reply that not only do we, the members of my own family, know this mavis, but those of some of my neighbours as well, and in this way: all thrushes have certain expressions of their own, which, having once made use of, they never lose. So like are these to human words, that several people hearing them at the same time construe them in precisely the same way. My mavis has four of these in his vocabulary, with which he constantly interlards his song, or rather songs. They form the choruses, as it were, of his vocal performances. The chorus of one is, "Weeda, weeda, weeda;" of another, "Piece o' cake, piece o' cake, piece o' cake;" of the third, "Earwig, earwig, earwig;" and of the last, sung in a most plaintive key, "Pretty deah, pretty deah, pretty deah." "That is so true," said Ida, laughing. On frosty days he does not sing, but he will hop suddenly down in front of me while I am feeding the Newfoundlands. "You can spare a crumb," he says, speaking with his bright eye; "grubs are scarce, and my poor toes are nearly frozen off." Says the great lyrist-- "May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer? Is that thy lesson in the limes?" I am lingering longer with the mavis than probably I ought, simply because I want you all to love the bird as I love him. Well, then, I have tried to depict him to you as he is in his native wilds; but see him now at some bud-seller's door in town. Look at his drooping wings and his sadly neglected cage. His eyes seem to plead with each passer-by. "Won't _you_ take me out of here?" he seems to say, "nor you, nor you? Oh! if you would, and were kind to me, I should sing songs to you that would make the green woods rise up before you like scenery in a beautiful dream." The male thrush is the songster, the female remains mute. She listens. The plumage is less different than in most birds. The male looks more pert and saucy, if that is any guide. The mavis is imitative of the songs of other birds. In Scotland they say he _mocks_ them. I do not think that is the case, but I know that about a week after the nightingales arrive here my mavis begins to adopt many of their notes, which he loses again when Philomel becomes mute. And I shouldn't think that even my mavis would dare to mock the nightingale. I have found the nest of the mavis principally in young spruce-trees or tall furze in Scotland, and in England in thick hedges and close-leaved bushes; it is built, of moss, grass, and twigs, and clay-lined. Eggs, four or five, a bluish-green colour with black spots. The missel-thrush, or Highland magpie, builds far beyond any one's reach, high up in the fork of a tree; the eggs are very lovely--whitish, speckled with brown and red. I do not recommend this bird as a pet. He is too wild. The merle, or blackbird, frequents the same localities as the mavis does, and is by no means a shy bird even in the wild state, though I imagine he is of a quieter and more affectionate disposition. It is my impression that he does not go so far away from the nest of his pretty mate as the mavis, but then, perhaps, if he did he would not be heard. The song is even sweeter to the ear than that of the thrush, although it has far fewer notes. It is quieter, more rich and full, more mellow and melodious. The blackbird has been talked of as "fluting in the grove." The notes are certainly not like those of the flute. They are cut or "tongued" notes like those of the clarionet. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A BIRD-HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. "Adieu, sweet bird! thou erst hast been Companion of each summer scene, Loved inmate of our meadows green, And rural home; The music of thy cheerful song We loved to hear; and all day long Saw thee on pinion fleet and strong About us roam." It is usual in the far north of Scotland, where the writer was reared, to have, as in England, the graveyard surrounding the parish church. The custom is a very ancient and a very beautiful one; life's fitful fever past and gone, to rest under the soft sward, and under the shadow of the church where one gleaned spiritual guidance. There is something in the very idea of this which tends to dispel much of the gloom of death, and cast a halo round the tomb itself. But at the very door of the old church of N--a tragedy had, years before I had opened my eyes in life, been enacted, and since that day service had never again been conducted within its walls. The new church was built on an open site quite a mile from the old, which latter stands all by itself--crumbling ivy-clad ruins, in the midst of the greenery of an acre of ancient graves. There is a high wall around it, and giant ash and plane trees in summer almost hide it from view. It is a solitary spot, and on moonlit nights in winter, although the highway skirts it, few there be who care to pass that way. The parish school or academy is situated some quarter of a mile from the auld kirkyard, and in the days of my boyhood even bird-nesting boys seldom, if ever, visited the place. It was not considered "canny." For me, however, the spot had a peculiar charm. It was so quiet, so retired, and haunted, not with ghosts, but with birds, and many a long sunny forenoon did I spend wandering about in it, or reclining on the grass with my Virgil or Horace in hand--poets, by the way, who can only be thoroughly enjoyed out of doors in the country. A pair of owls built in this auld kirkyard for years. I used to think they were always the same old pair, who, year after year, stuck to the same old spot, sending their young ones away to the neighbouring woods to begin life on their own account as soon as they were able to fly. They were lazy birds; for two whole years they never built a nest of their own, but took possession of a magpie's old one. But at last the lady owl said to her lord-- "My lord, this nest is getting quite disreputable--we _must_ have a new one this spring." "Very well," said his lordship, looking terribly learned, "but you'll have to build it, my lady, for I've got to think, and think, you know." "To be sure, my lord," said she. "The world would never go on unless you thought, and thought." She chose an old window embrasure, and, half hid in ivy, there she built the new nest with weeds and sticks and stubble, while he did nothing but sit and talk Greek and natural philosophy at her. There were tree sparrows built in the ivy of those crumbling walls, each nest about as big as the bottom of an armchair, and containing as many feathers as would stuff a small pillow-case, to say nothing of threads of all colours, hair, and pieces of printed paper. Seven, eight, and ten eggs would be in some of those, white as to ground, and beautifully speckled with brown and grey. I have heard the tree sparrow called a nasty, common, dowdy thing. It really is not at all dowdy, and although it may be called the country cousin of the busy, chattering little morsel of feathers and fluff that hops nimbly but noisily about our roof-tops, and is constantly quarrelling with its neighbours, the tree sparrow is far more pretty. Nor is it quite plebeian. It is the _Passer montanus_ of some naturalists, the _becfin friquet_ of the French; it belongs to the Greek family, the _Fringillidae_, and does not the linnet belong to that family too? Yes, and the beautiful bullfinch and the gaudy goldfinch as well, to say nothing of the siskin and canary, so it cannot be plebeian. The tree sparrow makes a nice wee pet, very loving and gentle, and not at all particular as to food. It likes canary-seed, but insects and worms as well, and it is not shy at picking a morsel of sugar, nor a tiny bit of bread and butter. There were more birds of the same family that haunted this auld kirkyard. The greenfinch or green-grosbeak used to flit hither and thither among the ivy like a tiny streak of lightning, and the pretty wee redpole was also there. There was one bird in particular that used to build in the trees that grew inside the graveyard wall. I refer to my old friend and favourite the chaffinch, called in Scotland the boldie. He is most brilliant in plumage, being richly clad in russet red and brown, picked out with blue, yellow, and white. The chaffinch is lovely whether sitting or flying, whether trilling his song with head erect and throat puffed out, or keeking down from the branch of a tree with one saucy eye, to see if any one is going near his nest. His song in the wild state is more celebrated for brilliancy and boldness than for sweetness or variation, but in confinement it may be improved. But this same nest is something to look at and admire for minutes at a time. I used to think my chaffinch--the chaffinch that built in my churchyard--was particularly proud of his nest. "Pink, pink, pink," he used to say to me; "I see you looking up at my nest. You may go up, if you like, and have a look in. _She_ is from home just now, and there are four eggs in at present. There will be five by-and-by. Now, did you ever see such beautiful eggs?" "Never," I would reply; "they are most lovely." "Well, then," he would continue, "pink, pink, pink! look at the nest itself. What do you think of that for architecture? It is built, you see, some twelve feet from the ground, against the stem, but held in its place by a little branch. It is out of the reach of cats; if it were higher up the wind would shake it, or the hawks would see it. It is not much bigger than your two hands; and just look at the artistic way in which the lichens are mingled with the moss on the outside, to blend with the colour of the tree!" "Yes, but," I would remark, "there are bits of paper there, as well as lichens." "Yes, yes, yes," the bird would reply; "bits of paper do almost as well as lichens. Pink, pink, pink! There is the whole of Lord Palmerston's speech there; Palmerston is a clever man, but he couldn't build a nest like that." I mentioned the redpole. It is, as far as beauty goes, one of the best cage-birds we have; a modest, wee, affectionate, unassuming pet, but deficient in song. "Cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, cheet, chee-ee!" What sweet little voice is that repeating the same soft song over and over again, and dwelling on the last syllable with long-drawn cadence? The music--for music it is, although a song without variations--is coming from yonder bonnie bush of golden-blossomed broom, that grows in the angle between the two walls in a remote corner of the auld kirkyard. I throw Horace down, and get up from the grass and walk towards it. "Chick, chick, chick, chick, chee-ee!" "Oh, yes! I daresay you haven't a nest anywhere near; but I know better." This is my reply. I walk across the unhallowed ground, as this patch is called, for-- whisper it!--suicides lie here, and the graves have not been raised, nor do stones mark the spot where they lie. Here is the nest, in under a bit of weedy bank, and yonder is the bird himself--the yellow-hammer, skite, or yellow bunting--looking as gay as a hornet, for well he knows that I will not disturb his treasures. The eggs are shapely, white in ground, and beautifully streaked and speckled, and splashed with reddish brown. But there are no eggs; only four morsels of yellow fluff, apparently, surrounded by four gaping orange-red mouths. But they are cosy. I catch a tiny slug, and break it up between them, and the cock-bird goes on singing among the broom, while the hen perches a little way off, twittering nervously and peevishly. "Chick, chick, che-ee!" says the bird. "I don't pretend to build such a pretty nest as the chaffinch; besides, such a flimsy thing as his would not do on the ground; mine has a solid foundation of hay, don't you see? That keeps out the damp, and that lining of hair is warmer than anything else in the world." A poor, persecuted little bird is this same yellow bunting; and schoolboys often, when they find the nest, scatter it and its precious contents to the four winds of heaven. All the more reason why we should be kind to the pet if we happen to have it in confinement. It is true the wild song is not very interesting; but when a young one is got, it will improve itself if it can listen to the song of another bird, for nearly all our feathered songsters possess the gift of imitation. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A FRIEND OF MY STUDENT DAYS. "He was a gash and faithfu' tyke As over lap a sheugh or dyke." Burns. I had cured friend Frank's dog of some trifling ailment, and she seemed fonder of me than ever. "Poor Meg," I said, patting her. Dogs are never ungrateful for kindnesses, but I have seen many noted instances of revenge, and so doubtless have many of my readers. Here is a case. At one time of day my father possessed a breed of beautiful black game-cocks. One of these had a great aversion to dogs, and a bull-terrier, who was tied up in a stall in the stable, came in for a considerable share of blows and abuse from a certain brave bird of the King Jock strain. I myself was a witness to the assault, but I dared not interfere, for to tell you the truth, that game-cock was one too many for me then, and I wouldn't care to be attacked by a bird of the same kind even now. King Jock had come into the stable to pick a bit by himself, for he was far too cavalierly to eat much before the hens. "Give everything to the ladies and go without yourself" is game-cock etiquette. Presently he spied "Danger" lying in the stall with his head on his two fore-paws. "Oh! you're there, are you?" said King Jock, holding his head to the ground, and keening up with one eye at the poor dog. "Didn't notice ye before. It ain't so light as it might be." Danger gave one apologetic wag of his tail. "Pretty fellow you are, ain't ye?" continued the cock, edging a bit nearer. "Eh? Why don't you speak?" "Ho! ho! it's chained ye are, is it? I've a good mind to let you have it on that ugly patched face of yours. And, by my halidom, I will too. Who ran through the yard yesterday and scared the senses out of half my harem? Take that, and that, and that. Try to bite, would you? Then you'll have another; there! and there!" Poor Danger's head was covered with round lumps as big as half marbles, and each lump had a spur-hole. Cock Jock had made good practice, which he had much reason to repent, for one day Master Danger broke loose, and went straight away to look for his enemy. Jock possessed a tail that any cock might have been proud of, but after his encounter with Danger his pride had a fall, for in his speedy flight he got stuck in a hedge, and the dog tore every feather out, and would have eaten his way into, and probably through, King Jock himself, if the twig hadn't snapped, and the bird escaped. After that King Jock was content to treat bull-terriers with quiet disdain. Dogs know much of what is said to them, especially if you do not speak too fast, for, if you do, they get nervous, and forget their English. It is, in my opinion, better not to alter your form of speech, nor the tone of your voice, when talking to a dog. My old friend Tyro, a half-bred collie, but most beautiful animal, understood and was in the habit of being talked to in three languages, to say nothing of broad Scotch, namely, English, Gaelic, and Latin--no, not dog Latin, by your leave, sir, but the real Simon Pure and Ciceronic. I don't mean to assert that he could appreciate the beauties of the Bucolics, nor Horatian love lays if read to him; but he would listen respectfully, and he would obey ordinary orders when couched in the Roman tongue. Every animal that had hair and ran was, to Tyro, a cat; every animal that had feathers was a crow, and these he qualified by size. In a flock of sheep, for instance, if you asked him to chase out the _big_ "cat," it was a ram, who got no peace till he came your way; if, in a flock of fowls, you had asked him to chase out the _big_ "crow," it was the cock who had to fly; if you said the wee crow, a bantam or hen would be the victim. An ordinary cat was simply a cat, and if you asked him to go and find one, it would be about the barn-yards or stables he would search. But if you told him to go and find a "grub-cat," it was off to the hills he would be, and if you listened you would presently hear him in chase, and he would seldom return without a grub-cat, that meant a cat that could be eaten--i.e., a hare or rabbit. He knew when told to go and take a drink of water; but, at sea, the ocean all around him was pointed out to him as the big drink of water. In course of time he grew fond of the sea, though the commotion in the water and the breakers must have been strange and puzzling to him; but if at any time he was told to go and take a look at the big drink of water, he would put his two fore-paws on the bulwarks and watch the waves for many minutes at a time. "I have often heard you speak of your dog Tyro, Gordon," said Frank; "can't you tell us his history?" "I will, with pleasure," I replied. "He was _the_ dog of my student days. I never loved a dog more, I never loved one so much, with the exception perhaps of Theodore Nero--or you, Aileen, for I see you glancing up at me. No, you needn't sigh so." But about Tyro. Here is his story:--He was bred from a pure Scottish collie, the father a powerful retriever (Irish). "Bah!" some one may here say, "only a mongrel," a class of dogs whose praises few care to sing, and whose virtues are written in water. A watch-dog of the right sort was Tyro; and from the day when his brown eyes first rested on me, for twelve long years, by sea and land, I never had a more loving companion or trusty friend. He was a large and very strong dog, feathered like a Newfoundland, but with hair so soft and long and glossy, as to gain for him in his native village the epithet of "silken dog." In colour he was black-and-tan, with snow-white gauntlets and shirt-front. His face was very remarkable, his eyes bright and tender, giving him, with his long, silky ears, almost the expression of a beautiful girl. Being good-mannered, kind, and always properly groomed, he was universally admired, and respected by high and low. He was, indeed, patted by peers and petted by peasants, never objected to in first-class railway cars or steamer saloons, and the most fastidious of hotel waiters did not hesitate to admit him, while he lounged daintily on sofa or ottoman, with the _sang froid_ of one who had a right. Tyro came into my possession a round-pawed fun-and-mischief-loving puppy. His first playmate was a barn-door fowl, of the male persuasion, who had gained free access to the kitchen on the plea of being a young female in delicate health; which little piece of deceit, on being discovered by his one day having forgot himself so far as to crow, cost "Maggie," the name he impudently went by, his head. Very dull indeed was poor Tyro on the following day, but when the same evening he found Maggie's head and neck heartlessly exposed on the dunghill, his grief knew no bounds. Slowly he brought it to the kitchen, and with a heavy sigh deposited it on the hearthstone-corner, and all the night and part of next day it was "waked," the pup refusing all food, and flashing his teeth meaningly at whosoever attempted to remove it, until sleep at last soothed his sorrow. I took to the dog after that, and never repented it, for he saved my life, of which anon. Shortly after his "childish sorrow," Tyro had a difference of opinion with a cat, and got rather severely handled, and this I think it was that led him, when a grown dog, to a confusion of ideas regarding these animals, _plus_ hares and rabbits; "when taken to be well shaken," was his motto, adding "wherever seen," so he slew them indiscriminately. This cat-killing propensity was exceedingly reprehensible, but the habit once formed never could be cured; although I, stimulated by the loss of guinea after guinea, whipped him for it, and many an old crone--deprived of her pet--has scolded him in English, Irish, and Scotch, all with the same effect. Talking of cats, however, there was _one_ to whom Tyro condescendingly forgave the sin of existing. It so fell out that, in a fight with a staghound, he was wounded in a large artery, and was fast bleeding to death, because no one dared to go near him, until a certain sturdy eccentric woman, very fond of our family, came upon the scene. She quickly enveloped her arms with towels, to save herself from bites, and thus armed, thumbed the artery for two hours; then dressing it with cobwebs, saved the dog's life. Tyro became, when well, a constant visitor at the woman's cottage; he actually came to love her, often brought her the hares he killed, and, best favour of all to the old maid, considerately permitted her cat to live during his royal pleasure; but, if he met the cat abroad, he changed his direction, and inside he never let his eyes rest upon her. When Tyro came of age, twenty-one (months), he thought it was high time to select a profession, for hitherto he had led a rather roving life. One thing determined him. My father's shepherd's toothless old collie died, and having duly mourned for her loss, he--the shepherd--one day brought home another to fill up the death-vacancy. She was black, and very shaggy, had youth and beauty on her side, pearly teeth, hair that shone like burnished silver, and, in short, was quite a charming shepherdess--so, at least, thought Tyro; and what more natural than that he should fall in love with her? So he did. In her idle hours they gambolled together on the gowny braes, brushed the bells from the purple heather and the dewdrops from the grass, chased the hares, bullied the cat, barked and larked, and, in short, behaved entirely like a pair of engaged lovers of the canine class; and then said Tyro to himself, "My mother was a shepherdess, _I_ will be a shepherd, and thus enjoy the company of my beloved `Phillis' for ever, and perhaps a day or two longer." And no young gentleman ever gave himself with more energy to a chosen profession than did Tyro. He was up with the lark--the bird that picks up the worm--and away to the hill and the moor. To his faults the shepherd was most indulgent for a few days; but when Tyro, in his over-zeal, attempted to play the wolf, he was, very properly, punished. "What an indignity! Before one's Phillis too!" Tyro turned tail and trotted sulkily home. "Bother the sheep!" he must have thought; at any rate, he took a dire revenge--not on the shepherd, _his_ acquaintance he merely cut, and he even continued to share the crib with his little ensnarer--but on the sheep-fold. A neighbouring farmer's dog, of no particular breed, was in the habit of meeting Tyro at summer gloaming, in a wood equidistant from their respective homes. They then shook tails, and trotted off side by side. Being a very early riser, I used often to see Tyro coming home in the mornings, jaded, worn, and muddy, avoiding the roads, and creeping along by ditches and hedgerows. When I went to meet him, he threw himself at my feet, as much as to say, "Thrash away, and be quick about it." This went on for weeks, though I did not know then what mischief "the twa dogs" had been brewing, although ugly rumours began to be heard in all the countryside about murdered sheep and bleeding lambs; but my eyes were opened, and opened with a vengeance, when nineteen of the sheep on my father's hill-side were made bleeding lumps of clay in one short "simmer nicht"; and had Tyro been tried for his life, he could scarcely have proved an _alibi_, and, moreover, his pretty breast was like unto a robin's, and his gauntlets steeped in gore. Dire was the punishment that fell on Tyro's back for thus forsaking the path of virtue for a sheep-walk; and for two or three years, until, like the "Rose o' Anandale," he-- "Left his Highland home And wandered forth with me," he was condemned to the chain. He now became really a watch-dog, and a right good one he proved. The chain was of course slipped at night when his real duties were supposed to commence. Gipsies--tinklers we call them--were just then an epidemic in our part of the country; and our hen-roosts were in an especial manner laid under blackmail. One or two of those same long-legged gentry got a lesson from Tyro they did not speedily forget. I have seldom seen a dog that could knock down a man with less unnecessary violence. So surely as any one laid a hand on his master, even in mimic assault, he was laid prone on his back, and that, too, in a thoroughly business-like fashion; and violence was only offered if the lowly-laid made an attempt to get up till out of arrest. I never had a dog of a more affectionate disposition than my dead-and-gone friend Tyro. By sea and land, of course _I_ was his especial charge; but that did not prevent him from joyously recognising "friends he had not seen for years." Like his human shipmates, he too used to look out for land, and he was generally the first to make known the welcome news, by jumping on the bulwarks, snuffing the air, and giving one long loud bark, which was slightly hysterical, as if there were a big lump in his throat somewhere. I should go on the principle of _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_; but I am bound to speak of Tyro's faults as well as his virtues. Reader, he had a temper--never once shown to woman or child, but often, when he fancied his _casus belli_ just, to man, and once or twice to his master. Why, one night, in my absence, he turned my servant out, and took forcible possession of my bed. It _was_ hard, although I _had_ stayed out rather late; but only by killing him could I have dislodged him, so for several reasons I preferred a night on the sofa, and next morning I reasoned the matter with him. During our country life, Tyro took good care I should move as little as possible without him, and consequently dubbed himself knight-companion of my rambles over green field and heathy mountain, and these were not few. We often extended our excursions until the stars shone over us, then we made our lodging on the cold ground, Tyro's duties being those of watch and pillow. Often though, on awakening in the morning, I found my head among the heather, and my pillow sitting comfortably by my side panting, generally with a fine hare between its paws, for it had been "up in the morning airly" and "o'er the hills and far awa'," long before I knew myself from a stone. Tyro's country life ended when his master went to study medicine. One day I was surprised to find him sitting on the seat beside me. The attendant was about to remove him. "Let alone the poor dog," said Professor L. "I am certain he will listen more quietly than any one here." Then after the lecture, "Thank you, doggie; you have taught my students a lesson." That naughty chain prevented a repetition of the offence; but how exuberant he was to meet me at evening any one may guess. Till next morning he was my second shadow. More than once, too, he has been a rather too faithful ally in the many silly escapades into which youth and spirits lead the medical student. His use was to cover a retreat, and only once did he floor a too-obtrusive Bobby; and once he _saved me from an ugly death_. It was Hogmanay--the last night of the year--and we had been merry. We, a jolly party of students, had elected to sing in the New Year. We did so, and had been very happy, while, as Burns hath it, Tyro-- "For vera joy had barkit wi' us." Ringing out from every corner of the city, like cocks with troubled minds, came the musical voices of night-watchmen, bawling "half-past one," as we left the streets, and proceeded towards our home in the suburbs. It was a goodly night, moon and stars, and all that sort of thing, which tempted me to set out on a journey of ten miles into the country, in order to be "first foot" to some relations that lived there. The road was crisp with frost, and walking pleasant enough, so that we were in one hour nearly half-way. About here was a bridge crossing a little rocky ravine, with a babbling stream some sixty feet below. On the low stone parapet of this bridge, like the reckless fool I was, I stretched myself at full length, and, unintentionally, fell fast asleep. How nearly that sleep had been my last! Two hours afterwards I awoke, and naturally my eyes sought the last thing they had dwelt upon, the moon; she had declined westward, and in turning round I was just toppling over when I was sharply pulled backwards toward the road. Here was Tyro with his two paws pressed firmly against the parapet, and part of my coat in his mouth, while with flashing teeth he growled as I never before had heard him. His anger, however, was changed into the most exuberant joy, when I alighted safely on the road, shuddering at the narrow escape I had just made. At the suggestion of Tyro, we danced round each other, for five minutes at least, in mutual joy, by which time we were warm enough to finish our journey, and be "first foot" to our friends in the morning. When Tyro left home with me to begin a seafaring life, he put his whole heart and soul into the business. There was more than one dog in the ship, but his drawing-room manners and knowledge of "sentry-go" made him saloon dog _par excellence_. His first voyage was to the Polar regions, and his duty the protection by night of the cabin stores, including the spirit room. This duty he zealously performed; in fact, Master Tyro would have cheerfully undertaken to take charge of the whole ship, and done his best to repel boarders, if the occasion had demanded it. A sailor's life was now for a time the lot of Tyro. I cannot, however, say he was perfectly happy; no dog on board ship is. He missed the wide moors and the heathy hills, and I'm sure, like his master, he was always glad to go on shore again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Poor Tyro got old; and so I had to go to sea without him. Then this dog attached himself to my dear mother. When I returned home again, she was gone... Strange to say, Tyro, who during my poor mother's illness had never left her room, refused food for days after her death. He got thin, and dropsy set in. With my _own_ hand, I tapped him no less than fifteen times, removing never less than one gallon and three quarters of water. The first operation was a terrible undertaking, owing to the dog making such fierce resistance; but afterwards, when he began to understand the immense relief it afforded him, he used to submit without even a sigh, allowing himself to be strapped down without a murmur, and when the operation (excepting the stab of the trocar, there is little or no pain) was over, he would give himself a shake, then lick the hands of all the assistants--generally four--and present a grateful paw to each; then he had his dinner, and next day was actually fit to run down a rabbit or hare. Thinner and weaker, weaker and thinner, month by month, and still I could not, as some advised, "put him out of pain;" he had once saved my life, and I did not feel up to the mark in Red Indianism. And so the end drew nigh. The saddest thing about it was this: the dog had the idea (knowing little of the mystery of death) that I could make him well; and at last, when he could no longer walk, he used to crawl to meet me on my morning visit, and gaze in my face with his poor imploring eyes, and my answer (_well_ he knew what I said) was always, "Tyro, doggie, you'll be better the morn (to-morrow), boy." And when one day I could stand it no longer, and rained tears on my old friend's head, he crept back to his bed, and that same forenoon he was dead. Poor old friend Tyro. Though many long years have fled since then, I can still afford a sigh to his memory. On a "dewy simmer's gloaming" my Tyro's coffin was laid beneath the sod, within the walls of a noble old Highland ruin. There is no stone to mark where he lies, but I know the spot, and I always think the _gowan blinks_ bonniest and the grass grows greenest there. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT CRUISING. "O'er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless and ourselves as free." Byron. When cruising round Africa some years ago in a saucy wee gunboat, that shall be nameless, I was not only junior assistant surgeon, but I was likewise head surgeon, and chief of the whole medical department, and the whole of that department consisted of--never a soul but myself. As we had only ninety men all told, the Admiralty couldn't afford a medical officer of higher standing than myself. I was ably assisted, however, in my arduous duties, which, by the way, occupied me very nearly half an hour every morning, after, not before, breakfast, by the loblolly boy "Sugar o' Lead." I don't suppose he was baptised Sugar o' Lead. I don't think it is likely ever he was baptised at all. This young gentleman used to make my poultices, oatmeal they were made of, of course--I'm a Scot. But Sugar o' Lead always put salt in them, ate one half and singed the rest. He had also to keep the dispensary clean, which he never did, but he used to rub the labels off the bottles, three at a time, and stick them on again, but usually on the wrong bottles. This kept me well up in my pharmacy; but when one day I gave a man a dose of powder of jalap, instead of Gregory, Sugar o' Lead having changed the labels, the man said "it were a kinder rough on him." Sugar o' Lead thought he knew as much as I, perhaps; but Epsom salts and sulphate of zinc, although alike in colour, are very different in their effects when given internally. Sugar o' Lead had a different opinion. Another of the duties which devolved upon Sugar o' Lead was to clean up after the dogs. At this he was quite at home. At night he slept with the monkeys. Although the old cockatoo couldn't stand him, Sugar o' Lead and the monkeys were on very friendly terms; they lived together on that great and broad principle which binds the whole of this mighty world of ours together, the principle of "You favour me to-day and I'll favour you to-morrow." Sugar o' Lead and the monkeys acted upon it in quite the literal sense. At Symon's Town, I was in the habit of constantly going on shore to prospect, gun in hand, over the mountains. Grand old hills these are, too, here and there covered with bush, with bold rocky bluffs abutting from their summits, their breasts bedecked with the most gorgeous geraniums, and those rare and beautiful heaths, which at home you can only find in hot-houses. My almost constant attendant was a midshipman, a gallant young Scotchman, whom you may know by the name of Donald McPhee, though I knew him by another. The very first day of our many excursions "in the pursuit of game," we were wading through some scrub, about three or four miles from the shore, when suddenly my companion hailed me thus: "Look-out, doctor, there's a panther yonder, and he's nearest you." So he was; but then he wasn't a panther at all, but a very large Pointer. I shouldn't like to say that he was good enough for the show bench; he was, however, good enough for work. Poor Panther, doubtless he now rests with his fathers, rests under the shadow of some of the mighty mountains, the tartaned hills, over which he and I used to wander in pursuit of game. On his grave green lizards bask, and wild cinerarias bloom, while over it glides the shimmering snake; but the poor, faithful fellow blooms fresh in my memory still. I think I became his special favourite. Perhaps he was wise enough to admire the Highland dress I often wore. Perhaps he thought, as I did, that of all costumes, that was the best one for hill work. But the interest he took in everything I did was remarkable. He seemed rejoiced to see me when I landed, as betokened by the wagging tail, the lowered ears, slightly elevated chin, and sparkling eye--a canine smile. "Doctor," he seemed to say, "I was beginning to think you weren't coming. But won't we have a day of it, just?" And away we would go, through the busy town and along the sea beach, where the lisping wavelets broke melodiously on sands of silvery sheen, where many a monster medusa lay stranded, looking like huge umbrellas made of jelly, and on, and on, until we came to a tiny stream, up whose rocky banks we would scramble, skirting the bush, and arriving at last at the great heath land. We followed no beaten track, we went here, there, and everywhere. The scenery was enchantingly wild and beautiful, and there was health and its concomitant happiness in every breeze. Sometimes we would sit dreamily on a rock top, Panther and I, for an hour at a time, vainly trying to drink in all the beauties of the scene. How bright was the blue of the distant sea! How fleecy the cloudlets! How romantic and lovely that far-off mountain range, its rugged outline softened by the purple mists of distance! These everlasting mountains we could people with people of our own imagination. I peopled them with foreign fairies. Panther, I think, peopled them with rock rabbits. Weary at last with gazing on the grandeur everywhere around us, we would rivet our attention for a spell upon things less romantic--bloater paste and sea biscuit. I shared my lunch with Panther. Panther was most civil and obliging; he not only did duty as a pointer and guide, but he would retrieve as well, rock rabbits and rats, and such; and as he saw me bag them, he would look up in my face as much as to say-- "Now aren't you pleased? Don't you feel all over joyful? Wouldn't you wag a tail if you had one? I should think so." Panther wouldn't retrieve black snakes. "No," said Panther, "I draw the line at black snakes, doctor." I would fain have taken him to sea with me, as he belonged to no one; but Panther said, "No, I cannot go." "Then good-bye, dear friend," I said. "Farewell," said Panther. And so we parted. He looked wistfully after the boat as it receded from the shore. I believe, poor fellow, he knew he would never see me again. Conceive, if you can, of the lonesomeness, the dreariness of going to sea without a dog. But as Panther wouldn't come with me, I had to sail without him. As the purple mountains grew less and less distinct, and shades of evening gathered around us, and twinkling lights from rocky points glinted over the waters, I could only lean over the taffrail and sing-- "Happy land! happy land! Who would leave the glorious land?" Who indeed? but sailor-men must. And now darkness covers the ocean, and hides the distant land, and next we were out in the midst of just as rough a sea as any one need care to be in. My only companion at this doleful period of my chequered career was a beautiful white pigeon. Here is how I came by him. Out at the Cape, in many a little rocky nook, and by many a rippling stream, grow sweet flowerets that come beautifully out in feather work. Feather-flower making then was one of my chief delights and amusements; the art had been taught me by a young friend of mine, whose father grew wine and kept hunters (jackal-hunting), and had kindly given me "the run" of the house. Before leaving, on the present cruise, I had secured some particularly beautiful specimens of flowers, too delicate to be imitated by anything, save the feathers of a pigeon; so I had bought a pure white one, which I had ordered to be killed and sent off. "Steward," I cried, as we were just under weigh, "did a boy bring a white pigeon for me?" "He did, sir; and I put it in your cabin in its basket, which I had to give him sixpence extra for." "But why," said I, "didn't you tell him to put his nasty old basket on his back and take it off with him?" "Because," said the steward, "the bird would have flown away." "Flown away!" I cried. "Is the bird alive then?" "To be sure, sir," said the steward. "To be sure, you blockhead," said I; "how can I make feather-flowers from a live pigeon?" The man was looking at me pityingly, I thought. "Can't you kill it, sir? Give him to me, sir; I'll Wring his neck in a brace of shakes." "You'd never wring another neck, steward," I said; "you'd lose the number of your mess as sure as a gun." When I opened the basket, knowing what rogues nigger-boys are, I fully expected to find a bird with neither grace nor beauty, and about the colour of an old white clucking hen. The boy had not deceived me, however. The pigeon was a beauty, and as white as a Spitzbergen snow-bird. Out he flew, and perched on a clothes-peg in my bulkhead, and said-- "Troubled wi' you. Tr-rooubled with you." "You'll need," said I, "to put up with the trouble for six months to come, for we're messmates. Steward," I continued, "your fingers ain't itching, are they, to kill that lovely creature?" "Not they," said the fellow; "I wouldn't do it any harm for the world." "There's my rum bottle," I said; "it always stands in that corner, and it is always at your service while you tend upon the pigeon." The cruise before, we had a black cat on board, that the sailors looked upon as a bird of evil omen, for we got no luck, caught no slavers, ran three times on shore, and were once on fire. This cruise, we had lots of prize-money, and never a single mishap, and the men put it all down to "the surgeon's pet," as they called my bird. He was a pet, too. I made him a nest in a leathern hat-box, where he went when the weather was rough. He was tame, loving, and winning in all his ways, and always scrupulously white and clean. The first place we ran into was Delagoa Bay. How sweetly pretty, how English-like, is the scenery all around! The gently undulating hills, clothed in clouds of green; the trees growing down almost to the water's edge; the white houses nestling among the foliage, the fruit, the flowers, the blue marbled sky, and the wavelets breaking musically on the silvery sands--what a watering-place it would make, and what a pity we can't import it body bulk! The houses are all built on the sand, so that the beach is the only carpet. In the Portuguese governor's house, where we spent such a jolly evening, it was just the same; the chair-legs sank in the soft white sand, the table was off the plane, and the piano all awry; and a dog belonging to one of the officers, a monster boarhound, with eyes like needles, and tusks that would have made umbrella handles, scraped a hole at one end of the room, and nearly buried himself. That dog, his owner told me, would kill a jackal with one blow of his paw; but he likewise caught mice like winking, and killed a cockroach wherever he saw one. His owner wrote this down for me, and I afterwards translated it. Next morning, at eleven, the governor and his officers came off, arrayed in scarlet, blue, and burnished gold, cocked-hats and swords, all so gay, and we had tiffin in the captain's cabin; Carlo, the dog, came too, of course, and seated himself thoughtfully at one end, abaft the mess table. There we were, then, just six of us--the captain, a fiery looking, wee, red man, but not half a bad fellow; the governor, bald in pate, round-faced, jolly, but incapable of getting very close to the table because of the rotundity of his body; his _aide-de-camp_, a little thin man, as bright and as merry as moonshine; his lieutenant, a jolly old fellow, with eyes like an Ulmer hound, and nose like a kidney potato; myself, and Carlo. Our conversation during tiffin was probably not very edifying, but it was very spirited. You see, our captain couldn't speak a word of Portuguese, and the poor Portuguese hadn't a word of English. I myself possessed a smattering of Spanish, and a little French, and I soon discovered that by mixing the two together, throwing in an occasional English word and a sprinkling of Latin, I could manufacture very decent Portuguese. At least, the foreigners themselves seemed to understand me, or pretended to for politeness sake. To be sure they didn't always give me the answer I expected, but that was all the funnier, and kept the laugh up. I really believe each one of us knew exactly what he himself meant, but I'm sure couldn't for the life of him have told what his neighbour was driving at. And so we got a little mixed somehow, but everybody knew the road to his mouth, and that was something. We got into an argument upon a very interesting topic indeed, and kept it up for nearly an hour, and were getting quite excited over it, when somehow or other it came out, that the Portuguese had all the while been argle-bargling about the rights of the Pope, while we Englishmen had been deep in the mystery of the prices of yams and sucking pig, in the different villages of the coast. Then we all laughed and shook hands, and shrugged our shoulders, and turned up our palms, and laughed again. Presently I observed the captain trying to draw my attention unobserved: he was squinting down towards the cruet stand, and I soon perceived the cause. An immense cockroach had got into a bottle of cayenne, and feeling uncomfortably warm, was standing on his hind-legs and frantically waving his long feelers as a signal of distress. I was just wondering how I could get the bottle away without letting the governor see me, when some one else spotted that unhappy cockroach, and that was Carlo. Now Carlo was a dog who acted on the spur of the moment, so as soon as he saw the beast in the bottle he flew straight at it. That spring would have taken him over a six-barred gate. And, woe is me for the result! Down rolled the table, crockery and all; down rolled the governor, with his bald pate and rotundity of body; down went the merry little thin man; over rolled the fellow with the nose like a kidney potato. The captain fell, and I fell, and there was an end to the whole feast. When we all got up, Carlo was intent upon his cockroach, and looking as unconcerned as if nothing out of the common had occurred. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. BLUE-JACKETS' PETS. "Hard is the heart that loveth nought." Shelley. "All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever." Idem. Blue-jackets, as Her Majesty's sailors are sometimes styled, are passionately fond of pets. They must have something to love, if it be but a woolly-headed nigger-boy or a cockroach in a 'baccy-box. Little nigger-boys, indeed, may often be found on board a man-o'-war, the reigning pets. Young niggers are very precocious. You can teach them all they will ever learn in the short space of six months. Of this kind was one I remember, little Freezing-powders, as black as midnight, and shining all over like a billiard ball, with his round curly head and pleasant dimply face. Freezing-powders soon became a general favourite both fore and aft. His master, our marine officer, picked him up somewhere on the West coast; and although only nine years of age, before he was four months in the ship, he could speak good English, was a perfect little gymnast, and knew as many tricks and capers as the cook and the monkey. Snowball was another I knew; but Snowball grew bad at an early age, lost caste, became dissipated, and a gambler, and finally fled to his native jungle. Jock of ours was a seal of tender years, who for many months retained the affection of all hands, until washed overboard in a gale of wind. This creature's time on board was fully occupied in a daily round of duty, pleasure, and labour. His duty consisted in eating seven meals a day, and bathing in a tub after each; his pleasure, to lie on his side on the quarter-deck and be scratched and petted; while his labour consisted of earnestly endeavouring to enlarge a large scupper-hole sufficiently to permit his escape to his native ocean. How indefatigably he used to work day by day, and hour after hour, scraping on the iron first with one flipper, then with another, then poking his nose in to measure the result with his whiskered face! He kept the hole bright and clear, but did not sensibly enlarge it, at least to human ken. Jock's successor on that ship was a youthful bear of Arctic nativity. He wasn't a nice pet. He took all you gave him, and wanted to eat your hand as well, but he never said "Thank you," and permitted no familiarity. When he took his walks abroad, which he did every morning, although he never went out of his road for a row, he walked straight ahead with his nose downwards growling, and gnawed and tore everything that touched him--not at all a pet worth being troubled with. Did the reader ever hear of the sailor who tamed a cockroach? Well, this man I was "shipmates" with. He built a little cage, with a little kennel in the corner of it, expressly for his unsavoury pet, and he called the creature "Idzky"--"which he named himself, sir," he explained to me. Idzky was a giant of his race. His length was fully four inches, his breadth one inch, while each of his waving feelers measured six. This monster knew his name and his master's voice, hurrying out from his kennel when called upon, and emitting the strange sound which gained for him the cognomen Idzky. The boatswain, his master, was as proud of him as he might have been of a prize pug, and never tired of exhibiting his eccentricities. I met the boatswain the other day at the Cape, and inquired for his pet. "Oh, sir," he said, with genuine feeling, "he's gone, sir. Shortly after you left the ship, poor Idzky took to taking rather much liquor, and that don't do for any of us, you know, sir; I think it was that, for I never had the heart to pat him on allowance; and he went raving mad, had regular fits of delirium, and did nothing at all but run round his cage and bark, and wouldn't look at anything in the way of food. Well, one day I was coming off the forenoon watch, when, what should I see but a double line of them `P' ants working in and out of the little place: twenty or so were carrying a wing, and a dozen a leg, and half a score running off with a feeler, just like men carrying a stowed mainsail; and that, says I, is poor Idzky's funeral; and so it was, and I didn't disturb them. Poor Idzky!" Peter was a pet mongoose of mine, a kindly, cosy little fellow, who slept around my neck at night, and kept me clear of cockroaches, as well as my implacable enemies, the rats. I was good to Peter, and fed him well, and used to take him on shore at the Cape, among the snakes. The snakes were for Peter to fight; and the way my wary wee friend dodged and closed with, and finally throttled and killed a cobra was a caution to that subtlest of all the beasts of the field. The presiding Malay used to clap his brown hands with joy as he exclaimed--"Ah! sauve good mongoose, sar, proper mongoose to kill de snake." "You don't object, do you," I modestly asked my captain one day, while strolling on the quarter-deck after tiffin--"you don't object, I hope, to the somewhat curious pets I at times bring on board?" "Object?" he replied. "Well, no; not as a rule. Of course you know I don't like your snakes to get gliding all over the ship, as they were the other day. But, doctor, what's the good of my objecting? If any one were to let that awful beast in the box yonder loose--" "Don't think of it, captain," I interrupted; "he'd be the death of somebody, to a dead certainty." "No; I'm not such a fool," he continued. "But if I shot him, why, in a few days you'd be billeting a boar-constrictor or an alligator on me, and telling me it was for the good of science and the service." The awful beast in the box was the most splendid and graceful specimen of the monitor lizard I have ever seen. Fully five feet long from tip to tail, he swelled and tapered in the most perfect lines of beauty. Smooth, though scaly, and inky black, tartaned all over with transverse rows of bright yellow spots, with eyes that shone like wildfire, and teeth like quartz, with his forked tongue continually flashing out from his bright-red mouth, he had a wild, weird loveliness that was most uncanny. Mephistopheles, as the captain not inaptly called him, knew me, however, and took his cockroaches from my hand, although perfectly frantic when any one else went near him. If a piece of wood, however hard, were dropped into his cage, it was instantly torn in pieces; and if he seized the end of a rope, he might quit partnership with his head or teeth, but never with the rope. One day, greatly to my horror, the steward entered the wardroom, pale with fear, and reported: "Mephistopheles escaped, sir, and yaffling [rending] the men." I rushed on deck. The animal had indeed escaped. He had torn his cage into splinters, and declared war against all hands. Making for the fore hatchway, he had seized a man by the jacket skirts, going down the ladder. The man got out of the garment without delay, and fled faster than any British sailor ought to have done. On the lower deck he chased the cook from the coppers, and the carpenter from his bench. A circle of Kroomen were sitting mending a foresail; Mephistopheles suddenly appeared in their midst. The niggers unanimously threw up their toes, individually turned somersaults backwards, and sought the four winds of heaven. These routed, my pet turned his attention to Peepie. Peepie was a little Arab slave-lass. She was squatting by a calabash, singing low to herself, and eating rice. He seized her cummerbund, or waist garment. But Peepie wriggled clear--natural--and ran on deck, the innocent, like the "funny little maiden" in Hans Breitmann. On the cummerbund Mephistopheles spent the remainder of his fury, and the rest of his life; for not knowing what might happen next, I sent for a fowling-piece, and the plucky fellow succumbed to the force of circumstances and a pipeful of buck-shot. I have him yonder on the sideboard, in body and in spirit (gin), bottle-mates with a sandsnake, three centipedes, and a tarantula. With monkeys, baboons, apes, and all of that ilk, navy ships, when homeward bound, are ofttimes crowded. Of our little crew of seventy, I think nearly every man had one, and some two, such pets, although fully one-half died of chest-disease as soon as the ship came into colder latitudes. These monkeys made the little craft very lively indeed, and were a never-ending source of amusement and merriment to all hands. I don't like monkeys, however. They "are so near, and yet so far," as respects humanity. I went shooting them once--a cruel sport, and more cowardly even than elephant-hunting in Ceylon--and when I broke the wrist of one, instead of hobbling off, as it ought to have done, it came howling piteously towards me, shaking and showing me the bleeding limb. The little wretch preached me a sermon anent cruelty to animals that I shall not forget till the day I die. We had a sweet-faced, delicate, wee marmoset, not taller, when on end, than a quart bottle--Bobie the sailors called him; and we had also a larger ape, Hunks by name, of what our Scotch engineer called the "ill-gettit breed"; and that was a mild way of putting it. This brute was never out of mischief. He stole the men's tobacco, smashed their pipes, spilled their soup, and ran aloft with their caps, which he minutely inspected and threw overboard afterwards. He was always on the black list; in fact, when rubbing his back after one thrashing, he was wondering all the time what mischief he could do next. Bobie was arrayed in a neatly fitting sailor-costume, cap and all complete; and so attired, of course could not escape the persecutions of the ape. Hunks, after contenting himself with cockroaches, would fill his mouth; then holding out his hand with one to Bobie, "Hae, hae, hae," he would cry, then seize the little innocent, and escape into the rigging with him. Taking his seat in the maintop, Hunks first and foremost emptied his mouth, cramming the contents down his captive's throat. He next got out on to the stays for exercise, and used Bobie as a species of dumb-bell, swinging him by the tail, hanging him by a foot, by an ear, by the nose, etc, and threatening to throw him overboard if any sailor attempted a rescue. Last of all, he threw him at the nearest sailor. On board the _Orestes_ was a large ape as big as a man. He was a most unhappy ape. There wasn't a bit of humour in his whole corporation. "He had a silent sorrow" somewhere, "a grief he'd ne'er impart." Whenever you spoke to him, he seized and wrung your hand in the most pathetic manner, and drew you towards him. His other arm was thrown across his chest, while he shook his head, and gazed in your face with such a woe-begone countenance, that the very smile froze on your lips; and as you couldn't laugh out of politeness, you felt very awkward. For anything I know, this melancholy ape may be still alive. Deer are common pets in some ships. We had a fine large buck in the old _Semiramie_. A romping, rollicking rascal, in truth a very satyr, who never wanted a quid of tobacco in his mouth, nor refused rum and milk. Whenever the steward came up to announce dinner, he bolted below at once; and we were generally down just in time to find him dancing among the dishes, after eating all the potatoes. I once went into my cabin and found two Liliputian deer in my bed. It was our engineer who had placed them there. We were lying off Lamoo, and he had brought them from shore. "Ye'll just be a faither to the lammies, doctor," he said, "for I'm no on vera guid terms wi' the skipper." They were exactly the size of an Italian greyhound, perfectly formed, and exceedingly graceful. They were too tender, poor things, for life on shipboard, and did not live long. In the stormy latitudes of the Cape, the sailors used to amuse themselves by catching Cape pigeons, thus: a little bit of wood floated astern attached by a string, a few pieces of fat thrown into the water, and the birds, flying tack and half-tack towards them, came athwart the line, by a dexterous movement of which they entangled their wings, and landed them on board. They caught albatrosses in the same fashion, and nothing untoward occurred. I had for many months a gentle, loving pet in the shape of a snow-white dove. I had bought him that I might make feather-flowers from his plumage; but the boy brought him off alive, and I never had the heart to kill him. So he lived in a leathern hat-box, and daily took his perch on my shoulder at meal-times [see page 178]. It was my lot once upon a time to be down with fever in India. The room in which I lay was the upper flat of an antiquated building, in a rather lonely part of the suburbs of a town. It had three windows, close to which grew a large banyan-tree, beneath the shade of whose branches the crew of a line-of-battle ship might have hung their hammocks with comfort. The tree was inhabited by a colony of crows; we stood--the crows and I--in the relation of over-the-way to each other. Now, of all birds that fly, the Indian crow most bear the palm for audacity. Living by his wits, he is ever on the best of terms with himself, and his impudence leads him to dare anything. Whenever, by any chance, Pandoo, my attendant, left the room, these black gentry paid me a visit. Hopping in by the score, and regarding me no more than the bed-post, they commenced a minute inspection of everything in the room, trying to destroy everything that could not be eaten or carried away. They rent the towels, drilled holes in my uniform, stole the buttons from my coat, and smashed my bottles. One used to sit on a screen close by my bed every day, and scan my face with his evil eye, saying as plainly as could be--"You're getting thinner and beautifully less; in a day or two, you won't be able to lift a hand; then I'll have the pleasure of picking out your two eyes." Amid such doings, my servant would generally come to my relief, perhaps to find such a scene as this: Two or three pairs of hostile crows with their feathers standing up around their necks, engaged in deadly combat on the floor over a silver spoon or a tooth-brush; half a dozen perched upon every available chair; an unfortunate lizard with a crow at each end of it, getting whirled wildly round the room, each crow thinking he had the best right to it; crows everywhere, hopping about on the table, and drinking from the bath; crows perched on the window-sill, and more crows about to come, and each crow doing all in his power to make the greatest possible noise. The faithful Pandoo would take all this in at a glance; then would ensue a helter-skelter retreat, and the windows be darkened by the black wings of the flying crows, then silence for a moment, only broken by some apologetic remark from Pandoo. When at length happy days of convalescence came round, and I was able to get up and even eat my meals at table, I found my friends the crows a little more civil and respectful. The thought occurred to me to make friends with them; I consequently began a regular system of feeding them after every meal-time. One old crow I caught, and chained to a chair with a fiddle-string. He was a funny old fellow, with one club-foot. He never refused his food from the very day of his captivity, and I soon taught him a few tricks. One was to lie on his back when so placed for any length of time till set on his legs again. This was called turning the turtle. But one day this bird of freedom hopped away, fiddle-string and all, and a whole fortnight elapsed before I saw him again. I was just beginning to put faith in a belief common in India--namely, that a crow or any other bird, that has been for any time living with human beings, is put to instant death the moment he returns to the bosom of his family; when one day, while engaged breakfasting some forty crows, my club-footed pet reappeared, and actually picked the bit from my hand, and ever after, until I left, he came regularly thrice a day to be fed. The other crows came with surprising exactness at meal-times; first one would alight on the shutter outside the window, and peep in, as if to ascertain how nearly done I happened to be, then fly away for five or ten minutes, when he would return, and have another keek. As soon, however, as I approached the window, and raised my arm, I was saluted with a chorus of cawing from the banyan-tree; then down they swooped in dozens; and it was no very easy task to fill so many mouths, although the loaves were Government ones. These pets had a deadly enemy in a brown raven--the Brahma kite; swifter than arrow from bow he descended, describing the arc of a great circle, and carrying off in his flight the largest lamp of bread he could spy. He, for one, never stopped to bless the hand of the giver; but the crows, I know, were not ungrateful. Club-foot used to perch beside me on a chair, and pick his morsels from the floor, always premising that two windows at least must be open. As to the others, their persecutions ended; they never appeared except when called upon. The last act of their aggression was to devour a very fine specimen of praying mantis I had confined in a quinine bottle. The first day the paper cover had been torn off, and the mantis had only escaped by keeping close at the bottom; next day, the cover was again broken, and the bottle itself capsized; the poor mantis had prayed in vain for once. Club-foot, I think, must have stopped all day in the banyan-tree, for I never went to the window to call him without his appearing at once with a joyful caw; this feat I used often to exhibit to my shipmates who came to visit me during my illness. One thing about talking-birds I don't remember ever to have seen noticed--namely, the habit some birds have of talking in their sleep. And, just as a human being will often converse in his dream in a long-forgotten language, so birds will often at night be heard repeating words or phrases they never could remember in their waking moments. A starling of mine often roused me at night by calling out my dog's name in loud, distinct tones, although by day his attempts to do so were quite ineffectual. So with a venerable parrot we had on board the saucy _Skipjack_. Polly was a quiet bird in daylight, and much given to serious thought; but at times, in the stillness of the middle watch at sea, would startle the sailors from their slumbers by crying out: "Deen, deen--kill, kill, kill!" in quite an alarming manner. Polly had been all through the Indian mutiny, and was shut up in Delhi during the sad siege, so her dreams were not very enviable. Do parrots know what they say? At times I think they do. Our parson on board the old _Rumbler_ had no more attentive listener to the Sabbath morning service than wardroom Polly; but there were times when Polly made responses when silence would have been more judicious. There was an amount of humour which it is impossible to describe, in the sly way she one day looked the parson in the face, as he had just finished a burst of eloquence both impassioned and impressive, and uttered one of her impertinent remarks. For some months, she was denied access to church because she had once forgotten herself so far as to draw corks during the sermon--this being considered "highly mutinous and insubordinate conduct." But she regained her privilege. Poor Poll! I'll never forget the solemn manner in which she shut her eyes one day at the close of the service, as if still musing on the words of the sermon, on the mutability of all things created, and remarked: "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, says--says:" she could say no more--the rest stuck in her throat, and we were left to ponder on her unfortunate loss of memory in uttering the admonitory sentiment. CHAPTER NINETEEN. MY CABIN MATES AND BEDFELLOWS: A SKETCH OF LIFE ON THE COAST OF AFRICA. "Whaur are gaun crawlin' ferlie, Your impudence protects ye sairly." Burns. I was idly sauntering along the only street in Simon's Town one fine day in June, when I met my little, fat, good-humoured friend, Paymaster Pumpkin. He was walking at an enormous pace for the length of his legs, and his round face was redder than ever. He would hardly stop to tell me that H.M.S. _Vesuvius_ was ordered off in two hours--provisions for a thousand men--the Kaffirs (scoundrels) had crossed some river (name unpronounceable) with an army of one hundred thousand men, and were on their way to Cape Town, with the murderous intention of breaking every human bone in that fair town, and probably picking them leisurely afterwards. The upshot of all this, as far as I was concerned, was my being appointed to as pretty a model, and as dirty a little craft, as there was in the service, namely, H.M.S. _Pen-gun_. Our armament consisted of four pea-shooters and one Mons Meg; and our orders were to repair to the east coast of Africa, and there pillage, burn, and destroy every floating thing that dared to carry a slave, without permission from Britannia's queen. Of our adventures there, and how we ruled the waves, I am at present going to say nothing. I took up my commission as surgeon of this interesting craft, and we soon after sailed. On first stepping on board the _Pen-gun_, a task which was by no means difficult to a person with legs of even moderate length, my nose--yes, my nose--that interesting portion of my physiognomy, which for months before had inhaled nothing more nauseous than the perfume of a thousand heaths, or the odour of a thousand roses--my nose was assailed by a smell which burst upon my astonished senses, like a compound of asafoetida, turpentine, and Stilton cheese. As I gasped for breath, the lieutenant in command endeavoured to console me by saying--"Oh, it's only the cockroaches: you'll get used to it by-and-by." "_Only_ the cockroaches!" repeated I to myself, as I went below to look after my cabin. This last I found to be of the following dimensions-- namely, five feet high (I am five feet ten), six feet long, and six feet broad at the top; but, owing to the curve of the vessel's side, only two feet broad at the deck. A cot hung fore and aft along the ship's side, and the remaining furniture consisted of a doll's chest of drawers, beautifully fitted up on top with a contrivance to hold utensils of lavation, and a Liliputian writing-table on the other; thus diminishing my available space to two square feet, and this in a break-neck position. My cot, too, was very conveniently placed for receiving the water which trickled freely from my scuttle when the wind blew, and more slowly when the wind didn't; so that every night, very much against my will, I was put under the operations of practical hydropathy. And this was my _sanctum, sanctorum_; but had it been clean, or capable of cleaning, I am a philosopher, and would have rejoiced in it; but it was neither; and ugh! it was inhabited. Being what is termed in medical parlance, of the nervo-sanguineous temperament, my horror of the loathsome things about me for the first week almost drove me into a fever. I could not sleep at night, or if I fell into an uneasy slumber, I was awakened from fearful dreams, to find some horrid thing creeping or running over my hands or face. When a little boy, I used to be fond of turning up stones in green meadows, to feast my eyes upon the many creeping things beneath. I felt now as if I myself were living _under_ a stone. However, after a year's slaver-hunting, I got so used to all these creatures, that I did not mind them a bit. I could crack scorpions, bruise the heads of centipedes, laugh at earwigs, be delighted with ants, eat weevils, admire tarantulas, encourage spiders. As for mosquitoes, flies, and all the smaller genera, I had long since been thoroughly inoculated; and they could now bleed me as much as they thought proper, without my being aware of it. It is of the habits of some of these familiar friends I purpose giving a short sketch in this chapter and next. Of the "gentlemen of England who live at home at ease," very few, I suspect, would know a cockroach, although they found the animal in their soap--as I have done more than once. Cockroaches are of two principal kinds--the small, nearly an inch long; and the large, nearly two and a half inches. Let the reader fancy to himself a common horsefly of our own country, half an inch in breadth, and of the length just stated, the body, ending in two forks, which project beyond the wings, the head, furnished with powerful mandibles, and two feelers, nearly four inches long, and the whole body of a dark-brown or gun-barrel colour, and he will have as good an idea as possible of the gigantic cockroach. The legs are of enormous size and strength, taking from fifteen to twenty ants to carry one away, and furnished with bristles, which pierce the skin in their passage over one's face; and this sensation, together with the horrid smell they emit, is generally sufficient to awaken a sleeper of moderate depth. On these legs the animal squats, walking with his elbows spread out, like a practical agriculturist writing an amatory epistle to his lady-love, except when he raises the fore part of his body, which he does at times, in order the more conveniently to stare you in the face. He prefers walking at a slow and respectable pace; but if you threaten him by shaking your finger at him, it is very funny to see how quickly he takes the hint, and hurries off with all his might. What makes him seem more ridiculous is, that he does not appear to take into consideration the comparative length of your legs; he seems impressed with the idea that he can easily run away from you; indeed, I have no doubt he would do so from a greyhound. The creature is possessed of large eyes; and there is a funny expression of conscious guilt and impudence about his angular face which is very amusing; he knows very well that he lives under a ban--that, in fact, existence is a thing he has no business or lawful right with, and consequently he can never look you straight in the face, like an honest fly or moth. The eggs, which are nearly half an inch long, and about one-eighth in breadth, are rounded at the upper edge, and the two sides approach, wedge-like, to form the lower edge, which is sharp and serrated, for attachment to the substance on which they may chance to be deposited. These eggs are attached by one end to the body of the cockroach; and when fully formed, they are placed upon any material which the wisdom of the mother deems fit food for the youthful inmates. This may be either a dress-coat, a cocked-hat, a cork, a biscuit, or a book--in fact, anything softer than stone; and the egg is no sooner laid, than it begins to sink through the substance below it, by an eating or dissolving process, which is probably due to the agency of some free acid; thus, sailors very often (I may say invariably) have their finest uniform-coats and dress-pants ornamented by numerous little holes, better adapted for purposes of ventilation than embellishment. The interior of the egg is transversely divided into numerous cells, each containing the larvae of I know not how many infant cockroaches. The egg gives birth in a few weeks to a whole brood of triangular little insects, which gradually increase till they attain the size of huge oval beetles, striped transversely black and brown, but as yet minus wings. These are usually considered a different species, and called the beetle-cockroach; but having a suspicion of the truth, I one day imprisoned one of these in a crystal tumbler, and by-and-by had the satisfaction of seeing, first the beetle break his own back, and secondly, a large-winged cockroach scramble, with a little difficulty, through the wound, looking rather out of breath from the exertion. On first escaping, he was perfectly white, but in a few hours got photographed down to his own humble brown colour. So much for the appearance of these gentry. Now for their character, which may easily be summed up: they are cunning as the fox; greedy as the glutton; impudent as sin; cruel, treacherous, cowardly scoundrels; addicted to drinking; arrant thieves; and not only eat each other, but even devour with avidity their own legs, when they undergo accidental amputation. They are very fond of eating the toe-nails--so fond, indeed, as to render the nail-scissors of no value, and they also profess a penchant for the epidermis--if I may be allowed a professional expression--of the feet and legs; not that they object to the skin of any other part of the body, by no means; they attack the legs merely on a principle of easy come-at-ability. In no way is their cunning better exhibited than in the cautious and wary manner in which they conduct their attack upon a sleeper. We will suppose you have turned in to your swinging cot, tucked in your toes, and left one arm uncovered, to guard your face. By-and-by, first a few spies creep slowly up the bulkhead, and have a look at you: if your eyes are open, they slowly retire, trying to look as much at their ease as possible; but if you look round, they run off with such ridiculous haste and awkward length of steps, as to warrant the assurance that they were up to no good. Pretend, however, to close your eyes, and soon after, one, bolder than the rest, walks down the pillow, and stations himself at your cheek, in an attitude of silent and listening meditation. Here he stands for a few seconds, then cautiously lowering one feeler, he tickles your face: if you remain quiescent, the experiment is soon repeated; if you are still quiet, then you are supposed to be asleep, and the work of the night begins. The spy walks off in great haste, and soon returns with the working-party. The hair is now searched for drops of oil; the ear is examined for wax; in sound sleepers, even the mouth undergoes scrutiny; and every exposed part is put under the operation of gentle skinning. Now is the time to start up, and batter the bulkheads with your slipper; you are sure of half an hour's good sport; but what then? The noise made by the brutes running off brings out the rest, and before you are aware, every crevice or corner vomits forth its thousands, and the bulkheads all around are covered with racing, chasing, fighting, squabbling cockroaches. So numerous, indeed, they are at times, that it would be no exaggeration to say that every square foot contains its dozen. If you are wise, you will let them alone, and go quietly and philosophically to bed, for you may kill hundreds, and hundreds more will come to the funeral-feast. Cockroaches are cannibals, practically and by profession. This can be proved in many ways. They eat the dead bodies of their slain comrades; and if any one of them gets sick or wounded, his companions, with a kindness and consideration which cannot be too highly appreciated, speedily put him out of pain, and, by way of reward for their own trouble, devour him. These creatures seem to suffer from a state of chronic thirst; they are continually going and returning from the wash-hand basin, and very careful they are, too, not to tumble in. They watch, sailor-like, the motion of the vessel; when the water flows towards them, they take a few sips, and then wait cautiously while it recedes and returns. Yet, for all this caution, accidents do happen, and every morning you are certain to find a large number drowned in the basin. This forms one of the many methods of catching them. I will only mention two other methods in common use. A pickle-bottle, containing a little sugar and water, is placed in the cabin; the animals crawl in, but are unable to get out until the bottle is nearly full, when a few manage to escape, after the manner of the fox in the fable of the "Fox and Goat in the Well;" and if those who thus escape have previously promised to pull their friends out by the long feelers, they very unfeelingly decline, and walk away as quickly as possible, sadder and wiser 'roaches. When the bottle is at length filled, it finds its way overboard. Another method is adopted in some ships--the boys have to muster every morning with a certain number of cockroaches; if they have more, they are rewarded; if less, punished. I have heard of vessels being fumigated, or sunk in harbour; but in these cases the number of dead cockroaches, fast decaying in tropical weather, generally causes fever to break out in the ship; so that, if a vessel once gets overrun with them, nothing short of dry-docking and taking to pieces does any good. They are decided drunkards. I think they prefer brandy; but they are not difficult to please, and generally prefer whatever they can get. When a cockroach gets drunk, he becomes very lively indeed, runs about, flaps his wings, and tries to fly--a mode of progression which, except in very hot weather, they are unable to perform. Again and again he returns to the liquor, till at last he falls asleep, and by-and-by awakes, and, no doubt filled with remorse at having fallen a victim to so human a weakness, rushes frantically away, and in trying to drink, usually drowns himself. But although the cockroach is, in general, the bloodthirsty and vindictive being that I have described, still he is by no means unsociable, and _has_ his times and seasons of merriment and recreation. On these occasions, the 'roaches emerge from their hiding-places in thousands at some preconcerted signal, perform a reel, or rather an acute-angled, spherically-trigonometrical quadrille, to the music of their own buzz, and evidently to their own intense satisfaction. This queer dance occupies two or three minutes, after which the patter of their little feet is heard no more, the buzz and the bum-m-m are hushed; they have gone to their respective places of abode, and are seen no more for that time. This usually takes place on the evening of a very hot day--a day when pitch has boiled on deck, and the thermometer below has stood persistently above ninety degrees. When the lamps are lit in the wardroom, and the officers have gathered round the table for a quiet rubber at whist, then is heard all about and around you a noise like the rushing of many waters, or the wind among the forest-trees; and on looking up, you find the bulkheads black, or rather brown, with the rustling wretches, while dozens go whirring past you, alight on your head, or fly right in your face. This is a cockroaches' ball, which, if not so brilliant as the butterfly ball of my early recollections, I have no doubt is considered by themselves as very amusing and highly respectable. The reader will readily admit that the character of "greedy as gluttons" has not been misapplied when I state that it would be an easier task to tell what they did _not_ eat, than what they _did_. While they partake largely of the common articles of diet in the ship's stores, they also rather like books, clothes, boots, soap, and corks. They are also partial to lucifer-matches, and consider the edges of razors and amputating-knives delicate eating. [Note 1.] As to drink, these animals exhibit the same impartiality. Probably they _do_ prefer wines and spirits, but they can nevertheless drink beer with relish, and even suit themselves to circumstances, and imbibe water, either pure or mixed with soap; and if they cannot obtain wine, they find in ink a very good substitute. Cockroaches, I should think, are by no means exempt from the numerous ills that flesh is heir to, and must at times, like human epicures and gourmands, suffer dreadfully from rheums and dyspepsia; for to what else can I attribute their extreme partiality for medicine? "Every man his own doctor," seems to be _their_ motto; and they appear to attach no other meaning to the word "surgeon" than simply something to eat: I speak by experience. As to physic, nothing seems to come wrong to them. If patients on shore were only half as fond of pills and draughts, I, for one, should never go to sea. As to powders, they invariably roll themselves bodily in them; and tinctures they sip all day long. Blistering-plaster seems a patent nostrum, which they take internally, for they managed to use up two ounces of mine in as many weeks, and I have no doubt it warmed their insides. I one night left a dozen blue pills carelessly exposed on my little table; soon after I had turned in, I observed the box surrounded by them, and being too lazy to get up, I had to submit to see my pills walked off with in a very few minutes by a dozen 'roaches, each one carrying a pill. I politely informed them that there was more than a dose for an adult cockroach in each of these pills; but I rather think they did not heed the caution, for next morning, the deck of my little cabin was strewed with the dead and dying, some exhibiting all the symptoms of an advanced stage of mercurial salivation, and some still swallowing little morsels of pill, no doubt on the principle of _similia similibus curantur_, from which I argue that cockroaches are homoeopathists. That cockroaches are cowards, no one, I suppose, will think of disputing. I have seen a gigantic cockroach run away from an ant, under the impression, I suppose, that the little creature meant to swallow him alive. The smaller-sized cockroach differs merely in size and some unimportant particulars from that just described, and possesses in a less degree all the vices of his big brother. They, too, are cannibals; but they prefer to prey upon the large one, which they kill and eat when they find wounded. For example, one very hot day, I was enjoying the luxury of a bath at noon, when a large cockroach alighted in great hurry on the edge of my bath, and began to drink, without saying "By your leave," or "Good-morning to you." Now, being by nature of a kind disposition, I certainly should never have refused to allow the creature to quench his thirst in my bath-- although I would undoubtedly have killed him afterwards--had he not, in his hurried flight over me, touched my shoulder with his nasty wings, and left thereon his peculiar perfume. This very naturally incensed me, so seizing a book, with an interjectional remark on his impudence, I struck him to the deck, when he lay to all appearance, dead; so, at least, thought a wily little 'roach of the small genus, that had been watching the whole affair at the mouth of his hole, and determined to seize his gigantic relative, and have a feast at his expense; so, with this praiseworthy intention, the imp marched boldly up to him, pausing just one second, as if to make sure that life was extinct; then, seeing no movement or sign of life evinced by the giant, he very pompously seized him by the fore-leg, and, turning round, commenced dragging his burden towards a hole, no doubt inwardly chuckling at the anticipation of so glorious a supper. Unfortunately for the dwarfs hopes, however, the giant now began to revive from the effects of concussion of the brain, into which state my rough treatment had sent him; and his ideas of his whereabouts being rather confused, at the same time feeling himself moving, he very naturally and instinctively began to help himself to follow, by means of his disengaged extremities. Being as yet unaware of what had happened behind, the heart of the little gentleman in front swelled big with conscious pride and dignity, at the thought of what a strong little 'roach he was, and how easily he could drag away his big relative. But this new and sudden access of strength began presently to astonish the little creature itself, for, aided by the giant's movements, it could now almost run with its burden, and guessing, I suppose, that everything was not as it ought to be, it peeped over its shoulder to see. Fancy, if you can, the terror and affright of the pigmy on seeing the monster creeping stealthily after it. "What had it been doing? How madly it had been acting!" Dropping its relative's leg, it turned, and fairly _ran_, helping itself along with its wings, like a barn-door fowl whose wits have been scared away by fright, and never looked once back till fairly free from its terrible adventure; and I have no doubt it was very glad at having discovered its mistake in time, since otherwise the tables might have been turned, and the supper business reversed. So much for cockroaches, and I ought probably to apologise for my description of these gentry being so realistic and graphic. If I ought to, I do. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It is probable that the edges of razors, etc, are destroyed by a sort of acid deposited there by the cockroaches, similar to that which exudes from the egg; however, there is no gainsaying the fact. CHAPTER TWENTY. MY CABIN MATES--CONCLUDED. "The spider spreads her web, whether she be In poet's towers, cellar or barn or tree." Shelley. The spider, however, is the great enemy of the small genus of cockroaches. These spiders are queer little fellows. They do not build a web for a fly-trap, but merely for a house. For the capture of their prey, they have a much more ingenious method than any I have ever seen, a process which displays a marvellous degree of ingenuity and cleverness on the part of the spider, and proves that they are not unacquainted with some of the laws of mechanics. Having determined to treat himself to fresh meat, the wary little thing (I forgot to say that the creature, although very small in proportion to the generality of tropical spiders, is rather bigger than our domestic spider, and much stronger) emerges from his house, in a corner of the cabin roof, and, having attached one end of a thread to a beam in the roof, about six inches from the bulkhead, he crawls more than half-way down the bulkhead, and attaching the thread here again, goes a little further down, and waits. By-and-by, some unwary 'roach crawls along, between the second attachment of the thread and the spider; instantly the latter rushes from his station, describes half a circle round his victim, lets go the second attachment of the thread--which has now become entangled about the legs of the 'roach--and, by some peculiar movement, which I do not profess to understand, the cockroach is swung off the bulkhead, and hangs suspended by the feet in mid-air; and very foolish he looks; so at least must think the spider, as he coolly stands on the bulkhead quietly watching the unavailing struggles of the animal which he has so nimbly done for; for Marwood himself could not have done the thing half so neatly. The spider now regains the beam to which the thread is attached, and, sailor-like, slides down the little rope, and approaches his victim; and first, as its kicking might interfere with the further domestic arrangements of its body, the 'roach is killed, by having a hole eaten out of its head between the eyes. This being accomplished, the next thing is to bring home the butcher-meat; and the manner in which this difficult task is performed is nothing less than wonderful. A thread is attached to the lower part of the body of the 'roach; the spider then "shins" up its rope with this thread, and attaches it so high that the body is turned upside down; it then hauls on the other thread, _turns_ the body once more, and again attaches the thread; and this process is repeated till the dead cockroach is by degrees hoisted up to the beam, and deposited in a corner near the door of its domicile. But the wisdom of the spider is still further shown in what is done next. It knows very well--so, at least, it would appear--that its supply of food will soon decay; and being unacquainted with the properties of salt, it proceeds to enclose the body of the 'roach in a glutinous substance of the form of a chrysalis or air-tight case. It is, in fact, hermetically sealed, and in this way serves the spider as food for more than a week. There is at one end a little hole, which is, no doubt, closed up after every meal. In my cabin, besides the common earwigs, which were not numerous, and were seldom seen, I found there were a goodly number of scorpions, none of which, however, were longer than two inches. I am not aware that they did me any particular damage, further than inspiring me with horror and disgust. It _was_ very unpleasant to put down your hand for a book, and to find a scorpion beneath your fingers--a hard, scaly scorpion--and then to hear him crack below your boot, and to be sensible of the horrid odour emitted from the body: these things were _not_ pleasant. Those scorpions which live in ships are of a brown colour, and not dangerous; it is the large green scorpion, so common in the islands of East Africa, which you must be cautious in handling, for children, it is said, frequently die from the effects of this scorpion's sting. But a much more loathsome and a really dangerous creature is the large green centipede of the tropics. Of these things, the natives themselves have more horror than of any serpent whatever, not excepting the common cobra, and many a tale they have to tell you of people who have been bitten, and have soon after gone raving mad, and so died. They are from six to twelve inches in length, and just below the neck are armed with a powerful pair of sharp claws, like the nails of a cat, with which they hold on to their victim while they bite; and if once fairly fastened into the flesh, they require to be cut out. While lying at the mouth of the Revooma River, we had taken on board some green wood, and with it many centipedes of a similar colour. One night, about a week afterwards, I had turned in, and had nearly fallen asleep, when I observed a thing on my curtain--luckily on the outside--which very quickly made me wide awake. It was a horrid centipede, about nine inches long. It appeared to be asleep, and had bent itself in the form of the letter S. I could see its golden-green skin by the light of my lamp, and its wee shiny eyes, that, I suppose, never close, and for the moment I was almost terror-struck. I knew if I moved he would be off, and I might get bitten another time--indeed, I never could have slept again in my cabin, had he not been taken. The steward came at my call; and that functionary, by dint of caution and the aid of a pair of forceps, deposited the creature in a bottle of spirits of wine, which stood at hand always ready to receive such specimens. I have it now beside me; and my Scotch landlady, who seemed firmly impressed with the idea that all my diabolical-looking specimens of lizards and various other creeping things are the productions of sundry unhappy patients, remarked concerning my centipede: "He maun hae been a sick and a sore man ye took that ane oot o', doctor." But a worse adventure befell an engineer of ours. He was doing duty in the stokehole, when one of these loathsome creatures actually crept up under his pantaloons. He was an old sailor, and a cool one, and he knew that if he attempted to kill or knock it off, the claws would be inserted on the instant. Cautiously he rolled down his dress, and spread a handkerchief on his leg a short distance before the centipede, which was moving slowly and hesitatingly upwards. It was a moment of intense excitement, both for those around him as well as for the man himself. Slowly it advanced, once it stopped, then moved on again, and crossed on to the handkerchief, and the engineer was saved; on which he immediately got sick, and I was sent for, heard the story, and received the animal, which I placed beside the other. More pleasant and amusing companions and cabin mates were the little ants, a whole colony of which lived in almost every available corner of my sanctum. Wonderfully wise they are too, and very strong, and very proud and "clannish." Their prey is the large cockroach. If you kill one of these, and place it in the centre of the cabin, parties of ants troop in from every direction--I might say, a regiment from each clan; and consequently there is a great deal of fighting and squabbling, and not much is done, except that the cockroach is usually devoured on the spot. If, however, the dead 'roach be placed near some corner where an army of ants are encamped, they soon emerge from the camp in hundreds, down they march in a stream, and proceed forthwith to carry it away. Slowly up the bulkhead moves the huge brute, impelled by the united force of half a thousand, and soon he is conveyed to the top. Here, generally, there is a beam to be crossed, where the whole weight of the giant 'roach has to be sustained by these Liliputians, with their heads downward; and more difficult still is the rounding of the corner. Very often, the ants here make a most egregious mistake; while hundreds are hauling away at each leg, probably a large number get on top of the 'roach, and begin tugging away with all their might, and consequently their burden tumbles to the deck; but the second time he is taken up, this mistake is not made. These creatures send out regular spies, which return to report when they have found anything worth taking to headquarters; then the foraging-party goes out, and it is quite a sight to see the long serpentine line, three or four deep, streaming down the bulkhead and over the deck, and apparently having no end. They never march straight before them; their course is always wavy; and it is all the more strange that those coming up behind should take exactly the same course, so that the real shape of the line of march never changes. Perhaps this is effected by the officer-ants, which you may see, one here, one there, all along the line. By the officer-ants I mean a large-sized ant (nearly double), that walks along by the side of the marching army, like ants in authority. They are black (the common ant being brown), and very important, too, they look, and are no doubt deeply impressed by the responsibility of their situation and duties, running hither and thither--first back, then to the side, and sometimes stopping for an instant with another officer, as if to give or receive orders, and then hurrying away again. These are the ants, I have no doubt, that are in command, and also act as engineers and scouts, for you can always see one or two of them running about, just before the main body comes on--probably placing signal-staffs, and otherwise determining the line of march. They seem very energetic officers too, and allow no obstacle to come in their way, for I have often known the line of march to lie up one side of my white pants, over my knees, and down the other. I sat thus once till a whole army passed over me--a very large army it was too, and mightily tried my patience. When the rear-guard had passed over, I got up and walked away, which must have considerably damaged the calculations of the engineers on their march back. Of the many species of flies found in my cabin, I shall merely mention two--namely, the silly fly--which is about the size of a pin-head, and furnished with two high wings like the sails of a Chinese junk; they come on board with the bananas, and merit the appellation of _silly_ from the curious habit they have of running about with their noses down, as if earnestly looking for something which they cannot find; they run a little way, stop, change their direction, and run a little further, stop again, and so on, _ad infinitum_, in a manner quite amusing to any one who has time to look at and observe them--and the hammer-legged fly (the _Foenus_ of naturalists), which possesses two long hammer-like legs, that stick out behind, and have a very curious appearance. This fly has been accused of biting, but I have never found him guilty. He seems to be continually suffering from a chronic stage of shaking-palsy. Wherever he alights--which is as often on your nose as anywhere else--he stands for a few seconds shaking in a manner which is quite distressing to behold, then flies away, with his two hammers behind him, to alight and shake on some other place--most likely your neighbour's nose. It seems to me, indeed, that flies have a penchant for one's nose. Nothing, too, is more annoying than those same house-flies in warm countries. Suppose one alights on the extreme end of your nasal apparatus, you of course drive him off; he describes two circles in the air, and alights again on the same spot; and this you may do fifty times, and at the fifty-first time, back he comes with a saucy hum-m, and takes his seat again, just as if your nose was made for him to go to roost upon, and for no other purpose at all; so that you are either obliged to sit and smile complacently with a fly on the end of your proboscis, or, if you are clever and supple-jointed, follow him all round the room till you have killed him; then, probably, back you come with a face beaming with gratification, and sit down to your book again, when bum-m-m! there is your friend once more, and you have killed the wrong fly. In an hospital, nothing is more annoying than these flies; sleep by day is sometimes entirely out of the question, unless the patient covers his face, which is by no means agreeable on a hot day. Mosquitoes, too, are troublesome customers to a stranger, for they seem to prefer the blood of a stranger to that of any one else. The mosquito is a beautiful, feathery-horned midge, with long airy legs, and a body and wings that tremble with their very fineness and grace. The head and shoulders are bent downward at almost a right angle, as if the creature had fallen on its head and broken its back; but, for all its beauty, the mosquito is a hypocritical little scoundrel, who comes singing around you, apparently so much at his ease, and looking so innocent and gentle, that one would imagine butter would hardly melt in his naughty little mouth. He alights upon your skin with such a light and fairy tread, inserts his tube, and sucks your blood so cleverly, that the mischief is done long before you are aware, and he is off again singing as merrily as ever. Probably, if you look about the curtain, you may presently find him gorged with your blood, and hardly able to fly--an unhappy little midge now, very sick, and with all his pride fallen; so you catch and kill him; and serve him right too! I should deem this chapter incomplete if I omitted to say a word about another little member of the company in my crowded cabin--a real friend, too, and a decided enemy to all the rest of the creeping genera about him. I refer to a chameleon I caught in the woods and tamed. His principal food consisted in cockroaches, which he caught very cleverly, and which, before eating, he used to beat against the deck to soften. He lived in a little stone-jar, which made a very cool house for him, and to which he periodically retired to rest; and very indignant he was, too, if any impudent cockroach, in passing, raised itself on its fore-legs to look in. Instant pursuit was the consequence, and his colour came and went in a dozen different hues as he seized and beat to death the intruder on his privacy. He seemed to know me, and crawled about me. My buttons were his chief attraction; he appeared to think they were made for him to hang on to by the tail; and he would stand for five minutes at a time on my shoulder, darting his tongue in every direction at the unwary flies which came within his reach; and, upon the whole, I found him a very useful little animal indeed. These lizards are very common as pets among the sailors on the coast of Africa, who keep them in queer places sometimes, as the following conversation, which I heard between two sailors at Cape Town, will show. "Look here, Jack, what I've got in my 'bacca-box." "What is it?" said Jack--"an evil spirit?" "No," said the other, as unconcernedly as if it might have been an evil spirit, but wasn't--"no! a chameleon;" which he pronounced kammy-lion. "Queer lion that 'ere, too," replied Jack. But, indeed, there are few creatures which a sailor will not attempt to tame. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. CONTAINING A TALE TO BANISH THE CREEPIES. "The noblest mind the best contentment has." Spenser. "Now," said Frank, next night (we are all assembled drinking tea on the lawn), "after all those tales about your foreign favourites, and your pet creepie-creepies, I think the best thing you can do is to come nearer home and change your tactics." "I was dreaming about cockroaches last night," said my wife; "and you know, dear, they are my pet aversion." "Yes," cried Ida; "do tell us a story to banish the creepies." "Well then, here goes. I'll tell you a story about a pet donkey and Nero's son, `Hurricane Bob.' Will that do? And we'll call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ JEANNIE'S BOARDING-HOUSE: A SEASIDE STORY. "Jeannie was an ass. I do not make this remark in any disparaging way, for a more interesting member of the genus donkey never, I believe, stood upon four legs. Indeed, I do not think I would be going too far if I said that I have known many individuals not half so wise who stood upon two. Now, although I mention Jeannie in the past tense, it is because she is not present with me, but she is still, I believe, alive and well, and is at this moment, I have little doubt, quietly cropping the grass on her own green field, or gazing pensively at the ocean from the Worthing sands. "I must tell you who was my travelling companion when I first made the acquaintance of the heroine of this little sketch. He was a very large jet-black Newfoundland dog. Such a fellow! And with such a coat too, not one curly hair in all his jacket, all as straight as quills, and as sheeny as the finest satin. Hurricane Bob can play in the sea, toying with the waves for hours, and still not be wet quite to the skin, and when he comes on shore again he just gives himself a shake or two, buckets of water fly in all directions, for the time being he looks like an animated mop, then away he feathers across the sands, and in a few minutes he is dry enough for the drawing-room. Bob is quite an aristocrat in his own way, and every inch a gentleman--one glance at his beautiful face and his wide, thoughtful eyes would convince you of this--nor, on being introduced to him, would you be surprised to be told that not only is he a winner of many prizes himself, but that his father is a champion dog, and his grandfather before him as well. I do not think that Hurricane Bob--or Master Robert, as we call him on high days and holidays--has a single fault, unless probably the habit he has of going tearing along the streets and roads, when out for a walk, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It is this habit which has gained for him the sobriquet of Hurricane; it is sometimes a little awkward for the lieges, but to his credit be it said that whenever he runs down a little boy or girl he never fails to stop and apologise on the spot, licking the hands of the prostrate one, and saying, as plainly as a dog can speak, `There, there, I didn't really mean to hurt you, and you'll be all right again in a minute.' "We called the place where Jeannie lived, at Worthing, Jeannie's boarding-house. It was a nice roomy stable, with a coach-house, a yard for exercise, and a loose-box. The door of the stable was always left open at Jeannie's request, so that she could go out and in as she pleased. The loose-box was told off to Hurricane Bob; he had a dish of nice clean water, a box to hold his dog-biscuits, and plenty of dry straw, so he was as happy as a king. "When his landlady, Jeannie, first saw him she sniffed him all over, while Bob looked up in her face. "`Just you be careful, old lady,' said Bob, `for I might be tempted to catch you by the nose.' "But Jeannie was satisfied. "`You'll do, doggie,' she said; `there doesn't seem to be an ounce of real harm in your whole composition.' "The other members of Jeannie's boarding establishment were about twenty hens, old and young, more useful perhaps than ornamental. Now, any other landlady in the world would have had a bad time of it with this ill-bred feathered squad, for they were far from polite to her, and constantly grumbling about their food; they said they hadn't enough of it, and that it was not good what they did get. Then they were continually squabbling or fighting with each other; the little fowls always stole all the big pieces, and the big fowls chased and pecked the little ones all round the yard in consequence, till their backs, under their feathers, must have been black and blue, and they hadn't peace to eat the portion they had stolen. `Tick, tuck,' the big fowl would say; `tick, tuck, take that, and that; tick, tuck, that's what greed gets.' "But Jeannie was a philosopher, she simply looked at them with those quiet brown eyes of hers, shook one ear, and said-- "`Grumble away, grumble away, I'm too well known to be afraid of ye; ye can't bring disgrace on my hotel. Hee, haw! Haw, hee! There!' "Hurricane Bob paid his bill _every_ morning and every night with a dog-biscuit. The first morning I offered Jeannie the biscuit she looked at me. "`Do you take me for a dog?' she asked. Then she sniffed it. `It do smell uncommonly nice,' she said; `I'll try it, anyhow.' So she took the cake in her mouth, and marched into the yard; but returned almost immediately, still holding it between her teeth. "`What's the correct way to eat it?' she inquired. "`That's what I want you to find out,' I said. "Poor Jeannie! she tried to break it against the door, then against the wall, and finally against the paving stone, but it resisted all her efforts. Then, `Oh! I know,' she cried. `You puts it on the ground, and holes it like a turnip.' N.B.--I'm not accountable for Jeannie's bad grammar. "Every morning, when I came to see Master Robert, Jeannie ran to meet me, and put her great head under my arm for a cuddle. She called me Arthur, but that isn't my name. She pronounced the first syllable in a double bass key, and the second in a shrill treble. Ar--thur! Haw, hee! Haw, hee! "She was funny, was Jeannie. Some mornings, as soon as she caught sight of me, she used to go off into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, then she would apologise. "`I can't help it, Arthur,' she seemed to say. `It does seem rude, I daresay, but I really can't help it. It's the sight of you that does it. Hee, haw! Hee, haw!' "One day, and one day only, Bob and his landlady nearly had a quarrel. Jeannie, having eaten her own biscuit, burst into the loose-box, to help the dog with his. `Ho, ho!' said Hurricane Robert, `you've come to raise the rent, have ye? Just look at this, old lady.' As he spoke, the dog lifted one lip, and showed such a display of alabaster teeth, that Jeannie was glad to retire without raising the rent. "What was Jeannie like, did you ask? Why, straight in back and strong in limb, with beautiful long ears to switch away the flies in summer, with mild, intelligent eyes of hazel brown, and always a soft, smooth patch on the top of her nose for any one to kiss who was so minded. In winter Jeannie was rough in coat. She preferred it, she said, because it kept out the cold, and made an excellent saddle for her three little playmates to ride upon. Of these she was exceedingly fond, and never more pleased and proud than when the whole three of them were on her back at one time--wee, brown-eyed, laughing Lovat S--; young Ernie, bold and bright and free; and little winsome Winnie C--. "To be sure they often fell off, but there was where the fun and the glee lay, especially when Jeannie sometimes bent her nose to the ground and let them all tumble on the sand in a heap. And that, you know, was Jeannie's joke, and one that she was never tired of repeating. "In summer Jeannie shone, positively shone, all over like a race-horse or a boatman beetle, and then I can tell you it was no easy matter for her playmates to stick on her back at all. She was particularly partial, as you have seen, to the society of human beings, and brightened up wonderfully as soon as a friend appeared on the scene, but I think when alone she was rather of a contemplative turn of mind. There was a rookery not far from Jeannie's abode, and at this she never tired gazing. "`Well,' said Jeannie to me one day, `they do be funny creatures, those rooks. I don't think I should like to live up there, Ar--thur. And they're always a-fighting too, just like my boarders be, and never a thing do they say from morning till night but caw, caw, caw. Now if they could only make a few remarks like this, Haw, hee! Haw, hee! Haw hee!' "`Oh! don't, pray don't, Jeannie,' I cried, with my fingers in my ears. "And now, then, what do you think made Jeannie such a bright, loving, and intelligent animal? Why, kindness and good treatment. "Dear old Jeannie, I may never gaze upon her classic countenance again, but I shall not forget her. In my mind's eye I see her even now, as I last beheld her. The sun had just gone down, behind a calm and silent sea; scarcely do the waves speak as they break in ripples on the sand, they do but whisper. And the clouds are tipped with gold and crimson, and far away in the offing is a ship, a single ship, and these are all the signs of life there are about, save Jeannie on the beach. Alone. "I wonder what she was thinking about." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. AN EVENING SPENT AT OUR OWN FIRESIDE. "Well, puss," says Man, "and what can you To benefit the public do?" Gay. "Draw round your chair," said I to Frank; "and now for a comfortable, quiet evening." Frank and I had been away all the afternoon, on one of our long rambles. Very pleasantly shone the morning sun, that had wooed us away; the ground was frozen hard as iron, there wasn't a cloud in himmel's blue, nor a breath of wind from one direction or another. But towards evening a change had come suddenly over the spirit of the day's dream, which found my friend and I still a goodly two hours' stride from home. Heavy grey clouds had come trooping up from the north-east, borne along on the fierce fleet wings of a ten-knot breeze; then the snow had come on, such snow as seldom falls in "bonnie Berks;" and soon we were surrounded by one of the wildest wintry nights ever I remember. Talking was impossible; we could but clutch our sticks and boldly hurry onwards, while the wind sighed and roared through the telegraph-wires, and the snow sifted angrily through the leafless hedgerows. It was a night that none save a healthy man could have faced. Ah! but didn't the light from the cosy, red-curtained window, streaming over our own snow-silvered lawn, amply reward us at last; while the nice dinner quite put the climax on our happiness. "Now for your story," said Frank. "Now for my story," I replied; "I will call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE FIRESIDE FAVOURITE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. "The lines of some cats fall in pleasant places. Mine have. I'm the fireside favourite, I'm the parlour pet. I'm the _beau ideal_, so my mistress says, of what every decent, respectable, well-trained cat ought to be--and I looked in the glass and found it so. But pray don't think that I am vain because I happen to know the usages of polite society, and the uses and abuses of the looking-glass. No cat, in my opinion, with any claim to the dignity of lady-puss, would think of washing her face unless in front of a plate-glass mirror. But I will not soon forget the day I first knew what a looking-glass meant. I was then only a silly little mite of a kitten, of a highly inquiring turn of mind. Well, one evening my young mistress was going to a ball, and before she went she spent about three hours in her dressing-room, doing something, and then she came down to the parlour, looking more like an angel than ever I had seen her. Oh, how she was dressed, to be sure. And she had little bunches of flowers stuck on all over her dress, and I wanted to play at `mousies' with them; but she wouldn't wait, she just kissed me and bade me be a good kitten and not run up the curtains, and then off she went. Yes; I meant to be an awfully good little kitten--but first and foremost I meant to see the interior of that mysterious room. By good luck the door was ajar, so in I popped at once, and made direct for the table. Such a display of beautiful things I had never seen before. I didn't know what they all meant then, but I do now, for, mind you, I will soon be twenty years of age. But I got great fun on that table. I tried the gold rings on my nose, and the earrings on my toes, and I knocked off the lid of a powder-box, and scattered the crimson contents all abroad. Then I had a fearful battle with a puff which I unearthed from another box. During the fight a bottle of ylang-ylang went down. I didn't care a bit. Crash went a bottle of flower-water next. I regarded it not. I fought the puff till it took refuge on the floor. Then I paused, wondering what I should do next, when behold! right in front of me and looking through a square of glass, and apparently wondering what _it_ should do next, was the ugliest little wretch of a kitten ever you saw in your life--I marched up to it as brave as a button, and it had the audacity to come and meet me. "`You ugly, deformed little thing,' I cried, `what do you want in my lady's room?' "`The same to you,' it seemed to say, `and many of them.' "`For two pins,' I continued, `I would scratch your nasty little eyes out--yah--fuss-s!' "`Yah--fuss-s!' replied the foe, lifting its left paw as I lifted my right. "This was too much. I crept round the corner to give her a cuff. She wasn't there! I came back, and there she was as brazen as ever. I tried this game on several times, but couldn't catch her. `Then,' says I, `you'll catch it where you stand, in spite of the pane of glass!' "I struck straight from the shoulder, and with a will too. Down went the glass, and I found I had been fighting all the time with my own reflection. Funny, wasn't it? "When mistress came home there was such a row. But she was sensible, and didn't beat me. She took me upstairs, and showed me what I had done, and looked so vexed that I was sorry too. `It is my own fault, though,' she said; `I ought to have shut the door.' "She presented me with a looking-glass soon after this, and it is quite surprising how my opinion of that strange kitten in the mirror altered after that. I thought now I had never seen such a lovely thing, and I was never tired looking at it. No more I had. But first impressions _are_ so erroneous, you know. "My dear mother is dead and gone years ago--of course, considering my age, you won't marvel at that; and my young mistress is married long, long ago, and has a grown family, who are all as kind as kind can be to old Tom, as they facetiously call me. And so they were to my mother, who, I may tell you, was only three days in her last illness, and gave up the ghost on a file of old newspapers (than which nothing makes a better bed), and is buried under the old pear-tree. "Dear me, how often I have wondered how other poor cats who have neither kind master nor mistress manage to live. But, the poor creatures, they are so ignorant--badly-bred, you know. Why, only the other day the young master brought home a poor little cat he had found starving in the street. Well, I never in all my life saw such an ill-mannered, rude little wretch, for no sooner had it got itself stuffed with the best fare in the house, than it made a deliberate attempt to steal the canary. There was gratitude for you! Now, mind, I don't say that _I_ shouldn't like to eat the canary, but I never have taken our own birds-- no--always the neighbours'. I did, just once, fly at our own canary's cage when I was quite a wee cat, but I didn't know any better. And what do you think my mistress did? Why, she took the bird out of the cage and popped me in; and there I was, all day long, a prisoner, with nothing for dinner but seeds and water, and the canary flying about the room and doing what it liked, even helping itself to my milk. I never forgot that. "Some cats, you know, are arrant thieves, and I don't wonder at it, the way they are kicked and cuffed about, put out all night, and never offered food or water. I would steal myself if I were used like that, wouldn't you, madam? But I have my two meals a day, regularly; and I have a nice double saucer, which stands beside my mirror, and one end contains nice milk and the other clean water, and I don't know which I like the best. When I am downright thirsty, the water is so nice; but at times I am hungry and thirsty both, if you can understand me--then I drink the milk. At times I am allowed to sit on the table when my mistress is at breakfast, and I often put out my paw, ever so gently, and help myself to a morsel from her plate; but I wouldn't do it when she isn't looking. The other day I took a fancy to a nice smelt, and I just went and told my mistress and led her to the kitchen, and I got what I wanted at once. "I am never put out at night. I have always the softest and warmest of beds, and in winter, towards morning, when the fire goes out, I go upstairs and creep (singing loudly to let her know it is I) into my mistress's arms. "If I want to go on the tiles any night, I have only to ask. A fellow does want to go on the tiles now and then, doesn't he? Oh, it is a jolly thing, is a night on the tiles! One of these days I may give you my experience of life on the tiles, and then you'll know all about it-- in the meantime, madam, you may try it yourself. Let it be moonlight, and be cautious, you know, for, as you have only two feet, you will feel rather awkward at first. "Did I ever know what it was to be hungry? Yes, indeed, once I did; and I'm now going to tell you of the saddest experience in all my long life. You see it happened like this. It was autumn; I was then about five years of age, and a finer-looking Tom, I could see by my mirror, never trod on four legs. For some days I had observed an unusual bustle both upstairs and downstairs. The servants, especially, seemed all off their heads, and did nothing but open doors and shut them, and nail up things in large boxes, and drink beer and eat cold meat whenever they stood on end. What was up, I wondered? Went and asked my mistress. `Off to the seaside, pussy Tom,' said she; `and you're going too, if you're good.' I determined to be good, and not make faces at the canary. But one night I had been out rather late at a cat-concert, and, as usual, came home with the milk in the morning. In order to make sure of a good sleep I went upstairs to an unused attic, as was my wont, and fell asleep on an old pillow. How long I slept I shall never know, but it must have been far on in the day when I awoke, feeling hungry enough to eat a hunter. As I trotted downstairs the first thing that alarmed me was the unusual stillness. I mewed, and a thousand echoes seemed to mock me. The ticking of the old clock on the stairs had never sounded to me so loud and clear before. I went, one by one, into every room. Nothing in any of them but the stillness, apparently, of death and desolation. The blinds were all down, and I could even hear the mice nibbling behind the wainscot. "My heart felt like a great cold lump of lead, as the sad truth flashed upon my mind--my kind mistress had gone, with all the family, and I was left, forgotten, deserted! My first endeavour was to find my way out. Had I succeeded, even then I would have found my mistress, for cats have an instinct you little wot of. But every door and window was fastened, and there wasn't a hole left which a rat could have crept through. "What nights and days of misery followed!--it makes me shudder to think of them even now. "For the first few days I did not suffer much from hunger. There were crumbs left by the servants, and occasionally a mouse crept out from the kitchen fender, and I had that. But by the fifth day the crumbs had all gone, and with them the mice, too, had disappeared. They nibbled no more in the cupboard nor behind the wainscot; and as the clock had run down there wasn't a sound in the old house by night or by day. I now began to suffer both from hunger and thirst. I spent my time either mewing piteously at the hall-door, or roaming purposelessly through the empty house, or watching, watching, faint and wearily, for the mice that never came. Perhaps the most bitter part of my sufferings just then was the thought that would keep obtruding itself on my mind, that for all the love with which I had loved my mistress, and the faithfulness with which I had served her, she had gone away, and left, me to die all alone in the deserted house. Me, too, who would have laid down my life to please her had she only stayed near me. "How slowly the time dragged on--how long and dreary the days, how terrible the nights! Perhaps it was when I was at my very worst, that I happened to be standing close by my empty saucer, and in front of my mirror. At that time I was almost too weak to walk; I tottered on my feet, and my head swam and moved from side to side when I tried to look at anything. Suddenly I started. Could that wild, attenuated image in the mirror be my reflection? How it glared upon me from its glassy eyes! And now I knew it could not be mine, but some dreadful thing sent to torture me. For as I gazed it uttered a yell--mournful, prolonged, unearthly--and dashed at me through and out from the mirror. For some time we seemed to writhe together in agony on the carpet. Then up again we started, the mirror-fiend and I. `Follow me fast!' it seemed to cry, and I was impelled to follow. Wherever it was, there was I. How it tore up and down the house, yelling as it went and tearing everything in its way! How it rushed half up the chimney, and was dashed back again by invisible hands! How it flung itself, half blind and bleeding, at the Venetian blinds, and how madly it tried again to escape into the mirror and shivered the glass! Then mills began in my head--mills and machinery--and the roar of running waters. Then I found myself walking all alone in a green and beautiful meadow, with a blue sky overhead and birds and butterflies all about, a cool breeze fanning my brow, and, better than all, _water_, pure, and clear, and cool, meandering over brown smooth pebbles, beside which the minnows chased the sunbeams. And I drank--and slept. "When I awoke, I found myself lying on the mat in the hall, and the sunlight shimmering in through the stained glass, and falling in patches of green and crimson on the floor. Very cold now, but quiet and sensible. There was a large hole in my side, and blood was all about, so I must have, in my delirium, _torn the flesh from my own ribs and devoured it_. [Note 1.] "I knew now that death was come, and would set me free at last. "Then the noise of wheels in my ears, and the sound of human voices; then a blank; and then some one pouring something down my throat; and I opened my eyes and beheld my dear young mistress. How she was weeping! The sight of her sorrow would have melted your heart. `Oh, pussy, pussy, do not die!' she was crying. "Pussy didn't die; but till this day I believe it was only to please my dear mistress I crept back again to life and love. "I'm very old now, and my thoughts dwell mostly in the past, and I like a cheery fire and a drop of warm milk better than ever. But I have all my faculties and all my comforts. We have other cats in the house, but I never feel jealous, for my mistress, look you, loves me better than all the cats in the kingdom--fact--she told me so." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Not overdrawn. A case of the kind actually occurred some years ago in the new town of Edinburgh.--The Author. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "GREYFRIARS' BOBBY"--"PEPPER"--THE BLIND FIDDLER'S DOG. "Alas! for love if this were all, And nought beyond on earth." "A good story cannot be too often told," said Frank one evening. "Well, I doubt that very much," said my wife; "there is a probability of a good story being spoiled by over-recital." "I'm of the same opinion," I assented; "but as I intend the story of `Greyfriars' Bobby' to be printed in my next book, I will just read it over to you as I have written it." I had fain hoped, I began, to find out something of Bobby's antecedents, and something about the private history of the poor man Grey, who died long before Bobby became a hero in the eyes of the world, and attracted the kindly notice of the good and noble William Chambers, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh. I have been unable to do so, however; even an advertisement in a local paper failed to elicit the information I so much desired. What Mr Grey was, or who he was, no one can tell me. Some years ago, runs an account of this loving, faithful dog, a stranger arrived in Edinburgh bringing with him a little rough-haired dog, that slept in the same room with him, and followed him in his walks, but no one knew who the stranger was, or whence he came. The following account of Bobby is culled from the _Animal World_ of the second of May, 1870:-- "It is reported that Bobby is a small rough Scotch terrier, grizzled black, with tan feet and nose; and his story runs thus:--More than eleven years ago, a poor man named Grey died, and was buried in the old Greyfriars churchyard, Edinburgh. His grave is now levelled by time, and nothing marks it. But the spot had not been forgotten by his faithful dog. James Brown, the old curator, remembers the funeral well, and that Bobby was one of the most conspicuous of the mourners. James found the dog lying on the grave the next morning; and as dogs are not admitted he turned him out. The second morning the same; the third morning, though cold and wet, there he was, shivering. The did man took pity on him and fed him. This convinced the dog that he had a right there. Sergeant Scott, R.E., allowed him his board for a length of time, but for more than nine years he had been regularly fed by Mr Trail, who keeps a restaurant close by. Bobby is regular in his calls, being guided by the mid-day gun. On the occasion of the new dog-tax being raised, many persons, the writer amongst the number, wrote to be allowed to pay for Bobby, but the Lord Provost of Edinburgh exempted him, and, to mark his admiration of fidelity, presented him with a handsome collar, with brass nails, and an inscription:--`Greyfriars' Bobby, presented to him by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, 1867.' He has long been an object of curiosity, and his constant appearance in the graveyard has led to numberless inquiries about him. Many efforts have been made to entice him away, but unsuccessfully, and he still clings to the consecrated spot, and from 1861 to the present time he has kept watch thereon. Upon his melancholy couch Bobby hears the bells toll the approach of new inmates to the sepulchres around and about him; and as the procession solemnly passes, who shall say that the ceremony enacted over his dead master does not reappear before him? He sees the sobs and tears of the bereaved, and do not these remind him of the day when he stood with other mourners over the coffin which contained everything he loved on earth? In that clerical voice he rehears those slow and impressive tones which consigned his master's body to ashes and dust. All these reminiscences are surely felt more or less; and yet Bobby, trustful, patient, enduring, continues to wait on the spot sacred to the memory of poor Grey. Poor Grey, did we say? Why, hundreds of the wealthiest amongst us would give a fortune to have placed upon their tombs a living monument of honour like this!--testifying through long years and the bitterest winters (with a blessed moral for mankind) that death cannot dissolve that love which love alone can evoke. When our eye runs over the gravestone records of departed goodness, we are sometimes sceptical whether there is not much mockery in many of the inscriptions, though the friends of the deceased have charitably erected an outward mark of their esteem. But here we have a monument that knows neither hypocrisy nor conventional respect, which appeals to us not in marble (the work of men's hands), but in the flesh and blood of _a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust_--in the devotion of a friend whose short wanderings to and fro prove how truly he gravitates to one yard of earth only--in the determination of a sentinel _who means to die at his post_. "I hear they say 'tis very lung That years hae come and gane, Sin' first they put my maister here, An' grat an' left him lane. I could na, an' I did na gang, For a' they vexed me sair, An' said sae bauld that they nor Should ever see him mair. "I ken he's near me a' the while, An' I will see him yet; For a' my life he tended me. An' noo he'll not forget. Some blithesome day I'll hear his step; There'll be nae kindred near; For a' they grat, they gaed awa',-- But he shall find _me_ here. "Is time sae lang?--I dinna mind; Is't cauld?--I canna feel; He's near me, and he'll come to me, An' sae 'tis very weel. I thank ye a' that are sae kind, As feed an' mak me braw; Ye're unco gude, but ye're no _him_-- Ye'll no wile me awa'. "I'll bide an' hope!--Do ye the same; For ance I heard that ye Had ay a Master that ye loo'd, An' yet ye might na see; A Master, too, that car'd for ye, (O, sure ye winna flee!) That's wearying to see ye noo--. Ye'll no be waur than me?" In the above account the words which I have italicised should be noted, viz, "a living creature that cannot be tempted to desert his trust, who means to die at his post." These words were in a sense prophetic, for Bobby never did desert the graveyard where his master's remains lie buried, until death stepped in to relieve his sorrows. The following interesting letter is from Bobby's guardian, Mr Trail, of Greyfriars Place, Edinburgh, who will, I feel sure, pardon the liberty I take in publishing it _in extenso_:-- "In answer to your note in reference to Greyfriars Bobby, I send the following extracts which state correctly the dates and other particulars concerning the little dog:--" _Scotsman_, January 17th, 1872:--Many will be sorry to hear that the poor but interesting dog, Greyfriars Bobby, died on Sunday evening, January 14th, 1872. Every kind attention was paid to him in his last days by his guardian Mr Trail, who has had him buried in a flower plot near the Greyfriars Church. His collar, a gift from Lord Provost Chambers, has been deposited in the office at the church gate. Mr Brodie has successfully modelled the figure of Greyfriars Bobby, which is to surmount the very handsome memorial to be erected by the munificence of Baroness Burdett-Coutts. "`Edinburgh Veterinary College, _March_, 1872. "`To those who may feel interested in the history of the late Greyfriars Bobby, I may state that he suffered from disease of a cancerous nature affecting the whole of the lower jaw. "`Thomas Wallet. "`Professor of Animal Pathology.' "There are several notices of an interesting nature in the following numbers of the _Animal World_ concerning Greyfriars Bobby:--November 1st, 1869; May 2nd, 1870; February 1st, 1872; March 2nd, 1874. "The fountain is erected at the end of George the Fourth Bridge, near the entrance to the Greyfriars churchyard. It is of Westmoreland granite, and bears the following inscription:--`A tribute to the affectionate fidelity of Greyfriars Bobby.' "In 1858, this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to Greyfriars churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in 1872. Old James Brown died in the autumn of 1868. There is no tombstone on the grave of Bobby's master. Greyfriars Bobby was buried in the flower plot near the stained-glass window of the church, and opposite the gate." Poor Bobby, then, passed away on a Sunday evening, after watching near the grave for fourteen long years. He died of a cancerous affection of the lower jaw, brought on, doubtless, from the constant resting of his chin on the cold earth. I trust he did not suffer much. I feel convinced that Bobby is happy now; but no stone marks the humble grave where Bobby's master lies. I wish it were otherwise, for surely there must have been good in the breast of that man whom a dog loved so dearly, and to whose memory he was faithful to the end. The picture of Greyfriars Bobby here given is said to be a very good one, see page 239. You can hardly look at that wistful, pitiful little countenance, all rough and unkempt as it is, without _feeling_ the whole truth of the story of Bobby's faithfulness and love. "Ah!" said Frank, when I had finished, "dogs are wonderful creatures." "No one knows how wonderful, Frank," I said. "By the way, did ever you hear of, or read the account of, poor young Gough and his dog? The dog's master perished while attempting to climb the mountain of Helvellyn. There had been a fall of snow, which partly hid the path and made the ascent dangerous. It was never known whether he was killed by a fall or died of hunger. Three months went by before his body was found, during which time it was watched over by a faithful dog which Mr Gough had with him at the time of the accident. The fidelity of the dog was the subject of a poem which Wordsworth wrote, beginning:-- "`A barking sound the shepherd hears,' etc. "And now, Ida, I'll change the tone of my chapter into a less doleful ditty, and tell you about another Scotch, or rather Skye-terrier, who was the means, in the hands of Providence, of saving life in a somewhat remarkable manner. Though I give the story partly in my own words, it was communicated to me by a lady of rank, who is willing to vouch for the authenticity of the incident." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "PEPPER." Pepper was our hero's name. And Pepper was a dog; but I am unable to tell you anything about his birth or pedigree. I do not even know who Pepper's father was, and I don't think Pepper knew himself or cared much either; but had you seen him you would have had no hesitation in pronouncing him one of the handsomest little Skye-terriers ever you had beheld. Pepper was presented to his mistress, the Hon. Mrs C--, by her mother-in-law, the late Lady Dun D--, and soon became a great favourite both with her and all the family. He was so cleanly in his habits, so brave and knightly, so very polite, and had a happy mixture of drollery and decorum about him which was quite charming! Every one liked Pepper. But "liked" is really not the proper word to express the strong affection which the lady portion of the household felt for him. They loved Pepper. That's better. He was to them the "dearest and best fellow" in the world. But woe is me that the best of friends must part. And so it came to pass that Pepper's loving mistress had to go to town on business, or pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both. Now, everybody knows that the great wondrous world of London isn't the place to keep dogs in, that is, if one wishes to see them truly happy and comfortable. For as they don't wear shoes, as human beings do, they find the hard, stony streets very punishing to their poor little soft feet. Then they miss the green fields in which they used to romp, the hawthorn fences near which they used to find the hedgehog and mole, the crystal streams at which they were wont to quench their thirst, and the ponds in which they bathed or swam. Besides, there is danger for dogs in London. The danger of losing their way, the danger of being stolen, and the still greater danger of being run over by carts or carriages. But that isn't all, for in the country you can keep even a long-haired Skye clean--clean enough, indeed, to sleep on the hearthrug, or even curl himself up on ottoman or couch, without his leaving any more mark or trace than my lady's muff or the Persian pussy does; but a Skye-terrier in London is quite a different piece of furniture. London mud is proverbially black and sticky, and when a Skye gets thoroughly soused in it, why, not to put too fine a point on it, he isn't just the sort of pet one would care to put under his head as a pillow. Taking Pepper to London, therefore, would have involved endless washings of him, the risk of his catching cold, and, dreadful thought! the risk of offending the servants. True, he might be kept to the kitchen, but banished from the society of his dear mistress, and compelled to associate with servants and the kitchen cat; why, poor little Pepper would simply have broken his heart. So the question came to be asked-- "Maggie, dear, what _shall_ we do with Pepsy?" "Oh! I have it," said Maggie; "send him down to Brighton on a visit to dear Mrs W--y; she is such a kind creature, knows all the ways of animals so well; and, moreover, Pepper is on the best of terms with her already." So the proposal was agreed to, and a few days afterwards Mrs W--y received her little visitor very graciously indeed, and Pepper was pleased to express his approval of the welcome accorded him, and soon settled down, and became very happy in his Brighton home. His greatest delight was going out with his temporary mistress for a ramble; there was so much to be seen and inquired into, so many pretty children who petted him, so many ladies who admired him, and so many little doggies to see and talk to and exchange opinions on canine politics. But Pepper used to express his delight at going for a walk in a way which his new mistress deemed anything but dignified. People don't generally care about having all eyes directed towards them on a public thoroughfare like the Brighton esplanade, or King's Road. But Pepper didn't care a bark who looked at him. He was intoxicated with joy, and didn't mind who knew it; consequently, he used, when taken out, to go through a series of the most wonderful acrobatic evolutions ever seen at a seaside watering-place, or anywhere else. He jumped and barked, and chased his tail, rolled and tumbled, leapt clean over his own head and back again, and even made insane attempts to jump down his own throat. Inside, Pepper was content to romp and roll on the floor with a pet guinea-pig, and chase it or be chased by it round and round the room, or tenderly play with some white mice; but no sooner was his nose outside the garden gate, than Pepper felt himself in duty bound to take leave of his senses without giving a moment's warning, and conduct himself in every particular just like a daft doggie, and had there been a lunatic asylum at Brighton for caninity, I haven't a doubt that Pepper would have soon found himself an inmate of it. One day when out walking, Pepper met a little long-haired dog about his own size and shape, but whereas Pepper was dressed like a gentleman Skye, in coat of hodden-grey, this little fellow was more like a merry man at a country fair, or a clown at a circus. He had been originally white, pure white, but his master had dyed him, and now he appeared in a blue body, a magenta tail, and ears of brightest green. "I say, mistress," said Pepper, looking up and addressing the lady who had charge of him, "did you--ever--in--all--your--born--days--see such a fright as that?" "Hullo!" he continued, talking to the little dog himself, "who let you out like that?" "Well," replied the new-comer, "I dare say I do look a little odd, but you'll get used to me by-and-by." "Used to you?" cried Pepper--"never! You are a disgrace to canine society." "The fact is," said the other, looking somewhat ashamed "my master is a dyer, and he does me up like this just by way of advertising, you know." "Your master a dyer," cried Pepper, "then you, too, shall die. Can you fight? I'm full of it. Come, we must have it out." "Come back, Pepper, come back, sir!" cried his mistress. But for once Pepper disobeyed; he flew at that funny dog, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the blue and magenta fluff, that the Skye tore out of his antagonist. The combat ended in a complete victory for Pepper. He routed his assailant, and finally chased him off the esplanade. Pepper's life at the seaside was a very happy one, or would have been except for the dyed dog, that he made a point of giving instant chase to, whenever he saw him. Pepper next turned up in Wales. Sir B. N--had taken a lovely old mansion between C--n and Ll--o, far removed from any other houses, and quite amongst the hills, and after seeing his wife and sister settled in the new abode, he went off to Scotland. A week after his departure, the two ladies got up a small picnic to Dolbadran Castle, whose ruins stand upon a steep rock overhanging the lake. Pepper of course accompanied the tourists, and the whole party returned at night rather fatigued. Mrs C--went to bed, and soon fell into a sound sleep, from which she was aroused by Pepper; he was barking at the bedside. She got up, gave him some water, and returned to bed, but Pepper continued to bark and run about the room in a very strange way; he seized the bedclothes, and pulled at them violently. So she put him outside the door in a long passage, which was closed at the other end by a thick green-baize covered door. Poor Mrs C--was fated to have no rest. Pepper barked louder than ever, he tore at the door, and scratched as if he wished to pull it down; so his mistress again left her couch, and taking up a small riding-whip, proceeded to administer what she thought to be well-merited correction. Pepper did not appear to care for the whip at all; he only barked the louder, and jumped up wilder; he even caught Mrs C--'s nightdress in his mouth, and attempted to drag her on towards the end of the passage. You must be going mad, she thought. I'll put you out of the house, for you will alarm the whole establishment; and thus thinking, she returned, followed by Pepper, who continued to clutch at her garments, into her room, put on her dressing-gown, and proceeded to carry her intention into effect. Directly she opened the door at the end of the passage, she saw a bright light streaming from a sort of ante-room at the top of the staircase, on the opposite side of the corridor, and at the same moment became sensible of a strange smell of burning wood. She flew across, and was nearly blinded by the smoke that burst forth immediately the ante-room door was opened. The whole house was on fire, and it was with considerable difficulty that Mrs C--, Lady N--, and the domestics, escaped from the burning mass. Had Mrs C--been five minutes later before discovering the flames all must have perished; for there was a great quantity of wood-work in the house, and it burnt rapidly. It matters little how the fire in this case originated, the fact remains that this Skye-terrier, Pepper, was the first to discover it, and his wonderful sagacity and determination, combined to save his friends from a fearful death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Ida," said Frank, refilling his pipe, "you are beginning to wink." "It is time you were in bed, Ida," said my wife. "Oh! but I do want to hear you read what you wrote yesterday about the poor blind fiddler's dog," cried Ida. "Well, then," I said, "we will bring the little dog on the boards, and make him speak a piece himself, and this will be positively the last story or anecdote to-night." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE BLIND FIDDLER'S DOG. The blind man's dog commences in doggerel verse:-- "It really is amusing to hear how some dogs brag, And walk about and swagger, with tails and ears a-wag,-- How they boast about their prizes and the shows they have been at, And their coats so crisp and curly, or bodies sleek and fat, Crying, There's no mistake about it, for judges all agree, We're the champion dogs of England, by points and pedigree." Heigho! I wonder what I am, then. Let me consider, I am a poor blind fiddler's dog, to begin with; but of course that is only a trade. I asked "Bit-o'-Fun" the other day what breed I was. Bit-o'-Fun, I should tell you, is a champion greyhound, and not at all an unkind dog, only just a little haughty and proud, as becomes her exalted station in life. She was talking about the large number of prizes she had won for her master at the various shows she had been at. "What breed do you think I am?" I asked her. Bit-o'-Fun laughed. "Well, little Fiddler," she replied, looking down at me with one eye, "I should say you were what we gentry call a mongrel." "Is that something very nice?" I inquired. "Do I come of a high family, now?" Bit-o'-Fun laughed now till the tears came into her eyes. "Family!" she cried. "Yes, Fiddler, you have a deal of family in your blood--all families, in fact. You are partly Skye and partly bulldog, and partly collie and partly pug." "Oh, stop!" I cried; "you will make me too proud." But Bit-o'-Fun went on-- "Your head, Fiddler, is decidedly Scotch; your legs are Irish--awfully Irish; you are tulip-eared, ring-tailed, and your feather--" "My feather!" I cried, looking round at my back. "You never mean to say I have got feathers." "Your hair, then, goosie; feather is the technical term. Your feather is flat, decidedly flat. And, in fact, you're a most wonderful specimen altogether. That's your breed." I never felt so proud in all my life before. "And you're a great beauty, Bit-o'-Fun," I said; "but aren't your legs rather long for your body?" "Oh, no!" replied Bit-o'-Fun; "there isn't a morsel too much daylight under me." "And wouldn't you like to have a nice long coat like mine?" "Well, no," said Bit-o'-Fun--"that is, yes, you know; but it wouldn't suit so well in running, you see. Look at my head, how it is formed to cleave the wind. Look at my tail, again; that is what I steer with." "Oh! you're perfection itself, I know," said I. "Pray how many prizes have you taken?" "Well," answered the greyhound, "I've had over fifty pound-pieces of beef-steak and from twenty to thirty half-pound." "Do they give you beef-steak for prizes, then?" I asked. "Oh dear no," replied she; "but it's like this: whenever I take a first prize my master gives me a one-pound piece of steak; if it's only a second prize I only get half a pound, and I always get a kiss besides." "But supposing," I asked, "you took no prize?" "A thing which never happened," said Bit-o'-Fun, rather proudly. "But supposing?" I insisted. "Oh, well," she answered, "instead of being kissed and _steaked_, I should be kicked and _Spratt-caked_, or sent to bed without my supper." "And do you enjoy yourself at a show?" said I. "Well, yes," said the greyhound; "all doggies don't, though, but I do. And master gives me such jolly food beforehand, and grooms me every morning, and washes me--but that isn't nice, makes one shiver so--and then I have always such a nice bed to lie upon. Then I'm sent to the show town in a beautiful box, and men meet me at the station with a carriage. These men are sometimes very rough though, and talk angrily, and carry big whips, and smell horribly of bad beer and, worse, tobacco. One struck me once over the head. Now, if I had been doing anything I wouldn't have minded; but I wasn't: only I served him out." "What did you do?" said I. "Why, just waited till I got a chance, then bit him through the leg. My master just came up at the same moment, or it might have been a dear bite to me." "And what is a dog-show like?" I asked. "Oh!" said Bit-o'-Fun, "when you enter the show-hall, there you see hundreds and hundreds of doggies all chained up on benches. And the noise they make, those that are new to it, is something awful. At first I used to suffer dreadfully with headaches, but I'm used to it now. But it is great fun to see and converse with so many pretty and intelligent dogs, I can tell you. It is this conversation that makes all the row, for perhaps you want to talk with a doggie quite at the other end of the hall, and so you have to roar until you are hoarse. What do we speak about? Well, about our masters, and our points, and our food and exploits, and we abuse the judges, and wonder whether all the funny people we see have souls the same as we have, and so on. I have often thought what fun it would be if one of us were to break his chain some night, and let all the other doggies loose. Oh, wouldn't we have a ball just! "Well, we are taken out in batches to be judged, and are led round and round in a ring, while two or three ugly men, with hooks in their hands and ribbons in their buttonholes, shake their heads and examine us. That is the time I look my proudest. I cock my ears, straighten my tail, walk like a princess, and bow like a duchess, for I know that the eyes of all the world are on me, and, more than that, my master's eyes. And then when they hang the beautiful ticket around my neck, oh, ain't I glad just! But still I can't help feeling for the poor doggies who don't get any prize, they look so woe-begone and downhearted. "But managers might do lots to make us more comfortable, by feeding us more regularly, and giving us better food and more water. Oh, I've often had my tongue hanging out, and feeling like a bit of sand-paper for want of a draught of pure water at a country show. And I've been at shows where they never gave us food, and no shelter from the scorching sun or the thunder-shower. Again, they ought to lead us all out occasionally, if only for five minutes, just to stretch our poor cramped legs. But they don't, and it is very cruel. Sometimes, too, the people tease us. I don't mind a pretty child patting me on the head, nor I don't object to a sweet young lady bending over me and letting her long silky curls fall over my shoulder; but there are gawky young men, who come round and prod us with their sticks; and silly old ladies, who prick us with their parasols, and say, `Get up, sir, and show yourself.' You've heard of my friend `Tell,' the champion Saint Bernard, I dare say. No? Oh, I forgot; of course you wouldn't. But, at any rate, one day a fat, podgy lady, vulgarly bedecked in satin and gold, goes up to Tell and points her splendid white parasol right at his chest. `Get up,' says she, `and show yourself.' Now Tell hasn't the best of tempers at any time. So he did get up, and quickly, too, and showed his teeth and bit; and if his chain hadn't been as short as his temper it would have been a sad thing for Mrs Podgy. As it was, he collared the parasol, and proceeded at once to turn it into toothpicks and rags, and what is more, too, he kept the pieces. So you see the life even of a show-dog has its drawbacks." "How exceedingly interesting!" said I; "wouldn't I like to be a champion! Do you think now, Bit-o'-Fun, I would have any chance?" "Well, you see," said Bit-o'-Fun, smiling in her pleasant way, "there isn't a class at present for Castle Hill collies." "What?" said I. "I thought you said a while ago I was a high-bred mongrel?" "Yes, yes," said Bit-o'-Fun; "mongrel, or Castle Hill collie; it's all the same, you know." "You're very learned, Bit-o'-Fun," I continued. "Now tell me this, what do they mean by judging by points?" "Well, you see," replied Bit-o'-Fun, with a comical twinkle in her eye, "the judge goes round, and he says, `We'll give this dog ten points for his head,' and sticks in ten pins; and so many for his tail, and sticks in so many pins in his tail, and his coat and legs, and so on, and does the same with the other dogs, and the dog who has most pins in him wins the prize. Do you understand?" "Yes," I replied; "you put it as plain as a book. But it is queer, and I wouldn't like the pins; I'm sure I should bite." "Ha! ha! ha!" roared "Bill," the butcher's bull-and-terrier. I knew it was he before I looked round, for he is a nasty vulgar thing, and sometimes he bites me. "Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed again. "Good-morning, Bit-o'-Fun. Whatever have you been telling that little fool of a Fiddler?" They always call me Fiddler, after my dear master. "About the shows," said Bit-o'-Fun. "Why, you never mean to tell me, Fiddler, that you think of going to a show! Ha! ha! ha!" "And suppose I did," I replied, a little riled, and I felt my hair beginning to stand up all along my back, "I dare say I would have as much chance as an ugly patch-eyed thing like you." "Look here, Fiddler," said Bill, showing all his teeth--and he has an awful lot of them--"talk a little more respectfully when you address your betters. I've a very good mind to--" "To what, Master Bill?" said "Don Pedro," a beautiful large white-and-black Newfoundland, coming suddenly on the ground. "No one is talking to you, Don," said Bill. "But _I'm_ talking to you, Bill," said Don Pedro; "and if I hear you say you'll dare to touch poor little Fiddler, I'll carry you off and drown you in the nearest pond, that's all." Bill ran off with his tail between his feet before Don Pedro had done speaking. Now isn't Don Pedro a dear, good fellow? "Well, I'm not a champion dog, you see, though I modestly advance; I _might_ have taken a prize or two if I'd ever had a chance; But shows, I fear, were never meant for the like of poor me,-- Besides, my master isn't rich, and couldn't pay the fee; Yet I love my master none the less, and serve him faithfully. "Poor master's got no eyes, you know, and I lead him through the street; And he plays upon the fiddle, and oh! he plays so sweet. That I wonder and I ponder, while my eyes with salt tears glisten. How so many people pass him by, and never stop to listen: How that nasty big blue man, with his nasty big blue coat. Moves master on so roughly that I long to bite his throat! "There are certain quiet side-streets where master oft I take, Where he's sure to get a penny, and I a bit of cake; But at times the nights are rainy, and seem so very long, That I envy pets in carriages, though I know that that is wrong; And master's growing very old, and his blood is getting thin, And he often shivers with the cold before I lead him in. "Poor master loves me very much, and I love master too; But if anything came over me, whatever _could_ he do? I think of things like these, you know, when in my bed at night, Even in my dreams those nasty thoughts oft make me cry with fright! Yet, though my lot seems very hard, and my pleasures are but few I do not grieve, for well I know a dog's life soon wears through; And I've been told by some there are better worlds than this, That, even for little doggies, there's a future state of bliss: That faithfulness and love are things that cannot die, And sorrow _here_ means joy _there_-- in the realms beyond the sky." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. MR AND MRS POLYPUS: A STORY FOUNDED ON A FACT IN NATURAL HISTORY. "Our plenteous streams a varied race supply." Pope. "Creatures that by a rule of Nature teach The art of order to a peopled kingdom." Shakespeare. Scene: The old pine forest; a beautiful day in later summer. Grey clouds flitting across the sky's bright blue, and occasionally obscuring the sun's rays. A gentle breeze going whispering through the woods, the giant elms, the lordly oaks, and the dark and gloomy firs bending and bowing as the wind passes among their branches. Patches of bright crimson here and there where the foxgloves still bloom; patches of purple and yellow where heather and furze are growing. Not a sound to be heard in all the wood, except the clear, joyous notes of the robin; all his young ones are safely hatched and fledged, and flown away, and he is singing a hymn of thanksgiving. Aileen Aroon lying as usual with her great head on my lap, Theodore Nero as usual tumbling on the grass, Ida close at my side peeping over my shoulder at the paper I am reading aloud to her. Ida (_speaks_): "What mites of people your hero and heroine are!" The author: "Yes, puss; didn't you order me to write you a tale with tiny, tiny, tiny people in it? Well, here they are. They are microscopic." Ida: "But of course it is not a true story; it is composed, as you call it." The author: "It is a romance, Ida; but it is a romance of natural history, because, you know, there _are_ creatures called polyps that live in the sea, and are so small you have to get a microscope to watch their motions, and they often eat each other, or swallow each other alive, and do all sorts of strange things; and so I call my story-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Mr and Mrs Polypus: A Tale of the Coralline Sea, a tale of the Indian Ocean, a romance of the coralline sea. "Far down beneath the blue waves lived my hero and heroine all alone together in their crystal home, with its floors of coral and its windows of diamonds. The cottage in which they dwelt was of a very strange shape indeed, being nothing like any building ever you saw on the face of the earth--but it suited them well--and all around it was a beautiful garden of living plants. Well, all plants possess life; but these were, in reality, living animals, living beings, shaped like flowers, but as capable of eating and drinking as you or I am, only they were all on stalks, and could only catch their food as it floated past them. This seems somewhat awkward, but then they were used to it, and custom is everything. I don't believe these animals growing on stalks ever wished to walk any oftener than human beings wished to fly. "Mr and Mrs Polypus, as you may easily guess, were husband and wife, but for all that I am very sorry to have to tell you that they did not always live very peaceably together. They used to have little disagreements now and then; for they were only polyps, you must remember, and smaller far than water-babies. Their little quarrels were always about their food, for, if the truth must be told, Mr Polypus was somewhat of a tyrant to his tiny wife. "Mr Polypus had many faults; he was, among other things, a very great glutton; so much so, that he did not mind his wife starving so long as he himself had enough to eat. "Now a word or two about the personal appearance of my principal characters. They were indeed a funny-looking couple, and so small, that unless you had had good eyes, and a tolerably good microscope as well, it would have been impossible for you to see much of what they were doing at all. They were both the same shape, and had only one leg a-piece--a comparatively thick one though--so that when they walked about it was hop, hop, hop on one end, and very ridiculous it looked. But then, if they had only one leg each, Nature had made it up to them in the matter of arms; for instead of two only, as you have, they had a whole row of them all round their shoulders. Wonderfully movable arms they were too, and seemed all joints together, and neither he nor his wife could keep from whirling their arms about whenever they were excited. They had, in fact, so many arms that they could afford to place two pair akimbo, fold one or two pairs across the chest, and still have a few left to shake in each other's faces when scolding; not that she did much of that, for she was very mild and obedient. "The only food that Mr and Mrs Polypus got was little fishes, which came floating in through the window to them, or down the chimney, or in by the door; so that they never required to go to the market to buy any provisions; they only had to wait comfortably at their own fireside until breakfast or dinner swam in to them of its own accord. But this did not satisfy the craving appetite of Mr Polypus; so he used often to be from home, swimming up and down the streets, or hopping about at the bottom of the village of Coral Town, where fish did most abound; and it was only when he was away from home on a fishing expedition that poor pretty Mrs Polypus used to get anything to eat, for she was a quiet little woman, and always stopped at home. Poor thing, the neighbours were often very sorry for her; for hers had been a very sad story. For all she was so quiet now, she was once the gayest of the gay, the life and soul of the village of Coral Town. At every ball or party that was given, Peggy--for so she was then called--was the star; and whenever Peggy countenanced a picnic or an angling match, all the village went too and took his wife with him. "When Peggy was still in her teens she fell in love with gay, rollicking young Mr Pompey, the potassium merchant. You know it was all potassium that they burned in Coral Town, because that burns under water, and coals won't; and instead of the streets and houses being lighted with gas or oil at nights, they were illuminated with phosphorus. For the next six months after Pompey met pretty Peggy at a ball, their young lives were but as one happy dream; for Pompey loved Peggy dearly, and Peggy loved Pompey. Away down at the bottom of Coral Town was a beautiful submarine garden, with fresh-water shrubs of every shade and flowers of every hue, and there were lonely caves and grottoes and groves, and all kinds of lovely scenery imaginable; and here the lovers often met, and along the winding pathways they ofttimes hopped together. 'Twas here Pompey first declared his passion, and first beheld the love-light in his Peggy's beaming eyes. One evening they were seated side by side in a coral cave. Everything around them was peaceful and still, the water clear and pellucid, and unbroken by a single ripple. They had sat thus for hours; for the time had flown very quickly, and Pompey had been reading a delightful book to Peggy, until it got so dark he couldn't see. Far up above them were the phosphorescent lights in the village twinkling like stars in heaven's firmament. The cave in which they sat was lighted up by a large diamond, which sparkled in the roof, and diffused a soft rose light all around, while here and there on the floor lay strange-shaped musical shells, which ever and anon gave forth sounds like Aeolian harps. "`Ah!' sighed Pompey, and-- "`Ah!' sighed Peggy, and-- "`When shall we wed?' said Pompey, and-- "`Whenever you please,' said she. "`Oh! oh!' cried a terrible voice at their elbows, `there'll be two words to that bargain. He! he! There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip. Ha! ha!' "And behold! there in the mouth of the cave stood an ugly old male polyp grinning and bobbing at them like some dreadful ogre. "`How dare you, sir!' said Potassium Pompey, springing from his seat, and striding with a couple of hops towards the new-comer--`how dare you intrude yourself on the privacy of affianced lovers?' "`Intrude? Ho! ho! Privacy? He! he! Affianced? Ha! ha!' replied the old polyp. `I'll soon let you know that, young jackanapes.' "`Sir,' cried Pompey, `this insolence shall not go unpunished. Unhand me, Peggy.' "`Oh! hush, hush, pray hush,' cried poor Peggy, wringing a few of her hands; `it's my father, Pompey, my poor father.' "`That fright your father?' replied Pompey; `but there, for your sake, my Peggy, and for the sake of his grey hairs, I will spare him.' "`Come along, Miss Malapert; adieu, Mr Jackanapes,' cried the enraged father; and he dragged his daughter from the cave, but not before she had time to cast one tearful look of fond farewell on her lover, not before she had time to extend ten hands to him behind her back, and he had fondly pressed them all. "Peggy's father was a miserly old polyp, who lived in a superb residence in the most fashionable part of Coral Town. He had servants who went or came at his beck or call, a splendid chariot of pure gold to ride in, with pure-bred fish-horses, and the only thing he ever had to annoy him was that when he awoke in the morning he could not think of any new pleasure for the day that had dawned. Every day he had a lovely little polyp boy killed for his dinner--for polyps are all cannibals--and if that meal didn't please him, then he used to eat one of the flunkeys. But for all his riches, he was not a gentleman. He had made all his money as a marine store dealer, and then retired to live at his mansion, with his only daughter Peggy. "Now, for the next many days poor Potassium Pompey was a very unhappy polyp indeed. He went about his business very listlessly, neglected to eat, grew awfully thin, and let his beard grow, and people even said that he sometimes sold them bad potassium. As for Peggy, she was locked up in a room all by herself, and never saw any one at all, except her father, who five times a day came regularly to feed her, and when she refused to eat he cruelly crammed it down her throat. He was only a polyp, remember. "`I'll fatten the gipsy,' he said to himself, `and then marry _her_ to my old friend Peterie. He can support a wife, for I always see him fishing, and he can't possibly eat all he catches himself.' "So it was all arranged that the wedding should come off, and one day, as Pompey was returning disconsolately from his office, he met a great and noisy crowd, who were huzzaing and waving their arms in the water, and shouting, `Long live the happy, happy pair!' And presently up drove the old miser's chariot, with six fish-horses, and polyp postillions to match; and seated there beside his detested rival, Pompey caught a glimpse of his loved and lost darling Peggy; thereupon Pompey made up his mind to drown himself right off. So he went and sought out the blackest, deepest pool, and plunged in. But polyps are so used to the water that they cannot drown, and so the more Pompey tried to drown himself, the more the water wouldn't drown him; so at last he wiped his eyes, and-- "`What a fool I am,' said he, `to attempt death for the sake of one fair lady, when there are hundreds of polyps as beautiful as she in Coral Town. I'll go home and work, and make riches, then I'll marry ten wives, and hold them all in my arms at once.' "But Pompey couldn't forget his early love as quickly as he wished to, and often of an evening, when he knew that Mr Polypus was away at some of his gluttonous carousals, Pompey would steal to the window of her house and keek in through the chinks of the shutters, and sigh to see his beloved Peggy sitting all so lonely by herself at the little table, on which the phosphorus lamp was burning. And at the same time-- although Pompey did not know it--Peggy would be gazing so sadly into the potassium fire, and thinking of him; she really could not help it, although she knew it was wrong, and poor pretty Mrs Polypus couldn't be expected to be very cheery, could she? "Well, one night she was sitting all alone like that, wondering what was keeping her husband so long, and if he would beat her, as usual, when he did come home. She hadn't had a bit to eat for many, many hours, and was just beginning to feel hungry and faint, when a tiny wee fish swam in by the chimney, and pop! Mrs Polypus had it down her throat in a twinkling; but as ill-luck would have it, who should return at the very moment but her wicked husband. He had evidently been eating even more than usual, and looked both flushed and angry. "`_Now_, Mrs Polypus,' he began, `I saw that. How dared you, when you knew I was coming home to supper, and there wasn't a morsel in the larder?' "`Oh! please, Peterie,' said poor little Mrs Polypus, beginning to cry, `I really didn't mean to; but I was _so_ hungry, and--' "`Hungry?' roared the husband; `how dared you to be hungry?--how dared you be anything at all, in fact? But there, I shall not irritate myself by talking to you. Bring it back again.' "`Oh! if you please, Peterie--' cried Mrs Polypus. "`Bring it back again, I say,' cried Mr Polypus, making all his arms swing round and round like a wheel, till you could hardly have seen one of them, and finally crossing them on his chest; and, leaning on the back of the chair, he looked sternly down on his spouse, and said--`Disgorge at once!' "`I won't, then, and, what is more, I shan't; there!' said the wee woman, for even a woman as well as a worm will turn when very much trodden upon. "`Good gracious me!' cried Mr Polypus, fairly aghast with astonishment; `does--she--actually--dare--to--defy me?' but `Ho! ho!' he added, likewise `He! he!' and `we'll see;' and he strode to the window and bolted it, and strode to the door and bolted that; then he took the phosphorus lamp and extinguished it. "`It'll be so dark, Peterie,' said his wife, beginning to be frightened. "`There is light enough for what I have to do,' said Peterie, sternly. Then he opened a great yawning mouth, and he seized her first by one arm, and then by another, until he had the whole within his grasp, and she all the time kicking with her one leg, and screaming-- "`Oh! please don't, Peterie. Oh! Peterie, don't.' "But he heeded not her cries, which every moment became weaker and more far-away like, until they ceased entirely, and the unhappy Mrs Polypus was nowhere to be seen. _Her husband had swallowed her alive_! "As soon as he had done so he sat down by the fire, looking rather swollen, and feeling big and not altogether comfortable; but how could he expect to be, after swallowing his wife? He leaned his head on three arms and gazed pensively into the fire. "`After all,' he said to himself, `I may have been just a little too hasty, for she wasn't at all a bad little woman, taking her all-in-all. Heigho! I fear I'll never see her like again.' "Hark! a loud knocking at the door. He starts and listens, and trembles like the guilty thing he is. The knocking was repeated in one continuous stream of rat-tats. "`Hullo! Peterie,' cried a voice; `open the door.' "`Who is there?' asked Peterie at last. "`Why, man, it is I--Potassium Pompey. Whatever is up with you to-day that you are barred and bolted like this? Afraid of thieves? Eh?' "`No,' said Peterie, undoing the fastenings and letting Pompey come in; `it isn't that exactly. The fact is, I wasn't feeling very well, and just thought I would lie down for a little while.' "`You don't look very ill, anyhow,' said Pompey; `and you are actually getting stouter, I think!' "`Well,' replied Peterie, `you see, I've been out fishing, and had a good dinner, and perhaps I've eaten rather more, I believe, than is good for me.' "`Shouldn't wonder,' said Pompey, sarcastically; for the truth is, he had been keeking through the chinks of the shutters, and had seen the whole tragedy. "`A decided case of dropsy, I should think,' added Pompey. "Peterie groaned. "`Take a seat,' he said to Pompey. `I believe you are my friend, and I want to have a little talk with you; I--I want to make a clean breast of it.' "`Well, I'm all attention,' replied Pompey--`all ears, as the donkey said.' "`Fact is, then,' continued Peterie, `I've been a rather unhappy man of late, and my wife and I never understood one another, and never agreed. She was in love with some scoundrel, you know, before we were married-- leastways, so they tell me--and I--I'm really afraid I've swallowed her, Pompey.' "`Hum!' said Pompey; `and does she agree any better with you now?' "`No,' replied Peterie, `that's just the thing; she's living all the wrong way, somehow, and I fear she won't digest.' "`Wretch!' cried Peterie, starting to his feet, `behold me. Gaze upon this wasted form: I am he who loved poor Peggy before her fatal marriage. Oh! my Peggy, my loved, my lost, my half-digested Peggy, shall we never meet again?' "`Sooner,' cried Peterie, `perhaps than you are aware of. So it was you who loved my silly wife?' "`It was I.' "`Wretch, you shall die.' "`Never,' roared Pompey, `while I live.' "`We shall see,' said Peterie. "`Come on,' said Pompey, `set the table on one side and give us room.' "That was a fearful fight that battle of the polyps. It is awful enough to see two men fighting who have only two arms a side, but when it comes to twenty arms each, and all these arms are whirling round at once, like a select assortment of windmills that have run mad, then, I can tell you, it is very much more dreadful. Now Peterie has the advantage. "Now Pompey is down. "Now he is up again and Peterie falls. "Now Peterie half swallows Pompey. "Now Pompey appears again as large as life, and half swallows Peterie; but at last, by one unlucky blow administered by ten fists at once, down rolls Potassium Pompey lifeless on Peterie's floor. Peterie bent over the body of Pompey. "`Bad job,' he mutters, `he is dead. And the question comes to be, what shall I do with the body? Ha! happy thought! the struggle has given me an appetite, _I'll swallow him too_.' "Barely had he thus disposed of poor Pompey's body, when a renewed knocking was heard at the outside door. There was not a moment to lose; so Peterie hastily set the furniture in order, and bustled away to open the door, and hardly had he done so when in rushed an excited mob of polyps headed by two warlike policemen, who _headed_ them by keeping well in the rear, but being, after the manner of policemen, very loud in their talk. "`Where is Potassium Pompey?' cried one; and-- "`Ay! where is Potassium Pompey?' cried another; and-- "`To be sure, where is Potassium Pompey?' cried a third; and-- "`That is the question, young man,' cried both policemen at once. "`Where is Potassium Pompey?' "`Oh!' groaned Peterie, `would I were as big as a bullfrog, that I might swallow you all at a gulp.' "`Away with him, my friends,' cried the warlike policemen, `to the hall of justice.' "In the present state of Peterie's digestive organs, resistance was not to be thought of; so he quietly submitted to be led out with ten pairs of handcuffs on his wrists, and dragged along the street, followed by the hooting mob, who wanted to hang him on the spot; but a multitude of policemen now arrived, and being at the rate of three policemen to each civilian polyp, the hanging was prevented. The justice hall was a very large building right in the centre of Coral Town. There the judges used to sit night and day on a large pearl throne at one end to try the cases that were brought before them. "Now Potassium Pompey was a very great favourite in Coral Town, so that when the wretched Peterie was dragged by fifteen brave policemen before the pearl throne, the hall was quite filled, and you might have heard a midge sneeze, if there had been a midge to sneeze, so great was the silence. The first accuser was Popkins, the miserly old polyp who was poor Peggy's father. He was too wretchedly thin and weak and old to hop in like any other polyp, so he came along the hall walking on his one foot and his twenty hands after the fashion of the looper caterpillar, which I daresay you have observed on a currant-bush. "`Where is me chee--ild?' cried the aged miser, as soon as he could speak. `Give me back me chee--ild?' "`If that's all you've got to say,' said the judge, sternly, `you'd better stand down.' "`I merely want me chee--ild,' repeated Popkins. "`Stand down, sir,' cried the judge. "After hearing various witnesses who had seen Pompey enter Peterie's house and never return, the judge opened his mouth and spake, for Peterie had said never a word. The judge gave it as his unbiassed opinion that, considering all things, the mysterious disappearance of Mrs Polypus, coupled with that of Potassium Pompey, whom every one loved and admired, the absence of all defence on the part of the prisoner, and the extraordinary rotundity of his corporation, as well as the fact that he had always been a spare man, there could be little doubt of the prisoner's guilt; `but to make assurance doubly sure,' added the judge, `let him at once be opened, to furnish additional proof, and the opening of the prisoner, I trust, will close the case.' If guilty, the sentence of the Court was that he should then be dragged to the common execution ground, and there divided into one hundred pieces, and he, the judge, hoped it would be a warning to the prisoner in all future time." [When a polyp is cut into pieces, each piece becomes a new individual.] "Twenty policemen now rushed away and brought the biggest knife they could find; twenty more went for ropes, and having procured them, the wretched Mr Polypus was bound to a table, and before he could have said `cheese,' if he had wanted to say `cheese,' an immense opening was made in his side, and, lo and behold! out stepped first Potassium Pompey, and after him hopped, modestly hopped, poor Peggy. But the most wonderful part of the whole business was, that neither Peggy nor Pompey seemed a bit the worse for their strange incarceration. Indeed, I ought to say they looked all the better; for Pompey was all smiles, and Peggy was looking very happy indeed, and even Peterie seemed immensely relieved. Pompey led Peggy before the throne, and here he told all the story about how Peggy was murdered, and then how he, Pompey, was murdered next. And-- "`Enough! enough!' cried the judge; `away with the doomed wretch! Let the execution be proceeded with without a moment's delay.' "`Please, my lord,' said Peggy, modestly, `may I have a divorce?' "`To be sure, to be sure,' said the judge; `you are justly entitled to a divorce.' "`And please, my lord,' continued Peggy, `may--may--' "`Well? well?' said the judge, with slight impatience, `out with it.' "`She wants to ask if she may marry me,' said Pompey, boldly. "`Most assuredly,' said the judge, `and a blessing be on you both.' "In vain the unhappy Peterie begged and prayed for mercy; he was hurried away to the execution ground and led to the scaffold. In all that crowd of upturned faces, Peterie saw not one pitying eye. And now a large barrel was placed to receive the pieces, and, beginning with his head and arms, the executioners cut him into one hundred pieces, leaving nothing of Peterie but the foot. "`Now,' cried the judge, `empty the barrel on the floor.' "This was done. "And it did seem that wonders would never cease, for as soon as each piece was thrown on the floor it immediately _grew up into a real live polyp, and body and arms all complete and hopping_; and the foot, which had been left, and which was more especially Peterie's--being all that remained of him, you know--grew up into another polyp, and behold there was another and a new Peterie. He was at once surrounded by the ninety and nine new polyps, who all threw their arms--nineteen hundred and ninety arms--around his neck, and began to kiss him and call him dearest dada. "`On my honour,' said Peterie, `I think this is rather too much of a joke.' "But nobody had any pity on him, and the judge said--`Now, Mr Polypus, let this be a lesson to you. Go home at once and work for your children, and remember you support them; if even one of them comes to solicit parish relief, dread the consequences.' "`How ever shall I manage?' said poor Peterie. "And he hopped away disconsolate enough amid his ninety and nine baby polyps all crying-- "`Dada dear, give us a fish.' "`I think,' said the judge, when Peterie had gone--`I think, Mr Popkins, you cannot now do better than consent to make these two young things happy by letting them wed. Pompey, it is true, isn't a king, but he has an excellent business in the potassium line, and none of us can live without fire, you know.' "`But I'm a king,' cried the aged miser; `I have mines of wealth, and all I have is theirs. Come to your father's arms, my Peggy and Pompey.' "`Hurrah!' shouted the mob; `three cheers for the old miser, and three for Pompey the brave, and three times three for the bonny bride Peggy.' "And away rolled Peggy in the golden chariot, with her father--such a happy, happy Peggy now; and Pompey was carried through the streets, shoulder high, to his old home. "So nothing was talked about in Coral Town for the next month but the grandeur of the coming wedding, and the beauty of Peggy, and everybody was happy and gay except poor Peterie; for who could be happy with ninety-nine babies to provide for--ninety-nine breakfasts to get, ninety-nine dinners, ninety-nine teas and suppers all in one, two hundred and ninety-seven meals to provide in one day? "There were no more fishing excursions for him, no more big dinners, and he worked and toiled to get ends to meet deep down in a potassium mine in the darkest, dismalest corner of Coral Town. And everybody said-- "`It serves him right, the cruel wretch.' "What a wonderful house that was which Pompey built for his Peggy! "It was charmingly situated on the slope of a wooded hill, quite in the country. Pompey spent months in furnishing and decorating it, and his greatest pleasure was to superintend all the work himself. Such trees you never saw as grew in the gardens and park, marine trees whose very leaves seemed more lovely than any terrestrial flower, and they were incessantly moving their branches backwards and forwards with a gentle undulating motion, as if they luxuriated in the sight of each other's beauty. Such flowers!--living, breathing flowers they were, and radiant with rainbow tints, flowers that whispered together, and beckoned and bowed and made love to each other. Then those delightful rockeries, half hidden here and there amid the wealth of foliage, and there were curious shells of brilliant colours that made music whenever there was the slightest ripple in the water, and whole colonies of the quaintest little animals that ever you dreamt of crept in and crept out of every fissure or miniature cave in the rocks. "At night the garden was all lighted up with phosphorescent lamps; but inside the palace itself, in the spacious halls, along the marble staircases, and in the beautiful rooms, nothing short of diamond lights would satisfy Pompey; for you must know that Pompey thought nothing too good for Peggy. So each room was lighted up by a diamond, that shone in the centre of the vaulted roof like a large and beautiful star. Some of these diamonds suffused a rosy light throughout the apartment, the light from others was of a paley green, and from others a faint saffron, while in one room the light from the diamond was for ever changing as you may see the planet Mars doing, if you choose to watch--one moment it was a bright, clear, bluish white, next a rainbow green, and anon changing to deepest crimson. This was a very favourite dining-hall with Pompey, for the simple reason that no one could be sure how his neighbour looked. For instance, if a lady blushed, it did not look like a blush--oh dear no--but a flash of rosy light; if an old gentleman indulged rather much in the pleasures of the table, and began to feel ill in consequence, not a bit of it, he was never better in his life--it was the bluish flash from the diamond; and so, again, if last night's lobster salad rendered any one yellow and bilious-looking, he could always blame the poor pretty diamond. "In some rooms the chairs themselves were made of precious stones, and the ottomans and couches built of a single pearl. "At length everything was completed to Pompey's entire satisfaction, and he had given any number of gay parties and balls, just by way of warming the house. Pompey flattered himself he had the best provisions in his cellars and the best-trained servants in all Coral Town, and of course nobody cared to deny that. These servants were nearly all of different shapes: some were properly-made polyps; some rolled in when Pompey touched the gong, rolled in like a gig-wheel without the rim, all legs and arms, and the body in the centre; some were merely round balls, and you couldn't see any head or legs or arms at all till they stopped in front of you, then they popped them all out at once; some walked in, others hopped, one or two floated, and one queer old chap walked on the crown of his head. If you think this is not all strictly true, you have only to take a microscope and look for yourself. "`Heigho!' said Pompey one day, after he had finished a dinner fit to set before a polyp king, `all I now want to make me perfectly happy is Peggy. Peggy--Peggy! what a sweetly pretty name it is to be sure! Peggy!' "And that came too; for if you wait long enough for any particular day, it is sure to come at last, just as whistling at sea makes the wind blow, which it invariably does--when you whistle long enough. "And never was such a day of rejoicing seen in Coral Town. The bells were ringing and the banners all waving almost before the phosphorescent lamps began to pale in the presence of day. "Then everybody turned out. "And everybody seemed to take leave of his senses by special arrangement. "All but poor Peterie, who was left all by himself to work away in the deep, dark potassium mine. The wedding took place in Peggy's father's-- Popkins's--house. The old miser, miser no more though, was half crazy with joy. And nothing would satisfy him but to have one of the upper servants cooked for his breakfast. He didn't care, he said, whether it was Jeames or the butler. So the butcher dressed the butler, and he was stewed for his master's breakfast with sauce of pearls powdered in ambrosia. "And after the ceremony was performed, Pompey appeared on the balcony, clasping Peggy to his heart with ten arms, while he gave ten other hands to Popkins, his father-in-law, to shake as he cried-- "`Bless you, bless you, my children.' "Then such a ringing cheer was heard, as never was heard before, or any time since. Even Peterie heard it down in the darkling mine, swallowed a ball of potassium, and died on the spot. As soon as Peterie was dead, he (Peterie) said, `Well now, I wonder I never thought of that before;' because he at once grew up again into ten new polyps, who forthwith left the mine, joined the revellers, and shouted louder than all the rest. "And when at last Peggy was in Peterie's house, when the idol of his love became the light of his home, when he saw her there before him, so blooming and bonnie, he opened his twenty arms, and she opened _her_ twenty arms, and-- "`Peggy!' cried Pompey; and-- "`Pompey!' cried Peggy; and-- "Down drops the curtain. It would be positively mean and improper to keep it up one moment longer." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE TALE OF THE "TWIN CHESTNUTS"; OR, A SUMMER EVENING'S REVERIE. "Twilight grey Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch; these to their nests Were slunk, all save the wakeful nightingale: Hesperus that led The starry host rode brightest, till the moon Unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw." Milton. Running all along one side of our orchard, garden, and lawn are a row of tall and graceful poplar trees. So tall are they that they may be seen many miles away; they are quite a feature of the landscape, and tell the position of our village to those coming towards it long before a single house is visible. These trees are the admiration of all that behold them, but, to my eye, there seems always connected with them an air of solemnity. All the other trees about--the spreading limes, the broad-leaved planes, and the rugged oaks and elms--seem dwarfed by their presence, so high do they tower above them. Their tips appear to touch the very sky itself, their topmost branches pierce the clouds. Around the stem of each the beautiful ivy climbs and clings for support; and this ivy gives shelter by night to hundreds of birds, and to bats too, for aught I know. Their very position standing there in a row, like giant sentinels, surrounds them with an air of mystery to which the fact that they follow each other's motions--all bending and nodding in the same direction at once--only tends to add. And spring, summer, autumn, or winter they are ever pointing skywards. In the winter months they are leafless and bare, and there is a wild, weird look about them on a still night, when the moon and stars are shining, which it would be difficult to describe in words. But sometimes in winter, when the hoar-frost falls and silvers every twiglet and branch till they resemble nothing so much as the snowiest of coral, then, indeed, the beauty with which they are adorned, once seen must ever be remembered. But hardly has spring really come, and long before the cuckoo's dual notes are heard in the glade, or the nightingale's street, unearthly music fills every copse and orchard, making the hearts of all that hear it glad, ere those stately poplars are clothed from tip to stem in robes of yellow green, and their myriad leaves dance and quiver in the sunlight, when there is hardly wind enough to bend a blade of grass. As the summer wears on, those leaves assume a darker tint, and approach more nearly to the colour of the ivy that crowds and climbs around their stems. The wind is then more easily heard, sighing and whispering through the branches even when there is not a breath of air down on the lawn or in the orchard. On what we might well call still evenings, if you cast your eye away aloft, you may see those tree-tops all swaying and moving in rhythm against the sky; and if you listen you may catch the sound of their leaves like that of wavelets breaking on a beach of smoothest sand. I remember it was one still summer's night, long after sundown, for the gloaming star was shining, that we were all together on the rose lawn. The noisy sparrows were quiet, every bird had ceased to sing, there wasn't a sound to be heard anywhere save the sighing among the topmost branches of the poplars. Far up there, a breeze seemed to be blowing gently from the west, and as it kissed the tree-tops they bent and bowed before it. Ida lay in a hammock of grass, the book she could no longer see to read lying on her lap in a listless hand. "No matter how still it is down here," she said, "those trees up there are always whispering." "What do you think they are saying?" I asked. "Oh," she answered, "I would give worlds to know." "Perhaps," she added, after a pause, "they hear voices up in the sky there that we cannot hear, that they catch sounds of--" "Stop, Ida, stop," I cried; "why, if you go on like this, instead of the wise, sensible, old-fashioned little girl that I'm so fond of having as my companion in my rambles, you will degenerate into a poet." "Ha! ha!" laughed Frank; "well, that is a funny expression to be sure. Degenerate into a poet. How complimentary to the sons and daughters of the lyre, how complimentary to your own bonnie Bobby Burns, for instance!" Ida half raised herself in her hammock. She was smiling as she spoke. "It was you, uncle, that taught me," she said. "Did you not tell me everything that grows around us has life, and even feeling; that in winter the great trees go to sleep, and do not suffer from the cold, but that in summer they are filled with a glow of warmth, and that if you lop a branch off one, though it does not feel pain, it experiences cold at the place where the axe has done its work? Haven't you taught me to look upon the flowers as living things? and don't I feel them to be so when I stoop to kiss the roses? Yes, and I love them too; I love them all--all." "And I've no doubt the love is reciprocated, my little mouse. But now, talking about trees, if Frank will bring the lamp, I'll read you a kind of a story about two trees. It isn't quite a tale either--it is a kind of reverie; but the descriptive parts of it are painted from the life. Thank you, Frank. Now if the moths will only keep away for a minute, if it wasn't for that bit of displayed humanity on the top of the glass in the shape of a morsel of wire gauze, that big white moth would go pop in and immolate himself. Ahem!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE TWIN CHESTNUTS: A REVERIE. "THEY GREW IN BEAUTY SIDE BY SIDE." We weren't the only happy couple that had spent a honeymoon at Twin Chestnut Cottage. In point of fact, the chestnuts themselves had their origin in a honeymoon; for in the same old-fashioned cottage, more than one hundred and ninety years ago, there came to reside a youthful pair, who, hand in hand, had just commenced life's journey together. They each had a little dog, and those two little dogs were probably as fond of each other, after their own fashion, as their master and mistress were; and the name of the one dog was "Gip," and the name of the other was "George"--Gip and George, there you have them. And it was very funny that whatever Gip did, George immediately followed suit and did the same; and, _vice versa_, whatever George did, Gip did. If Gip harked, George barked; if George wagged his tail, so did Gip. Whenever Gip was hungry, George found that he too could eat; and when George took a drink of water, Gip always took a mouthful as well, whether she was thirsty or not. Well, it happened one day in autumn, when the beauty-tints were on the trees--the sunset glow of the dying year--that the two lovers (for although they were married, they were lovers still) were walking on the rustling leaves, and of course George and Gip were no great way behind, and were having their own conversation, and their own little larks all to themselves, when suddenly-- "I say, Georgie," said Gip. "Well, my love?" replied George. "I'm quite tired watching for that silly blind old mole, who I'm certain won't come again to-night. Let us carry a chestnut home." "All right," said George; "here goes." So they each of them chose the biggest horse-chestnut they could find, and they were only very small dogs, and went trotting home with them in their mouths; and when they got there, they each laid their little gifts at the feet of their loved master or mistress. This they did with such a solemn air that, for the life of them, the lovers could not help laughing outright. But the little dogs received their due meed of praise nevertheless, and the two chestnuts were carefully planted, one on each side of the large lawn window. And when winter gave place to spring, lo! the chestnuts budded, budded and peeped up through the earth, each one looking for all the world like a Hindoo lady's little finger, which isn't a bit different, you know, from your little finger, only it is dark-brown, and yours is white. Then the little finger opened, and bright green leaves unfolded and peeped up at the sun and the blue sky, and long before the summer was over they had grown up into sprightly little trees, as straight as rushes, and very nearly as tall, for they had been very carefully watered and tended. Very pretty they looked too, although their leaves seemed a mile too big for their stems, which made them look like two very small men with very large hats; but the young chestnuts themselves didn't see anything ridiculous in the matter. These, then, were the infant chestnuts. And as the years rolled on, and made those lovers old, the chestnuts still grew in height and beauty. And in time poor Grip died, and as George had always done exactly as Gip did, he died too; and Gip was laid at the foot of one tree, and George at the foot of the other, and their graves were watered with loving tears. And the trees grew lovelier still. And when at last those lovers died, the trees showered their flowers, pink-eyed and white, on the coffins, as they were borne away from the old cottage to their long, quiet home in the "moots." And time flew on, generation after generation was born, grew up, grew old, and died, and still the twin chestnuts increased and flourished, and they are flourishing now, on this sweet summer's day, and shading all the cottage from the noonday sun. It is a very old-fashioned cottage, wholly composed, one might almost say, of gables, the thatch of some of which comes almost to the ground, and I defy any one to tell which is the front of the cottage and which isn't the front. There are gardens about the old cottage, fruit gardens and flower gardens, and grey old walls half buried in ivy, which never looked half so pretty as in autumn, when the soft leaves of the Virginia creepers are changing to crimson, and blending sweetly with the ivy's dusky green. The principal gable is that abutting on to the green velvety lawn, which goes sloping downwards to where the river, broad and still, glides silently on its way to bear on its breast the ships of the greatest city of the world, and carry them to the ocean. But the main beauty of the cottage lies in those twin chestnuts. No chestnuts in all the countryside like those two beautiful trees; none so tall, so wide, so spreading; none have such broad green leaves, none have such nuts--for each nutshell grows as big and spiny as a small hedgehog, and contains some one nut, many two, but most three nuts within the outer rind. I only wish you could see them, and you would say, as I do, there are no trees like those twin chestnuts. The earth was clad in its white cocoon when first we went to Twin Chestnut Cottage, and the two giant trees pointed their skeleton fingers upwards to the murky sky; but long before any of the other chestnut-trees that grew in the parks and the avenues, had even dreamt of awakening from their deep winter sleep, the twin chestnuts had sent forth large brown buds, bigger and longer than rifle bullets, and all gummed over with some sticky substance, as if the fairies had painted them all with glycerine and treacle. With the first sunshine of April those bonnie buds grew thicker, and burst, disclosing little bundles of light-green foliage, that matched _so_ sweetly with the brown of the buds and the dark grey of the parent tree. Day by day we watched the folded leaves expanding; and other eyes than ours were watching them too; for occasionally a large hornet or an early bee would fly round the trees and examine the buds, then off he would go again with a satisfied hum, which said plainly enough, "You're getting on beautifully, and you'll be all in flower in a fortnight." And, indeed, hardly had a fortnight elapsed, from the time the buds first opened, till the twin chestnuts were hung in robes of drooping green. Such a tender green! such a light and lovely green! and the pendent, crumply leaves seemed as yet incapable of supporting their own weight, like the wings of the moth when it first bursts from its chrysalis. Then, oh! to hear the _frou-frou_ of the gentle wind through the silken foliage! And every tree around was bare and brown save them. Even the river seemed to whisper fondly to the bending reeds as it glided past those chestnuts twain; and I know that the mavis and the merle sung in a louder, gladder key when they awoke in the dewy dawn of morn, and their bright eyes rested on those two clouds of living green. And now crocuses peeping through the dun earth, and primroses on mossy banks, had long since told that spring had come; but the chestnut-trees said to all the birds that summer too was on the wing. Cock-robin marked the change, and came no more for crumbs--for he thought it was high time to build his nest; only there were times when he seated himself on the old apple-tree, and sung his little song, just to show that he hadn't forgotten us, and that he meant to come again when family cares were ended and summer had flown away. Meanwhile, the flower-stems grew brown and mossy, and in a week or two the flowers themselves were all in bloom. Had you seen either of those twin chestnuts then, you would have seen a thing of beauty which would have dwelt in your mind as a joy for ever. It was summer now. Life and love were everywhere. The bloom was on the may--pink-eyed may and white may. The yellow laburnum peeped out from the thickets of evergreen, the yellow broom dipped its tassels in the river, and elder-flowers perfumed the wind. I couldn't tell you half the beautiful creatures that visited the blossoms on the twin chestnut-trees, and sang about them, and floated around them, and sipped the honey from every calyx. Great droning, velvety bees; white-striped and red busy little hive-bees; large-winged butterflies, gaudy in crimson and black; little white butterflies, with scarlet-tipped wings; little blue butterflies, that glanced in the sunshine like chips of polished steel; and big slow-floating butterflies, so intensely yellow that they looked for all the world as if they had been fed on cayenne, like the canaries, you know. In the gloaming, "Drowsy beetles wheeled their droning flight" around the trees, and noisy cockchafers went whirring up among the blossoms, and imagined they had reached the stars. When the roses, purple, red, and yellow, clung around the cottage porch, climbed over the thatch, and clung around the chimneys, when the mauve wisterias clustered along the walls, when the honeysuckle scented the green lanes, when daisies and tulips had faded in the garden, and crimson poppies shone through the corn's green, a breeze blew soft and cool from the south-east, and lo! for days and days the twin chestnuts snowed their petals on the lawn and path. And now we listened every night for the nightingale's song. They came at last, all in one night it seemed: "Whee, whee, whee." What are those slow and mournful notes ringing out from the grove in the stillness of night? A lament for brighter skies born of memories of glad Italy? "Churl, churl; chok, wee, cho!" This in a low and beautiful key; then higher and more joyful, "Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle; wheety, wheety, wheety; chokee, okee, okee-whee!" Answering each other all the livelong night, bursting into song at intervals all the day, when, we wondered, did they sleep? Did they take it in turns to make night and day melodious, keeping watches like the sailors at sea? We thought the song of the mavis so tame now; but cock-robin's had not lost its charm, just as the dear old simple "lilts" of bonnie Scotland, or the sadder ditties of the Green Isle, never pall on our ear, love we ever so well the lays of sunny Italy. As the summer waned apace, and the leaves on the chestnuts changed to a darker, hardier green, the nightingales ceased their song; but, somehow, we never missed them much, there were so many other songsters. We used to wonder how many different sorts of birds found shelter in those twin chestnuts, apart from the bickering sparrows, who colonised it; apart from the merle and thrush, who merely came home to roost; apart from the starling, who was continually having quarrels with his wife about something or other; and apart from the noisy jackdaw, who was such an argumentative fellow, and made himself such a general nuisance that it always ended in his being forcibly ejected. Robin was invariably the first to awake in the morning. As the first faint tinge of dawning day began to broaden in the east, he shook the dew from his wings, and gave vent to a little peevish twitter. Then he would hop down from the tree, perch on the gate, and begin his sweet wee song: "Twitter, twitter, twee!" We used to wonder if it really was a song of praise to Him who maketh the sun to rise and gladden all the earth. "Twitter, twitter, twee!" Little birdies are so happy, and awake every morning as fresh and joyous as innocent children. "Twitter, twitter, twitter, twee!" went the song for fully half an hour, till it was so light that even the lazy sparrows began to awake, and squabble, and scold, and fight; for you must know that sparrows hold about the same social rank in the feathered creation, that the dwellers around Billingsgate do among human beings. Then there would be such a chorus of squabbling from the big trees, that poor robin had to give up singing in disgust, and come down to have his breakfast. "Hullo!" he would cry, addressing a humble-bee, who with his wings all bedraggled in dew, was slowly moving across the gravel, thinking the sun would soon rise and dry him--for poor bees often do stay too long on thistles at night, get drugged with the sweet-scented ambrosia, and are unable to get home till morning--"Hullo!" robin would say; "do you know you're wanted?" The poor bee would hold up one arm in mute appeal. "Keep down your hands," robin would say; "I'll do it ever so gently;" and off the bee's head would go in a twinkling. Then robin would eye his victim till the sting ceased to work out and in, then quietly swallow it. This, with an earthworm or two, and a green caterpillar by way of relish, washed down with a bill-full of water from a little pool in a cabbage-leaf, would form robin's breakfast; then away he would fly to the woods, where he could sing all day in peace. And so the summer sped away in that quiet spot, and anon the fields were all ablaze with the golden harvest, and the sturdy leaves of our chestnut-trees turned yellow and brown, and the great nuts came tumbling down in a steady cannonade each time the wind shook the branches. And the twin chestnuts, perhaps, looked more lovely now than ever they had looked--they had borrowed the tints of the autumn sunset; yet their very beauty told us now that the end was not far away. The wind of a night now moved the branches with a harsher, drier rustling, like the sound of breaking waves or falling water, and we often used to dream we were away at sea, tossed up and down on the billows. "Heigho!" we [Part of this page missing.] There were days when the sun set in an ochrey haze, when the evening star with its dimmed eye looked down from a sky of emerald green, where as the gloaming deepened into night, not a cloud was there to hide the glittering orbs; then the fairies set to work to adorn the trees, and when morning came, lo! what a sight was there! All around the hoar-frost lay, white and deep on bush and brake, on the hedgerows and brambles; and every twiglet and thorn was studded with starry jewels on tit twin chestnuts, and they were trees no more--every branchlet and spray was changed to glittering coral; and garlands of silver and lace-work, lovelier far than human brains could ever plan or fingers weave, were looped from bough to bough, and hung in sheeny radiance around the sturdy stems. Those dear old chestnut-trees! And as the seasons pass o'er the chestnut-trees, and each one clothes them in a beauty of its own, so across the seasons of our life Time spreads his varied joys: childhood, in its innocence, hath its joys, youth in its hope of brighter days, manhood in its strength and ambition, and old age in the peaceful trust of a better world to come. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO. "The pine-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray--" I certainly had no intention of bringing tears to little Ida's eyes; it was mere thoughtlessness on my part, but the result was precisely the same; and there was Ida kneeling beside that great Newfoundland, Theodore Nero, with her arms round his neck, and a moment or two after I had spoken, I positively saw a tear fall on his brow, and lie there like a diamond. Ah! such tears are far more precious than any diamonds. "You don't love that dog, mouse?" These were the words I had given utterance to, half-banteringly, as she sat near me on the grass playing with the dog. I went on with my writing, and when I looked up again beheld that tear. Yes, I felt sorry, and set about at once planning some means of amends. I knew human nature and Ida's nature too well to make any fuss about the matter--I would not even let her know I had seen her wet eyelashes, nor did I attempt to soothe her. If I had done so, there would have been some hysterical sobbing and a whole flood of tears, with red eyes and perhaps a headache to follow. So without looking up I said-- "By the way, birdie, did ever I tell you Nero's story?" "Oh, no," she said, in joyful forgetfulness of her recent grief; "and I would so like to hear it. But," she added, doubtfully, "a few minutes ago you said you could not talk to me, that you must finish writing your chapter. Why have you changed your mind?" "I don't see why in this world, Ida," I replied, smiling, "a man should not be allowed to change his mind sometimes as well as a woman." This settled the matter, and I put away my paper in my portfolio, and prepared to talk. Where were we seated? Why, under the old pine-tree--our _very_ favourite seat. My wife was engaged at home turning gooseberries into jam, and had packed Ida and me off, to be out of the way, and friend Frank himself had gone that day on some kind mission or other connected with boys. I never saw any one more fond of boys than Frank was; I am sure he spent all his spare cash on them. He was known all over the parish as the boys' friend. If in town Frank saw a new book suitable for a boy, it was a temptation he could not resist. If he had been poor, I'm certain he would have gone without his dinner in order to secure a good book for a boy. He was constantly finding out deserving lads and getting them situations, and the day they were going to start was a very busy one indeed for Frank. He would be up betimes in the morning, sometimes before the servants, and often before the maids came down he would have the fire lighted, and the kettle boiling, and everything ready for breakfast. Then he would hurry away to the boy's home, to see he got all ready in time for the start, and that he also had had breakfast. He saw him to the station, gave him much kind and fatherly advice, and, probably, in the little kit that accompanied the lad, there were several comforts in the way of clothes, that wouldn't have been there at all if friend Frank had not possessed the kindest heart that ever warmed a human breast. I said Frank found out the _deserving_ boys; true. But he did not forget the undeserving either, and positively twice every season what should Frank do but get up what he called-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "THE BAD BOYS' CRICKET MATCH." Nobody used to play at these matches but the bad boys and the unregenerate and the ungrateful boys. And after the match was over, if you had peeped into the tent you would have seen Frank, his jolly face radiant, seated at the head of a well-spread table, and all his bad boys around him, and, had you been asked, you could not have said for certain whether Frank looked happier than the boys, or the boys happier than Frank. But I've seen a really bad boy going away from home to some situation, where Frank was sending him on trial, and bidding Frank good-bye with the big lumps of tears rolling down over cheeks and nose, and heard the boy say-- "God bless ye, sir; ye've been a deal kinder to me than my own father, and I'll try to deserve all your goodness, sir, and lead a better life." To whom Frank would curtly reply, perhaps with a tear in his own honest blue eye-- "Don't thank me, boy--I can't stand that. There, good-bye; turn over a new leaf, and don't let me see you back for a year--only write to me. Good-bye." And Frank's boys' letters, how he did enjoy them to be sure! Dear Frank! he is dead and gone, else dare I not write thus about him, for a more modest man than my friend I have yet to find. Well, Frank was away to-day on some good mission, and that is how Ida and I were alone with the dogs. Nero, by the way, was on the sick-list to some extent. Indeed, Nero never minded being put on the sick-list if there was nothing very serious the matter with him, because this entailed a deal of extra petting, and innumerable tit-bits and dainties that would never otherwise have found the road to his appreciative maw. As to petting, the dog could put up with any amount of it; and it is a fact that I have known him sham ill in order to be made much of. Once, I remember, he had hurt his leg by jumping, and long after he was better, if any of us would turn about, when he was walking well enough, and say--in fun, of course--"Just look how lame that poor dear dog is!" then Nero would assume the Alexandra limp on the spot, and keep it up for some time, unless a rat happened to run across the road, or a rabbit, or a hedgehog put in an appearance--if so, he forgot all about the bad leg. "Well, birdie," I said, "to give you anything like a complete history of that faithful fellow you are fondling is impossible. It would take up too much time, because it would include the history of the last ten years of my own life, and that would hardly be worth recording. When my poor old Tyro died, the world, as far as dogs were concerned, seemed to me a sad blank. I have never forgotten Tyro, the dog of my student days, I never shall, and I am not ashamed to say that I live in hopes of meeting him again. "What says Tupper about Sandy, birdie? Repeat the lines, dear, if you remember them, and then I'll tell you something about Nero." Ida did so, in her sweet, girlish tones; and even at this moment, reader, I have only to shut my eyes, and I seem to see and hear her once more as she sits on that mossy bank, with her one arm around the great Newfoundland's neck, and the summer wind playing with her bonnie hair. "Thank you, birdie," I said, when she had finished. "Now then," said Ida. "I was on half-pay when I first met Nero," I began, "and for some time the relations between us were somewhat strained, for Newfoundlands are most faithful to old memories. The dog seemed determined not to let himself love me or forget his old master, and I felt determined not to love him. It seemed to me positively cruel to let any other animal find a place in my affections, with poor Tyro so recently laid in his grave in the romantic old castle of Doune. So a good month went past without any great show of affection on either side. "Advancement towards a kindlier condition of feeling betwixt us took place first and foremost from the dog's side. He began to manifest regard for me in a somewhat strange way. His sleeping apartment was a nice, clean, well-bedded out-house, but every morning he used to find his way upstairs to my room before I was awake, and on quietly gaining an entrance, the next thing he would do was to place his two fore-paws on the bed at my shoulder, then raise himself straight up to the perpendicular. "So when I awoke I would find, on looking up, the great dog standing thus, looming high above me, but as silent and fixed as if he had been a statue chiselled out of the blackest marble. "At first it used to be quite startling, but I soon got used to it. He never bent his head, but just stood there. "`I'm here,' he seemed to say, `and you can caress me if you choose; I wouldn't be here at all if I didn't care just a little about you.' "But one morning, when I put up my hand and patted him, and said--`You are a good, honest-hearted dog, I do believe,' he lowered his great head instantly, and licked my face. "That is how our friendship began, Ida, and from that day till this we have never been twenty-four hours parted--by sea or on land he has been my constant companion. "He was very young when I first got him, and had only newly been imported, but he was even then quite as big as he is now. "The ice being broken, as I might say, affection both on his side and on mine grew very fast; but what cemented our friendship infrangibly was a terrible illness that the poor fellow contracted some months after I got him. "He began to get very thin, to look pinched about the face, and weary about the eyes, his coat felt harsh and dry, and his appetite went away entirely. "He used to look up wistfully in my face, as if wanting me to tell him what could possibly be the matter with him. "The poor dog was sickening for distemper. "All highly-bred dogs take this dreadful illness in its very worst form. "I am not going to describe the animal's sufferings, nor any part of them; they were very great, however, and the patience with which he bore them all would have put many a human invalid to shame. He soon came to know that I was doing all I could to save him, and that, nauseous though the medicines were he had to take, they were meant to do him good, and at last he would lick his physic out of the spoon, although so weak that his head had to be supported while he was doing so. "One night, I remember, he was so very ill that I thought it was impossible he could live till morning, and I remember also sorrowfully wondering where I should lay his great body when dead, for we lived then in the midst of a great, bustling, busy city. But the fever had done its worst, and morning saw him not only alive, but slightly better. "I was on what we sailors call a spell of half-pay, so I had plenty of time to attend to him--no other cares then, Ida. I did all my skill could suggest to get him over the after effects of the distemper, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him one of the most splendid Newfoundlands that had ever been known in the country, with a coat that rivalled the raven's wing in darkness and sheen. "The dog loved me now with all his big heart--for a Newfoundland is one of the most grateful animals that lives--and if the truth must be told, I already loved the dog. "Nero was bigger then, Ida, than he is now." "Is that possible?" said Ida. "It is; for, you see, he is getting old." "But dogs don't stoop like old men," laughed Ida. "No," I replied, "not quite; but the joints bend more, the fore and hind feet are lengthened, and that, in a large dog like a Saint Bernard or Newfoundland, makes a difference of an inch or two at the shoulder. But when Nero was in his prime he could easily place his paws on the shoulder of a tall man, and then the man's head and his would be about on a level. "Somebody taught him a trick of taking gentlemen's hats off in the street." "Oh!" cried Ida, "I know who the somebody was; it was you, uncle. How naughty of you!" "Well, Ida," I confessed, "perhaps you are right; but remember that both the dog and I were younger then than we are now. But Nero frequently took a fancy to a policeman's helmet, and used to secure one very neatly when the owner had his back turned, and having secured it, he would go galloping down the street with it, very much to the amusement of the passengers, but usually to the great indignation of the denuded policeman. It would often require the sum of sixpence to put matters to rights." "I am so glad," said Ida, "he does not deprive policemen of their helmets now; I should be afraid to go out with him." "You see, Ida, I am not hiding any of the dog's faults nor follies. He had one other trick which more than once led to a scene in the street. I was in the habit of giving him my stick to carry. Sometimes he would come quietly up behind me and march off with it before I had time to prevent him. This would not have signified, if the dog had not taken it into his head that he could with impunity snatch a stick from the hands of any passer-by who happened to carry one to his--the dog's--liking. It was a thick stick the dog preferred, a good mouthful of wood; but he used to do the trick so nimbly and so funnily that the aggrieved party was seldom or never angry. I used to get the stick from Nero as soon as I could, giving him my own instead, and restore it with an ample apology to its owner. "But one day Nero, while out walking with me, saw limping on ahead of us an old sailor with a wooden leg. I daresay he had left his original leg in some field of battle, or some blood-stained deck. "`Oh!' Nero seemed to say to himself, `there is a capital stick. That is the thickness I like to see. There is something in that one can lay hold of.' "And before I could prevent him, he had run on and seized the poor man by the wooden leg. Nero never was a dog to let go hold of anything he had once taken a fancy to, unless he chose to do so of his own accord. On this occasion, I feel convinced he himself saw the humour of the incident, for he stuck to the leg, and there was positive merriment sparkling in his eye as he tugged and pulled. The sailor was Irish, and just as full of fun as the dog. Whether or not he saw there was half-a-crown to be gained by it I cannot say, but he set himself down on the pavement, undid the leg, and off galloped Nero in triumph, waving the wooden limb proudly aloft. The Irishman, sitting there on the pavement, made a speech that set every one around him laughing. I found the dog, and got the leg, slipping a piece of silver into the old sailor's hand as I restored it. "Well, that was an easy way out of a difficulty. Worse was to come, however, from this trick of Nero's; for not long after, in a dockyard town, while out walking, I perceived some distance ahead of me our elderly admiral of the Fleet. I made two discoveries at one and the same time: the first was, that the admiral carried a beautiful strong bamboo cane; the second was, that master Nero, after giving me a glance that told me he was brimful of mischief, had made up his mind to possess himself of that bamboo cane. Before I could remonstrate with him, the admiral was caneless, and as brimful of wrath as the dog was of fun. "The situation was appalling. "I was in uniform, and here was a living admiral, whom _my_ dog assaulted, the dog himself at that very moment lying quietly a little way off, chewing the head of the cane into match-wood. An apology was refused, and I couldn't offer him half-a-crown as I had done the old wooden-legged sailor. "The name of my ship was demanded, and with fear and trembling in my heart I turned and walked sorrowfully away." [This page missing.] CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO--CONTINUED. "His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Showed he was none o' Scotland's dogs." Burns. "You see, dear," I continued, "that Nero had even in his younger days a very high sense of humour and fun, and was extremely fond of practical joking, and this trait of his character sometimes led his master into difficulties, but the dog and I always managed to get over them. At a very early age he learned to fetch and carry, and when out walking he never seemed happy unless I gave him something to bring along with him. Poor fellow, I daresay he thought he was not only pleasing me, but assisting me, and that he was not wrong in thinking so you will readily believe when told that, in his prime, he could carry a large carpet bag or light portmanteau for miles without the least difficulty. He was handy, therefore, when travelling, for he performed the duties of a light porter, and never demanded a fee. "He used to carry anything committed to his charge, even a parcel with glass in it might be safely entrusted to his care, if you did not forget to tell him to be very cautious with it. "I was always very careful to give him something to carry, for if I did not he was almost sure to help himself. When going into a shop, for instance, to make a purchase, he was exceedingly disappointed if something or other was not bought and handed to him to take home. Once I remember going into a news-agent's shop for something the man did not happen to have. I left shortly, taking no thought about my companion, but had not gone far before Nero went trotting past me with a well-filled paper bag in his mouth, and after us came running, gasping and breathless, a respectable-looking old lady, waving aloft a blue gingham umbrella. `The dog, the dog,' she was bawling, `he has run off with my buns! Stop thief!' "I stopped the thief, and the lady was gracious enough to accept my apologies. "Not seeing me make any purchase, Nero had evidently said to himself--`Why, nothing to carry? Well, I don't mean to go away without anything, if my master does. Here goes.' And forthwith he had pounced upon the paper bag full of buns, which the lady had deposited on the counter. "At Sheerness, bathers are in the habit of leaving their boots on the beach while they enjoy the luxury of a dip in the sad sea waves. They usually put their stockings or socks in the boots. When quite a mile away from the bathing-place, one fine summer's day, I happened to look round, and there was Nero walking solemnly after me with a young girl's boot, with a stocking in it, in his mouth. We went back to the place, but I could find no owner for the boot, though I have no doubt it had been missed. Don't you think so, birdie?" "Yes," said Ida; "only fancy the poor girl having to go home with one shoe off and one shoe on. Oh! Nero, you dear old boy, who could have thought you had ever been so naughty in the days of your youth!" "Well, another day when travelling, I happened to have no luggage. This did not please Master Nero, and in lieu of something better, he picked up a large bundle of morning papers, which the porter had just thrown out of the luggage van. He ran out of the station with them, and it required no little coaxing to make him deliver them up, for he was extremely fond of any kind of paper to carry. "But Nero was just as honest, Ida, when a young dog as he is now. Nothing ever could tempt him to steal. The only thing approaching to theft that could be laid to his charge happened early one morning at Boston, in Lincolnshire. I should tell you first, however, that the dog's partiality for rabbits as playmates was very great indeed. He has taken more to cats of late, but when a young dog, rabbits were his especial delight. "We had arrived at Boston by a very early morning train, our luggage having gone on before, the night before, so that when I reached my journey's end, I had only to whistle on my dog, and, stick in hand, set out for my hotel. It was the morning of an agricultural show, and several boxes containing exhibition rabbits lay about the platform. "Probably the dog had reasoned thus with himself:-- "`Those boxes contain rabbits; what a chance to possess myself of a delightful pet! No doubt they belong to my master, for almost everything in this world does, only he didn't notice them; but I'm sure he will be as much pleased as myself when he sees the lovely rabbit hop out of the box; so here goes. I'll have this one.' "The upshot of Nero's cogitations was that, on looking round when fully a quarter of a mile from the station, to see why the dog was not keeping pace with me, I found him marching solemnly along behind with a box containing a live rabbit in his mouth. He was looking just a little sheepish, and he looked more so when I scolded him and made him turn and come back with it. "Dogs have their likes and dislikes to other animals and to people, just as we human beings have. One of Nero's earliest companions was a beautiful little pure white Pomeranian dog, of the name of `Vee-Vee.' He was as like an Arctic fox--sharp face, prick ears, and all--as any dog could be, only instead of lagging his tail behind him, as a fox does, the Pomeranian prefers to curl it up over his back, probably for the simple reason that he does not wish to have it soiled. Vee-Vee was extremely fond of me, and although, as you know, dear Nero is of a jealous temperament, he graciously permitted Vee-Vee to caress me as much as he pleased, and me to return his caresses. "It was a sight to see the two dogs together out for a ramble--Nero with his gigantic height, his noble proportions, and long flat coat of jetty black, and Vee-Vee, so altogether unlike him in every way, trotting along by his side in jacket of purest snow! "Vee-Vee's jacket used to be whiter on Saturday than on any other day, because it was washed on that morning of the week, and to make his personal beauties all the more noticeable he always on that day and on the next wore a ribbon of blue or crimson. "Now, mischievous Nero, if he got a chance, was sure to tumble Vee-Vee into a mud-hole just after he was nearly dried and lovely. I am sure he did it out of pure fun, for when Vee-Vee came downstairs to go out on these occasions, Nero would meet him, and eye him all over, and walk round him, and snuff him, and smell at him in the most provoking teasing manner possible. "`Oh! aren't you proud!' he would seem to say, and `aren't you white and clean and nice, and doesn't that bit of blue ribbon, suit you! What do you think of yourself, eh? My master can't wash me white, but I can wash you black, only wait till we go out and come to a nice mud-heap, and see if I don't change the colour of your jacket for you.' "Vee-Vee, though only a Pomeranian, learned a great many of Nero's tricks; this proves that one dog can teach another. He used to swim along with Nero, although when first going into the water he sometimes lost confidence, and got on to his big friend's shoulders, at which Nero used to seem vastly amused. He would look up at me with a sparkle of genuine mirth in his eye as much as to say-- "`Only look, master, at this little fool of a Vee-Vee perched upon my shoulder, like a fantail pigeon on top of a hen-house. But I don't mind his weight, not in the slightest.' "Vee-Vee used to fetch and carry as well as Nero, in his own quiet little way. One day I dropped my purse in the street, and was well-nigh home before I missed it. You may judge of my joy when on looking round I found Vee-Vee coming walking along with the purse in his mouth, looking as solemn as a little judge. Vee-Vee, I may tell you, was only about two weeks old when I first had him; he was too young to wean, and the trouble of spoon-feeding was very great. In my dilemma, a favourite cat of mine came to my assistance. She had recently lost her kittens, and took to suckling young Vee-Vee as naturally as if she had been his mother." "How strange," said Ida, "for a cat to suckle a puppy." "Cats, Ida," I replied, "have many curious fancies. A book [Note 1] that I wrote some little time since gives many very strange illustrations of the queer ways of these animals. Cats have been known to suckle the young of rats, and even of hedgehogs, and to bring in chickens and ducklings, and brood over them. This only proves, I think, that it is cruel to take a cat's kittens away from her all at once." "Yes, it is," Ida said, thoughtfully; "and yet it seems almost more cruel to permit her to rear a large number of kittens that you cannot afterwards find homes for." "A very sensible remark, birdie. Well, to return to our mutual friend Nero: about the same time that he had as his bosom companion the little dog Vee-Vee, he contracted a strange and inexplicable affection for another tiny dog that lived quite a mile and a half away, and for a time she was altogether the favourite. The most curious part of the affair was this: Nero's new favourite was only about six or seven inches in height, and so small that it could easily have been put into a gentleman's hat, and the hat put on the gentleman's head without much inconvenience to either the gentleman or the dog. "When stationed at Sheerness, we lived on board H.M.S. P--, the flagship there. On board were several other dogs. The captain of marines had one, for example, a large, flat-coated, black, saucy retriever, that rejoiced in the name of `Daidles'; the commander had two, a large fox-terrier, and a curly-coated retriever called `Sambo.' All were wardroom dogs--that is, all belonged to the officers' mess-room--and lived there day and night, for there were no fine carpets to spoil, only a well-scoured deck, and no ladies to object. Upon the whole, it must be allowed that there was very little disagreement indeed among the mess dogs. The fox-terrier was permitted to exist by the other three large animals, and sometimes he was severely chastised by one of the retrievers, only he could take his own part well enough. With the commander's curly retriever, Nero cemented a friendship, which he kept up until we left the ship, and many a romp they had together on deck, and many a delightful cruise on shore. But Daidles, the marine Officer's dog, was a veritable snarley-yow; he therefore was treated by Nero to a sound thrashing once every month, as regularly as the new moon. It is but just to Nero to say that Daidles always commenced those rows by challenging Nero to mortal combat. Wild, cruel fights they used to be, and much blood used to be spilled ere we could part them. As an instance of memory in the dog, I may mention that two years after Nero and I left the ship, we met Captain L--and his dog Daidles by chance in Chatham one day. Nero knew Daidles, and Daidles knew Nero, long before the captain and I were near enough to shake hands. "`Hullo!' cried Nero; `here we are again.' "`Yes,' cried Daidles; `let us have another fight for auld lang syne.' "And they did, and tore each other fearfully. "Nero's life on board this particular ship was a very happy one, for everybody loved him, from the captain downwards to the little loblolly boy who washed the bottles, spread the plasters, and made the poultices. "The blue-jackets all loved Nero; but he was more particularly the pet of the marine mess. This may be accounted for from the fact that my servant was a marine. "But every day when the bugle called the red-coats to dinner-- "`That calls me,' Master Nero would say; then off he would trot. "His plan was to go from one table to another, and it would be superfluous to say that he never went short. "Nero had one very particular friend on board--dear old chief engineer C--. Now my cabin was a dark and dismal one down in the cockpit, I being then only junior surgeon; the engineer's was on the main deck, and had a beautiful port. As Mr C--was a married man, he slept on shore; therefore he kindly gave up his cabin to me--no, not to _me_, as he plainly gave me to understand, but to _Nero_. "Nero liked his comforts, and it was C--'s delight of a morning after breakfast to make Nero jump on top of my cot, and put his head on my pillow. Then C--would cover him over with a rug, and the dog would give a great sigh of satisfaction and go off to sleep, and all the din and all the row of a thousand men at work and drill, could not waken Nero until he had his nap out. "On Sunday morning the captain went round all the decks of the ship inspecting them--the mess places, and the men's kits and cooking utensils, everything, in fact, about the ship was examined on this morning. He was followed by the commander, the chief surgeon, and by Nero. "The inspection over, the boats were called away for church on shore. Having landed, the men formed into marching order, band first, then the officers, and next the blue-jackets. Nero's place was in front of the band, and from the gay and jaunty way he stepped out, you might have imagined that he considered himself captain of all these men. "Sometimes a death took place, and the march to the churchyard was a very solemn and imposing spectacle. The very dog seemed to feel the solemnity of the occasion; and I have known him march in front all the way with lowered head and tail, as if he really felt that one of his poor messmates was like Tom Bowling, `a sheer hulk,' and that he would never, never see him again. You remember the beautiful old song, Ida, and its grand, ringing old tune-- "`Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the billows howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was pure and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, And now he has gone aloft.' "It was on board this ship that Nero first learned that graceful inclination of the body we call making a bow, and which Aileen Aroon there has seen fit to copy. "You see, on board a man-o'-war, Ida, whenever an officer comes on the quarter-deck, he lifts his hat, not to any one, remember, but out of respect to Her Majesty the Queen's ship. The sailors taught Nero to make a bow as soon as he came upstairs or up the ship's side, and it soon came natural to him, so that he really was quite as respectful to Her Majesty as any officer or man on board. "My old favourite, Tyro, was so fond of music that whenever I took up the violin, he used to come and throw himself down at my feet. I do not think Nero was ever fond of music, and I hardly know the reason why he tolerated the band playing on the quarter-deck, for whenever on shore if he happened to see and hear a brass band (a German itinerant one, I mean), he flew straight at them, and never failed to scatter them in all directions. I am afraid I rather encouraged him in this habit of his; it was amusing and it made the people laugh. It did not make the German fellows laugh, however--at least, not the man with the big bassoon--for Nero always singled him out, probably because he was making more row than the others. A gentleman said one day that Nero ought to be bought by the people of Margate, and kept as public property to keep the streets clear of the German band element. "But Nero never attempted to disperse the ship's band--he seemed rather to like it. I remember once walking in a city up North, some years after Nero left the service, and meeting a band of volunteers. "`Oh,' thought Nero, `this does put me in mind of old times.' "I do not know for certain that this was really what the dog thought, but I am quite sure about what he did, and that was, to put himself at the head of that volunteer regiment and march in front of it. As no coaxing of mine could get the dog away, I was obliged to fall in too, and we had quite a mile of a march, which I really had not expected, and did not care for. "Nero's partiality for marines was very great; but here is a curious circumstance: the dog knows the difference between a marine and a soldier in the street, for even a year after he left garrison, if he saw a red-jacket in the street, he would rush up to its owner. If a soldier, he merely sniffed him and ran on; if a marine, he not only sniffed him, but jumped about him and exhibited great joy, and perhaps ended by taking the man's cap in a friendly kind of a way, and just for auld lang syne. "Nero's life on board ship would have been one of unalloyed happiness, except for those dreadful guns. The dog was not afraid of an ordinary fowling-piece, but a cannon was another concern, and as we were very often at general quarters, or saluting other ships, Nero had more than enough of big guns. Terrible things he must have thought them--things that went off when a man pulled a string, that went off with fire and smoke, and a roar louder than any thunder; things that shook the ship and smashed the crockery, and brought his master's good old fiddle tumbling down to the deck--terrible things indeed. Even on days when there was no saluting or firing, there was always that eight o'clock gun. "As soon as the quartermaster entered the wardroom, a few seconds before eight in the evening, and reported the hour to the commander, poor Nero took refuge under the sofa. "He knew the man's knock. "`Eight o'clock, sir, please,' the man would say. "`Make it so,' the commander would reply, which meant, `Fire the gun.' "This was enough for Nero; he was in hiding a full minute before they could `make it so.'" "Is that the reason," asked Ida, "why you sometimes say eight o'clock to him when you want him to go and lie down?" "Yes, birdie," I replied. "He does not forget it, and never will as long as he lives. If you look at him even now, you will see a kind of terror in his eye, for he knows what we are talking about, and he is not quite sure that even here in this peaceful pine wood some one might not fire a big gun and make it eight o'clock." "No, no, no," cried Ida, throwing her arms around the dog, "don't be afraid, dear old Nero. It shan't be eight o'clock. It will never, never be eight o'clock any more, dearest doggie." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. "Friends in Fur." Published by Messrs. Dean and Son, Fleet Street, London. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO--CONTINUED. "His locked and lettered braw brass collar Showed him the gentleman and scholar." "You promised," said my little companion the very next evening, "to resume the thread of Nero's narrative." "Very prettily put, birdie," I said; "resume the thread of Nero's narrative. Did I actually make use of those words? Very well, I will, though I fear you will think the story a little dull, and probably the story-teller somewhat prosy. "Do you know, then, Ida, that I am quite convinced that Providence gave mankind the dog to be a real companion to him, and I believe that this is the reason why a dog is so very, very faithful, so long-suffering under trial, so patient when in pain, and so altogether good and kind. When I look at poor old Nero, as he lies beside you there, half asleep, yet listening to every word we say, my thoughts revert to many a bygone scene in which he and I were the principal actors. And many a time, Ida, when in grief and sorrow, I have felt, rightly or wrongly, that I had not a friend in the world but himself. "Well, dear, I had learned to love Nero, and love him well, when I received an appointment to join the flagship at Sheerness. The fact is I had been a whole year on sick leave, and Nero and I had been travelling for the sake of my health. There was hardly a town in England, Ireland, or Scotland we had not visited, and I always managed it so that the dog should occupy the same room as myself. By the end of a twelvemonth, Nero had got to be quite an old and quite a wise traveller. His special duty was to see after the luggage--in other words, Master Nero was baggage-master. When I left a hotel, my traps were generally taken in a hand-cart or trolly. Close beside the man all the way to the station walked my faithful friend, he himself in all probability carrying a carpet bag, and looking the very quintessence of seriousness and dignified importance. As soon as he saw the porter place the luggage in the van, then back he would come to me, with many a joyous bark and bound, quite regardless of the fact that he sometimes ran against a passenger, and sent him sprawling on the platform. "When we arrived at our journey's end, Nero used to be at the luggage van before me. And here is something worth recording: as we usually came out at a door on the opposite side of the train to that at which we had entered, I was apt for a moment or two to forget the position of the luggage van. Nero never made a mistake, so I daresay his scent assisted him. As soon as the luggage was put on the trolly, and the man started with it, the dog went with him, but as the man often went a long way ahead of me, Nero was naturally afraid of losing sight of me; therefore if the porter attempted to turn a corner the dog invariably barked, not angrily, but determinedly, till he stopped. As soon as I came up, then the procession went on again, till we came to another corner, when the man had to stop once more. I remember he pulled a man down, because he would not stop, but he did not otherwise hurt him at all. "In the train, he either travelled in the same carriage with myself, or in cases where the guard objected to this, I travelled in the van with the dog, so we were not separated. "If a man is travelling much by train or by steamboat, he need never feel lonely if he has as splendid a dog as the Champion Theodore Nero with him; for the dog makes his master acquaintances. "When Nero was with me, I could hardly stand for a moment at a street corner or to look in at a shop window without attracting a small crowd. I was never half an hour on the deck of a steamer without some one coming up and saying-- "`Excuse me, sir, but what a noble-looking dog you have! What breed is he? Pure Newfoundland, doubtless.' "This would in all probability lead to conversation, and many an acquaintance I have thus formed, which have ripened into friendships that last till this day. "Well, Ida, when I received my appointment to the flagship, my very first thoughts were about my friend the dog, and with a sad feeling of sinking at my heart, I asked myself the question--`Will Nero be permitted to live on board?' To part with the dear fellow would have been a grief I could not bear to contemplate. "An answer to the question, however, could not be obtained until I joined my ship, that was certain; so I started. "It was in the gloaming of a blustering day in early spring that the train in which we travelled, slowly, and after much unseemly delay, rolled rattling into the little station at Sheerness, and after a shoulder-to-shoulder struggle between half a dozen boatmen, who wished to take me, bag and baggage, off somewhere, and the same number of cabbies, who wished to carry me anywhere else, I was lucky enough to get seated in a musty conveyance that smelt like the aroma of wet collie-dogs and stale tobacco, with a slight suspicion of bad beer. Against the windows of this rattletrap beat the cold rain, and the mud flew from the wheels as from a wet swab. Lights were springing up here and there in the street under the busy fingers of a lamp-lighter, who might have been mistaken for a member of the monkey tribe, so nimbly did he glide up and down his skeleton ladder, and hurry along at his task. The wind, too, was doing all in its power to render his work abortive, and the gas-lights burned blue under the blast. "We were glad when we reached the hotel, but I was gladder still when, on making some inquiries about the ship I was about to join, I was told that the commander was extremely fond of dogs, and that he had two of his own. "I slept more soundly after that. "Next day, leaving my friend carefully under lock and key in charge of the worthy proprietor of the Fountain Hotel, I got into uniform, and having hired a shore boat, went off to my ship to report myself. To my joy I found Commander C--to be as kind and jovial a sailor as any one could wish to see and talk to. I was not long before I broached the subject nearest to my heart. "`Objection to your dog on board?' he said, laughing. `Bring him, by all means; he won't kill mine, though, I hope.' "`That I'm sure he won't,' I replied, feeling as happy as if I had just come into a fortune. "I went on shore with a light heart, and hugged the dog. "`We're not going to be parted, dear old boy,' I said. `You are going on board with me to-morrow.' "The evening before my heart was as gloomy as the weather; to-day the sun shone, and my heart was as bright as the sky was blue. Nero and I set out after luncheon to have a look at the town. "Sheerness on two sides is bounded by the dockyard, which divides it from the sea. Indeed, the dockyard occupies the most comfortable corner, and seems to say to the town, `Stand aside; you're nobody.' The principal thoroughfare of Sheerness has on one side of it the high, bleak boundary wall, while on the other stands as ragged-looking a line of houses as one could well imagine, putting one in mind of a regiment of militia newly embodied and minus uniform. As you journey from the station, everything reminds you that you are in a naval seaport of the lowest class. Lazy watermen by the dozen loll about the pier-head with their arms, to say nothing of their hands, buried deeply in their breeches-pockets, while every male you meet is either soldier or sailor, dockyard's man or solemn-looking policeman. Every shop that isn't a beer-house, is either a general dealer's, where you can purchase anything nautical, from a sail-needle to sea boots, or an eating house, in the windows of which are temptingly exposed joints of suspiciously red corned-beef, soapy-looking mutton and uninviting pork, and where you are invited to partake of tea and shrimps for ninepence. "So on the whole the town of Sheerness itself is by no means a very inviting one, nor a very savoury one either. "But away out beyond the dockyard and over the moat, and Sheerness brightens up a little, and spreads out both to left and right, and you find terraces with trim little gardens and green-painted palings, while instead of the odour of tar and cheese and animal decay, you can breathe the fresh, pure air from over the ocean, and see the green waves come tumbling in and break in soft music on the snowy shingle. "Here live the benedicts of the flagship. At half-past seven of a fine summer morning you may see them, hurried and hungry, trotting along towards the dockyard, looking as if another hour's sleep would not have come amiss to them. But once they get on board their ships, how magic-like will be the disappearance of the plump soles, the curried lobster, the corned-beef, and the remains of last night's pigeon-pie, while the messman can hardly help looking anxious, and the servants run each other down in their hurry to supply the tea and toast! "Of the country immediately around this town of Sheerness, the principal features are open ditches, slimy and green, evolving an effluvium that keeps the very bees at bay, encircling low flat fields and marshy moors, affording subsistence only to crazy-looking sheep and water rats. The people of Sheerness eat the sheep; I have not been advised as to their eating the rats. "But, and if you are young, and your muscles are well developed, and your tendo Achillis wiry and strong, then when the summer is in its prime and the sun is brightly shining, shall you leave the odoriferous town and its aguish surroundings, and like `Jack of the bean-stalk,' climb up into a comparative fairyland. At the top of the hill stands the little village of Minster, its romantic old church and ivied tower begirt with the graves of generations long since passed and gone, the very tombstones of which are mouldering to dust. The view from here well repays the labour of climbing the bean-stalk. But leave it behind and journey seaward over the rolling tableland. Rural hamlets; pretty villages; tree-lined lanes and clovery fields with grazing kine--you shall scarcely be tired of such quiet and peaceful scenery when you arrive at the edge of the clayey cliff, with the waves breaking among the boulders on the beach far beneath you, and the sea spreading out towards the horizon a vast plain of rippling green, crowded with ships from every land and clime. Heigho! won't you be sorry to descend your bean-stalk and re-enter Sheerness once again? "I do not think, Ida, that ship dogs' lives are as a rule very happy ones. They get far too little exercise and far too much to eat, so they grow both fat and lazy. But in this particular flagship neither I nor my friend Nero had very much to grumble about. The commander was as good as he looked, and there was not an officer in the ship, nor a man either, that had not a kind word for the dog. "The great event of the day, as far as Nero and I were concerned, was going on shore in the afternoon for a walk, and a dip in the sea when the weather was warm. Whether the weather was warm or not, Nero always had his bath, for the distance to the shore being hardly half a mile, no sooner had the boat left the vessel's side than there were cries from some of us officers of the vessel-- "`Hie over, you dogs, hie over, boys.' "The first to spring into the sea would be Nero, next went his friend Sambo, and afterwards doggie Daidles. The three black heads in the water put one in mind of seals. Although the retrievers managed to keep well up for some time, gradually the Newfoundland forged ahead, and he was in long before the others, and standing very anxiously gazing seawards to notice how Sambo was getting on; for the currents run fearfully strong there. Daidles always got in second. Of Daidles Nero took not the slightest notice; even had he been drowning he would have made no attempt to save him; but no sooner did Sambo approach the stone steps than with a cry of fond anxiety, the noble Newfoundland used to rush downwards, seize Sambo gently by the neck, and help him out. "I was coming from the shore one day, when Sambo fell from a port into the sea. Nero at once leapt into the water, and swimming up to his friend, attempted to seize him. The conversation between them seemed to be something like the following-- "_Nero_: `You're drowning, aren't you? Let me hold you up.' "_Sambo_: `Nonsense, Nero, let go my neck; I could keep afloat as long as yourself.' "_Nero_: `Very well, here goes then; but I _must_ pick something up.' "So saying, Nero swam after a piece of newspaper, seized that, and swam to the ladder with it; some of the men lent him a helping hand, and up he went. "The flagship was a tall old line of battle ship; on the starboard side was a broad ladder, on the port merely a ladder of ropes. On stormy days, with a heavy sea on, the starboard ladder probably could not be used, and so the dog had to be lowered into the boat and hoisted up therefrom with a long rope. To make matters more simple and easy for him, one of the men made the dog a broad belt of canvas. To this corset the end of the rope was attached, and away went Nero up or down as the case happened to be. "Although as gentle by nature as a lamb, Nero would never stand much impudence from another dog without resenting it. When passing through the dockyard one day, we met an immense Saint Bernard, who strutted up to Nero, and at once addressed him in what appeared to me the following strain-- "`Hullo! Got on shore, have you? I daresay you think yourself a pretty fellow now? But you're not a bit bigger than I am, and not so handsome. I've a good mind to bite you. Yah! you're only a surgeon's dog, and my master is captain of the dockyard. Yah!' "`Don't growl at me,' replied Nero; `my master is every bit as good as yours, and a vast deal better, _so_ don't raise your hair, else I may lose my temper.' "`Yah! yah!' growled the Saint Bernard. "`Come on, Nero,' I cried; `don't get angry, old boy.' "`Half a minute, master,' replied Nero; `here is a gentleman that wants to be brought to his bearings.' "Next moment those two dogs were at it. It was an ugly fight, and some blood was spilled on both sides, but at last Nero was triumphant. He hauled the Saint Bernard under a gun carriage and punished him severely, I being thus powerless to do anything. "Then Nero came out and shook himself, while the other dog lay beaten and cowed. "`I don't think,' said Nero to me, `that he will boast about his master again in a hurry.' "Generosity is a part of the Newfoundland dog's nature. At my father's village in the far north, called Inverurie, there used to be a large black half-bred dog, that until Nero made an appearance lorded it over all the other dogs in the town. This animal was a bully, and therefore a coward. He had killed more than one dog. "The very first day that he saw Nero he must needs rush out and attack him. He found himself on his back on the pavement in a few moments. Then came the curious part of the intercourse. Instead of worrying him, Nero simply held him down, and lay quietly on top of him for more than two minutes, during which time he appeared to reason with the cur, who was completely cowed. "`I'll let you up presently,' Nero said; `but you must promise not to attempt to attack me again.' "`I promise,' said the other dog. "Then, much to the amusement of the little crowd that had collected, Nero very slowly raised himself and walked away. Behold! no sooner had he turned his back than his prostrate foe sprang up and bit him viciously in the leg. "It was no wonder Nero now lost his temper, or that he shook that black dog as a servant-maid shakes a hearthrug. "_I_ tried to intervene to save the poor mongrel, but was kept back by the mob. "`Let him have it, sir,' cried one man; `he killed S--'s dog.' "`Yes, let him have it,' cried another; `he kills dogs and he kills sheep as well.' "To his honour be it said, I never saw Nero provoke a fight, but when set upon by a cur he always punished his foe. In two instances he tried to drown his antagonist. A dog at Sheerness attacked him on the beach one day. Nero punished him well, but seeing me coming to the dog's rescue, he dragged the dog into the sea and lay on him there. I had to wade in and pull Master Nero off by the tail, else the other dog would assuredly have been drowned. I am referring to a large red retriever, lame in one leg, that belonged to the artillery. He had been accidentally blown from a gun and set fire to. That was the cause of his lameness. "There was a large Newfoundland used to be on the _Great Eastern_, whose name was `Sailor.' Before Nero's appearance at Sheerness, he was looked upon as the finest specimen of that kind of dog ever seen. He had to lower his flag to Nero, however. "They met one morning on the beach at the oyster beds. "`Hullo!' said Sailor, `you are the dog that everybody is making such a fuss over. You're Nero, aren't you?' "`My name is Theodore Nero,' said my friend, bristling up at the saucy looks of the stranger. "`And my name is Sailor, at your service,' said the other, `and I belong to the largest ship in the world. And I don't think much of you. Yah!' "`Good-morning,' said Nero. "`Not so fast,' cried the other; `you've got to fight first, but I daresay you're afraid. Eh! Yah!' "`Am I?' said Nero. `We'll see who is afraid.' "Next moment the oyster beach was a battle-field. But some sailors coming along, we managed to pull the dogs asunder by the tails. Whenever Sailor saw Nero after this he took to his heels and ran away. But a good dog was Sailor for all that, and a very clever water-dog. He used to jump from the top of the paddle-box of the great ship into the sea--a height, I believe, of about seventy feet. "Nero's prowess as a water-dog was well known in Sheerness, and wonderful stories are told about him, even to this day; not all of which are true, any more than the tales of the knights of old are. But some of our marines managed to turn his swimming powers to good account, as the following will testify. "On days when it was impossible for me to get on shore, I used to send my servant with the dog for a swim and a run. When near the dockyard steps, a great log of wood used to be pitched out of the boat, and Nero sent after it. Anything Nero fetched out of the water he considered his own or his master's property, which it would be dangerous for any one to meddle with. Well, as soon as he had landed with the log, Nero used to march up the steps, the water flowing behind from his splendid coat, up the steps and through the dockyard; the policemen only stood by marvelling to see a dog carrying such an immense great log of wood. If my servant carried a basket, that would be searched for contraband goods, rum or tobacco. "Then my servant would pass on, smiling in his own sleeve as the saying is, for no one ever dreamed of searching the dog." "Searching the dog!" said Ida, with wondering eyes. "Yes, dear, the dog was a smuggler, though he did not know it. For that log of wood was a hollow one, and stuffed with tobacco. I did not know of this, of course." "How wicked!" said Ida. "Why, Nero, you've been a regular pirate of the boundless ocean." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE STORY OF AILEEN'S HUSBAND, NERO--CONTINUED. "Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor." Campbell. "Do I think that Master Nero knows we are talking about him? Yes, birdie, of that I am quite convinced. Just look at the cunning old rogue lying there pretending to be asleep, but with his ears well forward, and one eye half-open. And Aileen, too, knows there is a bit of biography going on, and that it is all about her well-beloved lord and master. "But to tell you one-tenth part of all that had happened to Nero, or to me and Nero together, would take far more time than I can spare, dear Ida. I could give you anecdote after anecdote about his bravery, his strength, his nobility of mind, and his wonderful sagacity; but these would not make you love him more than you do. "And you never can love the faithful fellow half so much as I do. I have been blamed for loving him far too well, and reminded that he is only a dog. "Only a dog! How much I hate the phrase; and sinful though I know it to be, I can hardly help despising those who make use of it. But of those who do use the expression, there are few, I really believe, who would wonder at me loving that noble fellow so well did they know the sincere friend he has been many a time and oft to me. "He saved my life--worthless though it may be--he saved the life of another. Tell you the story? It is not a story, but two stories; and though both redound to the extreme wisdom and sagacity and love of the dog, both are far too sad for you to listen to. Some day I may tell them. Perhaps--" There was a pause of some minutes here; Ida, who was lying beside the dog, had thrown her arms around his neck, and was fondly hugging him. Aileen came directly to me, sighed as usual, and put her head on my shoulder. "Love begets love, Ida, and I think it was more than anything else the dog's extreme affection for me, shown in a thousand little ways, that caused me to take such a strong abiding affection for him. He knew--as he does now--everything I said, and was always willing to forestall my wishes, and do everything in the world to please me. "When ill one time, during some of our wanderings, and laid up in an out-of-the-way part of the country among strange people, it was a sad anxiety for me to have to tell the dog he must go out by himself and take his necessary ramble, as I was far too ill to leave my bed. "The poor animal understood me. "`Good-bye, master,' he seemed to say, as he licked my face; `I know you are ill, but I won't stop out long.' "He was back again in a quarter of an hour, and the same thing occurred every time he was sent by himself; he never stopped more than fifteen minutes. "Would a human friend have been as careful? Do you not think that there were temptations to be resisted even during that short ramble of his-- things he would have liked to have stopped to look at, things he would have liked to have chased? Many a dog, I have no doubt, invited him to stop and play, but the dog's answer must have been, `Nay, nay, not to-day; I have a poor sick master in bed, and I know not what might happen to him in this strange place, and among so many strange people. I must hurry and get home.' "When he did return, he did so as joyfully and made as much fuss over me as if he had been away for a week. "`I didn't stop long, _did_ I, master?' he would always say, when he returned. "But wasn't he a happy dog when he got me up and out again? Weak enough I was at first, but he never went far away from me, just trotted on and looked about encouragingly and waited. I allowed him to take me where he chose, and I have reason to believe he led me on his own round, the round he had taken all by himself every day for weeks before that. "`Nero, old boy,' I said to him one day, some time after this sickness, `come here.' "The dog got up from his corner, and laid his saucy head on my lap. "`I'm all attention, master,' he said, talking with his bonnie brown eyes. "`I don't believe there are two better Newfoundlands in England than yourself, Nero.' "`I don't believe there is one,' said Nero. "`Don't be saucy,' I said. "`Didn't I take a cup at the Crystal Palace?' "`Yes, but it was only second prize, old boy.' "`True, master, but nearly every one said it ought to have been first. I'm only two years old and little over, and isn't a second prize at a Crystal Palace show a great honour for a youngster like myself?' "`True, Nero, true; and now I've something to propose.' "`To which,' said the dog, `I am willing to listen.' "`Well,' I said, `there are dozens of dog-shows about to take place all over the country. I want a change: suppose we go round. Suppose we constitute ourselves show folk. Eh?' "`Capital.' "`And you'll win lots of prize-money, Nero.' "`And you'll spend it, master. Capital again.' "`There won't be much capital left, I expect, doggie, by the time we get back; but we'll see a bit of England, at all events.' "So we agreed to start, and so sure of winning with the dog was I that I bought that splendid red patent leather collar that you, Ida, sometimes wear for a waist-belt. The silver clasps on it were empty then, but each time the dog won a prize, the name of the town was engraved on one of the clasps." "They are pretty well filled up now," said Ida. "Yes, the dog won nineteen first prizes and cups in little over three months, which was very fair for those days. He was then dubbed champion. There was not a Newfoundland dog from Glasgow to Neath that would have cared to have met Nero in the show ring. "He used to enter the arena, too, with such humour and dash, with his grand black coat floating around him, and the sun glittering on it like moonbeams on a midnight sea. That was how Nero entered the judging ring; he never slunk in, as did some dogs. He just as often as not had a stick in his mouth, and if he hadn't, he very soon possessed himself of one. "`Yes, look at me all over,' he would say to the judges; `there is no picking a fault in me, nor in my master either for that matter. I'm going to win, that's what I'm here for.' "But when I was presented with the prize card by the judge, Nero never failed to make him a very pretty bow. "The only misfortune that ever befell the poor fellow was at Edinburgh dog-show. "On the morning of the second day--it was a three or four day exhibition--I received a warning letter, written in a female hand, telling me that those who were jealous of the dog's honours and winnings were going to poison him. "I treated the matter as a joke. I could not believe the world contained a villain vile enough to do a splendid animal like that to death, and so cruel a death, for the sake of pique and jealousy. But I had yet to learn what the world was. "The dog was taken to the show, and chained up as usual at his place on the bench. Alas! when I went to take him home for the night I found his head down, and hardly able to move. I got him away, and sat up with him all night administering restoratives. "He was able to drink a little milk in the morning, and to save his prize-money I took him back, but had him carefully watched and tended all the remaining time that the show was open. "We went to Boston, Lincoln, Gainsborongh, and all over Yorkshire and Lancaster and Chester, besides Scotland, and our progress was a triumph to the grand and beautiful dog. Especially was he admired by ladies at shows. Wherever else they might be, there was always a bevy of the fair sex around Nero's cage. During that three months' tour he had more kisses probably than any dog ever had before in the same time. It was the same out of the show as in it--no one passed him by without stopping to admire him. "`Aren't we having a splendid time, master?' the dog said to me one day. "`Splendid,' I replied; `but I think we've done enough, my doggie. I think we had better retire now and go to sea for a spell.' "`Heigho!' the dog seemed to say; `but wherever your home is there mine is too, master.'" "There is a prize card hanging on the wall of the wigwam," said Ida, "on which Nero is said to have won at a life-saving contest at Southsea." "Yes, dear, that was another day's triumph for the poor fellow. He had won on the show bench there as well, and afterwards proved his prowess in the sea in the presence of admiring thousands. "Your honest friend there, Ida, has been all along as fond of human beings and other animals as he is now. In their own country Newfoundlands are used often as sledge dogs, and sometimes as retrievers, but I do not think it is in their nature to take life of any kind, unless insect life, my gentle Ida. They don't like blue-bottles nor wasps, I must confess, but Nero has given many proofs of the kindness of heart he possesses that are really not easily forgotten. "Tell you a few? I'll tell you one or two. The first seems trivial, but there is a certain amount of both pathos and humour about it. Two boys had been playing near the water at Gosport, and for mischiefs sake one had pitched the other's cap into the tide and ran off. The cap was being floated away, and the disconsolate owner was weeping bitterly on the bank, when we came up. Nero, without being told, understood what was wrong in a moment; one glance at the floating cap, another at the boy, then splash! he had sprang into the tide, and in a few minutes had laid the rescued article at the lad's feet; then he took his tongue across his cheek in a rough kind of caressing way. "`There now,' he appeared to say, `don't cry any more.' "Nero ought to have made his exit here, and he would have come off quite the hero; but no, the spirit of mischief entered into him, and he shook himself, sending buckets of water all over the luckless lad, who was almost as wet now as if he had swam in after his cap himself. Then Nero came galloping up to me, laughing all over at the trick he had played the poor boy. "This trick of shaking himself over people was taught him by one of my messmates; and he used to delight to take him along the beach on a summer's day, and put him in the water. When he came out, my friend would march along in front of the dog, till the latter was close to some gay lounger, then turn and say, `Shake yourself, boy.' The _denouement_ may be more easily imagined than described, especially if the lounger happened to be a lady. I'm ashamed of my friend, but love the truth, Ida." "How terribly wicked of Nero to do it!" said Ida. "And yet I saw the dog one day remove a drowning mouse from his water dish, without putting a tooth in it. He placed it on the kitchen floor, and licked it as tenderly over as a cat would her kitten. He looked up anxiously in my face, as much as to say, `Do you think the poor thing can live?' "Hurricane Bob there, his son, does not inherit all his father's finest qualities; he would not scruple to kill mice or rats by the score. In fact, I have reason to believe he rather likes it. His mother was just the same before him; a kindly-hearted dog she was, but as wild as a wolf, and full of fun of the rough-and-tumble kind." "Were you never afraid of losing poor Nero?" "I did lose him one dark winter's night, Ida, in the middle of a large and populous city. Luckily, I had been staying there for some time--two weeks, I think--and there were different shops in different parts of the city where I dealt, and other places where I called to rest or read. The dog was always in the habit of accompanying me to the shops, to bring home the purchases, so he knew them all. The very day on which I lost the dog I had changed my apartments to another quarter of the city. "In the evening, while walking along a street, with Nero some distance behind me, it suddenly occurred to me to run into a shop and purchase a magazine I saw in the window. I never thought of calling the dog. I fancied he would see me entering the book-shop and follow, but he didn't; he missed me, and thinking I must be on ahead, rushed wildly away up the street into the darkness and rain, and I saw him no more that night. "Only those who have lost a favourite dog under such circumstances can fully appreciate the extent of my grief and misery. I went home at long last to my lonely lodgings. How dingy and dreadful they seemed without poor Nero's honest form on the hearthrug! Where could he be, what would become of him, my only friend, my gentle, loving, noble dog, the only creature that cared for me? You may be sure I did not sleep, I never even undressed, but sat all night in my chair, sleeping towards morning, and dreaming uneasy dreams, in which the dog was always first figure. "I was out and on my way to the police offices ere it was light. The weather had changed, frost had come, and snow had fallen. "Several large black dogs had been found during the night; I went to see them all. Alas! none was Nero. So after getting bills printed, and arranging to have them posted, I returned disheartened to my lodgings. But when the door opened, something as big as a bear flew out, flew at me, and fairly rolled me down among the snow. "`No gentler caress, master,' said Nero, for it was he, `would express the joy of the occasion.' "Poor fellow, I found out that day that he had been at every one of the places at which I usually called; I daresay he had gone back to our old apartments too, and had of course failed to find me there. As a last resort he turned up at the house of an old soldier with whom I had had many a pleasant confab. This was about eleven o'clock; it was eight when he was lost. Not finding me here, he would have left again, and perhaps found his way to our new lodgings; but the old soldier, seeing that something must be amiss, took him in, kept him all night, found my rooms in the morning, and fetched him home. You may guess whether I thanked the old man or not. "When Dolls (_see_ page 76) came to me first, he was in great grief for the loss of his dear master [Note 1]. Nero seemed to know it, and though he seldom made much of a fuss over dogs of this breed, he took Dolls under his protection; indeed, he hardly knew how kind to be to him. "I ought to mention that Mortimer Collins and Nero were very great friends indeed, for the poet loved all things in nature good and true. "There was one little pet that Nero had long before you knew him, Ida. His name was Pearl, a splendid Pomeranian. Perhaps Pearl reminded Nero very much of his old favourite, Vee-vee. At all events he took to him, used to share his bed and board with him, and protected him from the attacks of strange dogs when out. Pearl was fat, and couldn't jump well. I remember our coming to a fence one day about a foot and a half high. The other dogs all went bounding over, but Pearl was left to whine and weep at the other side. Nero went straight back, bounded over and re-bounded over, as if showing Pearl how easy it was. But Pearl's heart failed, seeing which honest Nero fairly lifted him over by the back of the neck. "I was going to give a dog called `Pandoo' chastisement once. Pandoo was a young Newfoundland, and a great pet of Nero, whose son he was. I got the cane, and was about to raise it, when Nero sprang up and snatched it from my hand, and ran off with it. It was done in a frolicsome manner, and with a deal of romping and jumping. At the same time, I could see he really meant to save the young delinquent; so I made a virtue of necessity, and pardoned Pandoo. "But Nero's love for other animals, and his kindness for all creatures less and weaker than himself, should surely teach our poor humanity a lesson. You would think, to see him looking pityingly sometimes at a creature in pain, that he was saying with the poet-- "`Poor uncomplaining brute, Its wrongs are innocent at least, And all its sorrows mute.' "One day, at the ferry at Hotwells, Clifton, a little black-and-tan terrier took the water after a boat and attempted to cross, but the tide ran strong, and ere it reached the centre it was being carried rapidly down stream. On the opposite bank stood Nero, eagerly watching the little one's struggles, and when he saw they were unsuccessful, with one impatient bark--which seemed to say, `Bear up, I'm coming'--he dashed into the water, and ploughed the little terrier all the way over with his broad chest, to the great amusement of an admiring crowd. "On another occasion some boys near Manchester were sending a Dandie-Dinmont into a pond after a poor duck; the Dandie had almost succeeded in laying hold of the duck, when Nero sprang into the water, and brought out, not the duck, but the Dandie by the back of the neck. "I saw one day a terrier fly at him and bite him viciously behind. He turned and snapped it, just once. Once was enough. The little dog sat down on the pavement and howled piteously. Nero, who had gone on, must then turn and look back, and then _go_ back _and lick the place he had bitten_. "`I really didn't intend to hurt you so much,' he seemed to say; `but you did provoke me, you know. There! there! don't cry.'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Now then, Ida, birdie, let us have one good scamper through the pine wood and meadow, and then hie for home. Come on, dogs; where are you all? Aileen, Nero, Bob, Gipsy, Eily, Broom, Gael, Coronach? Hurrah! There's a row! There's music! That squirrel, Ida, who has been cocking up there on the oak, listening to all we've been saying, thinks he'd better be off. There isn't a bird in the wood that hasn't ceased its song, and there isn't a rabbit that hasn't gone scurrying into its hole, and I believe the deer have all jumped clean out of the forest; the hare thinks he will be safer far by the river's brink; and the sly, wily old weasel has come to the conclusion that he can wait for his dinner till the dogs go home. The only animal that doesn't run away is the field-mouse. He means to draw himself up under a burdock leaf and wait patiently till the hairy hurricane sweeps onward past him. Then he'll creep out and go nibbling round as usual. Come." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The poet Mortimer Collins. He came into my possession shortly after his death. CHAPTER THIRTY. IDA'S ILLNESS--MERCY TO THE DUMB ANIMALS. "Then craving leave, he spake Of life, which all can take but none can give; Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep, Wonderful, dear, and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and noble to the strong." E. Arnold's "Light of Asia." It was sadly changed times with all of us when Ida fell ill. Her illness was a very severe one, and for many weeks she literally hovered 'twixt death and life. Her spirit seemed like some beautiful bird of migration, that meditates quitting these cold intemperate shores and flying away to sunnier climes, but yet is loath to leave old associations and everything dear to it. There was little done during these weeks, save attending to Ida's comforts, little thought about save the child. Even the dogs missed their playmate. The terriers went away to the woods every day by themselves. Eily, the collie, being told that she must make no noise, refrained from barking even at the butcher, or jumping up and shaking the baker by his basket, as had been her wont. Poor Aileen Aroon went about with her great head lower than usual, and with a very apologetic look about her, a look that, beginning in her face, seemed to extend all the way to the point of her tail, which she wagged in quite a doleful manner. Nero and she took turn and turn about at keeping watch outside Ida's room door. Ida's favourite cat seldom left her little mistress's bedside, and indeed she was as often in the bed as out of it. It was winter--a green winter. Too green, Frank said, to be healthy; and the dear old man used to pray to see the snow come. "A bit of a frost would fetch her round," he said. "I'd give ten years of my life, if it is worth as much, to see the snow on the ground." The trees were all leafless and bare, but tiny flowers and things kept growing in under the shrubs in quite an unnatural way. But Frank came in joyfully one evening, crying, "It's coming, Gordon, it's coming; the stars are unspeakably bright; there is a steel-blue glitter in the sky that I like. It's coming; we'll have the snow, and we'll have Ida up again in a month." I had not quite so much faith in the snow myself, but I went out to have a look at the prospect. It was all as Frank had said; the weird gigantic poplars were pointing with leafless fingers up into a sky of frosty blue, up to stars that shone with unusual radiance; and as I walked along, the gravel on the path resounded to my tread. "I'll be right; you'll see, I'll be right," cried Frank, exultant. "I'm an older man than you, Gordon, doctor and all though you be." Frank _was_ right. He was right about the snow, to begin with. It came on next morning; not all at once in great flakes. No, big storms never begin like that, but in grains like millet-seed. This for an hour; then mingling with the millet-seed came little flakes, and finally an infinity of large ones, as big as butterflies' wings. It was a treat to gaze upwards, and watch them coming dancing downwards in a dazzling and interminable maze. It was beautiful! It wanted but one thing at that moment to make me happy. That was the presence of our bright-faced, blue-eyed little pet, standing on the doorstep as she used to, gazing upwards, with apron outstretched to catch the falling flakes. Frank was so overjoyed, he must needs go out and walk about in the snow for nearly an hour. I was in the kitchen engaged in some mysterious invalid culinary operation when Frank came in. He always came in through the kitchen now, instead of the hall, lest he might disturb the child. Frank's face was a treat to look at; it was redder, and appeared rounder than usual, and jollier. "There's three inches of snow on the ground already," he remarked, joyfully. "Mary, bring the besom, my girl, to brush the snow off my boots. That's the style." Strange as it may appear, from that very morning our little patient began to mend, and ere the storm had shown signs of abatement--in less than a week, in fact--Ida was able to sit up in bed. Thin was her face, transparent were her hands; yet I could see signs of improvement; the white of her skin was a more healthful white; her great, round eyes lost the longing, wistful look they had before. I was delighted when she asked me to play to her. She would choose the music, and I must play soft and low and sweet. Her fingers would deftly turn the pages of the book till her eyes rested on something she loved, and she would say, with tears in her eyes-- "Play, oh, play this! I do love it." I managed to find flowers for her even in the snowstorm, for the glass-houses at the Manor of D--are as large as any in the country, and the owner was my friend. I think she liked to look at the hothouse fruit we brought her, better than to eat them. The dogs were now often admitted. Even Gael and Broom were not entirely banished. My wife used to sew in the room, and sometimes read to Ida, and Frank used to come in and sit at the window and twirl his thumbs. His presence seemed to comfort the child. I used to write beside her. "What is that you are writing?" she said one day. "Nothing much," I replied; "only the introduction to a `Penny Reading' I'm going to give against cruelty to animals." "Read it," said Ida; "and to-morrow, mind, you must begin and tell me stories again, and then I'm sure I shall soon get well, because whatever you describe about the fields or the woods, the birds or the flowers I can see, it is just like being among them." I had to do as I was told, so read as follows:-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Mercy to the Dumb Animals. "`I would give nothing for that man's religion whose cat and dog are not the better for it.'--_Dr Norman McLeod_. "`We are living in an enlightened age.' This is a remark which we hear made almost every day, a remark which contains just one golden grain of truth. Mankind is not yet enlightened in the broad sense of the term. From the night of the past, from the darkness of bygone times, we are but groping our way, as it were, in the morning-glome, towards a great and a glorious light. "It is an age of advancement, and a thousand facts might be adduced in proof of this. I need point to only one: the evident but gradual surcease of needless cruelty to animals. Among all classes of the community far greater love and kindness is now manifested towards the creatures under our charge than ever was in days gone by. We take greater care of them, we think more of their comfort when well, we tend them more gently when sick, and we even take a justifiable pride in their appearance and beauty. All this only shows that there is a spirit of good abroad in the land, a something that tends to elevate, not depress, the soul of man. I see a spark of this goodness even in the breast of the felon who in his prison cell tames a humble mouse, and who weeps when it is cruelly taken from him; in the ignorant costermonger who strokes the sleek sides of his fat donkey, or the rough and unkempt drover-boy, who shares the remains of a meagre meal with his faithful collie. "Religion and kindness to animals go hand in hand, and have done so for ages, for we cannot truly worship the Creator unless we love and admire His works. "The heavenly teaching of the Mosaic law inculcates mercy to the beasts. It is even commanded that the ox and the ass should have rest on one day of the week--namely, the Sabbath; that the ox that treadeth out the corn is not to be muzzled; that the disparity in strength of the ass and ox is to be considered, and that they should not be yoked together in one plough. Even the wild birds of the field and woods are not forgotten, as may be seen by reading the following passage from the Book of Deuteronomy:--`If a bird's nest be before thee in any tree, or on the ground, whether they be young ones or eggs, and the dam sitting upon the young or upon the eggs, thou shalt not take the dam with the young: but thou shalt in any way let the dam go.' "The Jews were commanded to be merciful and kind to an animal, even if it belonged to a person unfriendly to them. "`If thou see the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him.' "That is, they were to assist even an enemy to do good to a fallen brute. It is as if a man, passing along the street, saw the horse or ass of a neighbour, who bore deadly hatred to him, stumble and fall under his load, and said to himself-- "`Oh! yonder is So-and-so's beast come down; I'll go and lend a hand. So-and-so is no friend of mine, but the poor animal can't help that. _He_ never did me any harm.' "And a greater than even Moses reminds us we are to show mercy to the animals even on the sacred day of the week. "But it is not so very many years ago--in the time when our grandfathers were young, for instance--since roughness and cruelty towards animals were in a manner studied, and even encouraged in the young by their elders. It was thought manly to domineer over helpless brutes, to pull horses on their haunches, to goad oxen along the road, though they were moving to death in the shambles, to stone or beat poor fallen sheep, to hunt cats with dogs, and to attend bull-baitings and dog and cock fights. And there are people even yet who talk of these days as the good old times when `a man was a man.' But such people have only to visit some low-class haunt of `the fancy,' when `business' is being transacted, to learn how depraving are the effects of familiarity with scenes of cruelty towards the lower animals. Even around a rat-pit they would see faces more revolting in appearance than those of Dore's demons, and listen to jests and language so ribald and coarse as positively to pain and torture the ear and senses. Goodness be praised that such scenes are every day getting more rare, and that the men who attend them have a wholesome terror of the majesty of human laws at least. "Other religions besides the Christian impress upon their followers rules relating to kindness to the inferior animals. Notably, perhaps, that of Buddha, under the teachings of which about five hundred millions of human beings live and die. The doctrines of Gautama are sublimely beautiful; they are akin to those of our own religion, and I never yet met any one who had studied them who did not confess himself the better and happier for having done so. One may read in prose sketches of the life and teachings of Gautama the Buddha, in a book published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, or he may read them in verse in that splendid poem by Edwin Arnold called `The Light of Asia.' Gautama sees good in all things, and all nature working together for good; he speaks of-- "`That fixed decree at silent work which will Evolve the dark to light, the dead to life, To fulness void, to form the yet unformed, Good unto better, better unto best, By wordless edict; having none to bid, None to forbid; for this is past all gods Immutable, unspeakable, supreme, A Power which builds, unbuilds, and builds again, Ruling all things accordant to the rule Of virtue, which is beauty, truth, and use. So that all things do well which serve the Power And ill which hinder; nay, the worm does well [Note 1] Obedient to its kind; the hawk does well Which carries bleeding quarries to its young; The dewdrop and the star shine sisterly, Globing together in the common work; And man who lives to die, dies to live well, So if he guide his ways by blamelessness And earnest will to hinder not, but help All things both great and small which suffer life.' ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Those among us who have tender hearts towards the lower animals cannot help day after day witnessing acts of cruelty to them which give us great pain. We are naturally inclined to feel anger against the perpetrators of such cruelty, and to express that anger in wrathful language. By so doing I am convinced we do more harm than good to the creatures we try to serve. Calmness, not heat or hurry, should guide us in defending the brute creation against those who oppress and injure it. Let me illustrate my meaning by one or two further extracts from Arnold's poem. "It is noontide, and Gautama, engrossed in thought and study, is journeying onwards-- "`Gentle and slow, Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care For those he knew not, save as fellow-lives.' "When,-- "`Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats, and black sheep, winding slow their way, With many a lingering nibble at the tufts, And wanderings from the path where water gleamed, Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was, Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped. And the vexed dam hither and thither ran, Fearful to lose this little one or that. Which, when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck, Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace! Whither thou goest, I will bear thy care; 'Twere all as good to ease one beast of grief, As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray." So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb. Beside the herdsman in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.' ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sorely this was a lesson which the herdsman, ignorant though he no doubt was, never forgot; farther comment on the passage is needless. Precept calmly given does much good, example does far more." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. A fact which Darwin in his treatise on earthworms has recently proved. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. MIRRAM: A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE OF A CAT--ABOUT SUMMER SONGS AND SONGSTERS. "The mouse destroyed by my pursuit No longer shall your feasts pollute, Nor rats, from nightly ambuscade, With wasteful teeth your stores invade." Gay. "Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife, Come and hear the woodland linnet; How sweet his music! On my life There's more of wisdom in it." Wordsworth. Ida continued to improve, and she did not let me forget my promise to resume my office of story-telling, which I accordingly did next evening, bringing my portfolio into Ida's bedroom for the purpose. Ida had her cat in her arms. The cat was singing low, and had his round, loving head on her shoulder, and his arms buried in her beautiful hair. So this suggested my reading the following:-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MIRRAM: A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE OF A CAT. "Mirram: that was the name of pussy. It appears a strange one, I admit; but you see there is nobody accountable for it except the little cat herself, for she it was who named herself Mirram. I don't mean to say that pussy actually came to her little mistress, and said in as many words, `Mirram is a pretty name, and I should like to be called Mirram. Call me Mirram, please, won't you?' "For cats don't talk nowadays, except in fairy tales; but this is how it was. She was the most gentle and kindly-hearted wee puss, I believe, that ever was born, and if you happened to meet her anywhere, say going down the garden walk, she would look lovingly and confidingly up in your face, holding her tail very erect indeed, and `Mirram' she would say. "You see, `Mirram' was the only English word, if it be English, that pussy could speak, and she made it do duty on every occasion; so no wonder she came to be called Mirram. "If she were hungry she would jump upon your knee, and gently rub her shoulders against you and say, `Mirram.' "`Mirram' in this case might be translated as follows: `Oh, please, my dear little mistress, I am _so_ hungry! I've been up ever since five o'clock this morning. With the exception of a bird which I found and ate, feathers and all, and a foolish little mouse, I've had no breakfast. Do give me a little milk.' "This would be an appeal that you couldn't resist, and you would give her a saucerful of nice new milk, telling her at the same time that it was very naughty of her to devour poor birds, who come and cheer us with their songs both in winter and in summer. "Another morning she would come hopping in through the open window, when you least expected her, and say `Mirram' in the most kindly tone. This would, of course, mean, `Good-morning to you. I'm glad to see you downstairs at last. I've been up and out ever since sunrise. And, oh! such fun I've been having. You can't conceive what a fine morning it is, and what a treat it is to rise early.' "And now, having introduced this little puss to you by name, I must tell you something about her playmates, and say a word or two about the place she lived in, and her life in general, and after that show you how pussy at one time came to grief on account of a little fault she had. Of course, we all have our little faults, which we should strive to conquer, and I may as well confess at once what Mirram's was. Well, it was--_thoughtlessness_. "The first and the chief of pussy's playmates, then, was her child-mistress. Would you like to know what her name was? I will tell you with pleasure; and when you hear it I'm sure you will say it is a strange one. She had two Christian names--the first was Fredabel, the second was Inez--Fredabel Inez--the latter being Spanish. "`But,' you will say, `is "Fredabel" Spanish too, because I never heard of such a name before?' "No, I am quite sure you never did; for this reason: no child was ever called by that name before, the fact being that her papa invented the name for her, as it was the only way he could see to get out of a dilemma, or difficulty. And here was the dilemma. When pussy's mistress was quite a baby, her two aunts came to see her, and they had no sooner seen her than they both loved her very much; so they both went one morning into her papa's study, and the following conversation took place:-- "`Good-morning, brother,' said one aunt. `I love your baby very, _very_ much, and I want you to call her after me--her first name, mind you--and when she grows up she won't lose by it.' "`Good-morning, brother,' said the other aunt. `I also love your dear baby very much, and if you call her first name after mine, when she grows up she'll gain by it.' "Well, when baby's papa heard both the aunts speak like this, he was very much perplexed, and didn't know what to do, because he didn't want to offend either the one aunt or the other. "But after a great deal of cogitation, he possessed himself of a happy thought, or rather, I should say, a happy thought took possession of him. You see the name of the one aunt was Freda, and the name of the other was Bella, so what more natural than that baby's papa should compound a name for her between the two, and call her Fredabel. "So he did, and both aunts were pleased and merry and happy. "But at the time our tale begins baby hadn't grown up, nor anything like it; she was just a little child of not much over four years old. "Now, as the one aunt always called her Freda and the other Bella, and as everybody else called her Eenie, I think we had better follow everybody else's example, and call her Eenie, too. "Was Eenie pretty, did you ask? Yes, she was pretty, and, what is still better than being pretty, she was very kind and good. So no wonder that everybody loved her. She had a sweet, lovely face, had Eenie. Her hair, that floated over her lair shoulders, was like a golden sunbeam; her eyes were blue as the bluest sky, and large and liquid and love-speaking, and when she looked down her long dark eyelashes rested on cheeks as soft as the blossom of peach or apricot. "Yet she was merry withal, merry and bright and gay, and whenever she laughed, her whole face was lighted up and looked as lovely as sunrise in May. "I have said that Eenie was good and kind, and so she was; good and kind to every creature around her. She never tormented harmless insects, as cruel children do, and so all creatures seemed to love her in return: the trees whispered to her, the birds sang to her, and the bees told her tales. "That was pussy Mirram's mistress then; and it was no wonder Mirram was fond of her, and proud to be nursed and carried about by her. Mind you, she would not allow any one else to carry her. If anybody else had taken her up, puss would have said--`Mirram!' which would mean, `Put me down, please; I've got four legs of my own, and I much prefer to use them.' And if the reply had been--`Well, but you allow Eenie to handle and nurse you,' pussy would have answered and said-- "`Isn't Eenie my mistress, my own dear mistress? Could any one ever be half so kind or careful of me as she is? Does she ever forget to give me milk of a morning or to share with me her own dinner and tea? Does she not always have my saucer filled with the purest, freshest water? and does she forget that I need a comfortable bed at night? No; my mistress may carry me as much as she pleases, but no one else shall.' "Now Mirram was a mighty hunter, but she was also very fond of play; and when the dogs were in their kennels on very bright sunshiny days, and her little mistress was in the nursery learning her lessons, as all good children do, Mirram would have to play alone. _She_ wasn't afraid of the bright sunshine, if the dogs were; she would race up into a tall apple-tree, and laying herself full length on a branch, blink and stare at the great sun for half an hour at a time. Then-- "`Oh!' she would cry, `this resting and looking at the sun is very lazy work. I must play. Let me see, what shall I do? Oh! I have it; I'll knock an apple down--then hurrah! for a game of ball.' "And so she would hit a big apple, and down it would roll on the broad gravel-path; and down pussy would go, her face beaming with fun; and the game that ensued with that apple was quite a sight to witness. It was lawn-tennis, cricket, and football all in one. Then when quite tired of this, she would thrust the apple under the grass for the slugs to make their dinner of, and off she would trot to knock the great velvety bees about with her gloved paws. She would soon tire of this, though, because she found the bees such serious fellows. "She would hit one, and knock it, maybe, a yard away; but the bee would soon get up again. "`It is all very well for you, Miss Puss,' the bee would say; `your life is all play, but I've got work to do, for I cannot forget that, brightly though the sun is shining now, before long cold dismal winter will be here, and very queer I should look if I hadn't laid up a store of nice honey to keep me alive.' "And away the bee would go, humming a tune to himself, and Mirram would spy a pair of butterflies floating high over the scarlet-runners, but not higher than Mirram could spring. She couldn't catch them, though. "`No, no, Miss Puss,' the butterflies would say; `we don't want you to play with us. We don't want any third party, so please keep your paws to yourself.' "And away they would fly. "Then perhaps Mirram would find a toad crawling among the strawberry beds. "`You're after the fruit, aren't you?' pussy would say, touching it gently on the back. "`No, not at all,' the toad would reply. `I wouldn't touch a strawberry for the world; the gardener put me here to catch the slugs; he couldn't get on without me at all.' "`Well, go on with your work, Mr Toad,' pussy would reply; `I'm off.' "And what a glorious old garden that was for pussy to play in, and for her mistress to play in! A rambling old place, in which you might lose yourself, or, if you had a companion, play at hide-and-seek till you were tired. And every kind of flower grew here, and every kind of fruit and vegetable as well; just the kind of garden to spend a long summer's day in. Never mind though the day was so hot that the birds ceased to sing, and sat panting all agape on the apple-boughs--so hot that the very fowls forgot to cackle or crow, and there wasn't a sound save the hum of the myriads of insects that floated everywhere around, you wouldn't mind the heat, for wasn't there plenty of shade, arbours of cool foliage, and tents made of creepers?--and oh! the brilliancy of the sunny marigolds, the scarlet clustered geraniums, the larkspurs, purple and white, and the crimson-painted linums. No, you wouldn't mind the heat; weren't there strawberries as large as eggs and as cold as ice? And weren't there trees laden with crimson and yellow raspberries? And weren't the big lemon-tinted gooseberries bearing the bushes groundwards with the weight of their sweetness, and praying to be pulled? A glorious old garden indeed! "But see, the dogs have got out of their kennels, and have come down the garden walks on their way to the paddock, and pussy runs to meet them. "`What! dogs in a garden?' you cry. Yes; but they weren't ordinary dogs, any more than it was an ordinary garden. They were permitted to stroll therein, but they were trained to keep the walks, and smell, but never touch, the flowers. They roamed through the rosary, they rolled on the lawn, they even slept in the beautiful summer-houses; but they never committed a fault--but in the autumn, when pears and apples dropped from the trees, they were permitted, and even encouraged, to eat their fill of the fruit. And they made good use of their privilege, too. These were pussy's playmates all the year round--the immense black Newfoundlands, the princely boarhounds, the beautiful collies, and the one little rascal of a Scottish terrier. You never met the dogs without also meeting Mirram, whether out in the country roads or at home, on the leas or in the paddock; she pulled daisies to throw at the dogs in summer, and in winter she used to lie on her back, and in mere wantonness pitch pellets of snow at the great boar hound himself. "The dogs all loved her. Once, when she was out with the dogs on a common, a great snarly bulldog came along, and at once ran to kill poor Mirram. You should have seen the commotion that ensued. "`It is our cat,' they all seemed to cry, in a kind of canine chorus. `Our cat--_our_ cat--our cat!' And all ran to save her. "No, they didn't kill him, though the boarhound wanted to; but the biggest Newfoundland, a large-hearted fellow, said, `No, don't let us kill him, he doesn't know any better; let us just refresh his memory.' "So he took the cur, and trailed him to the pond and threw him in; and next time that dog met Mirram he walked past her very quietly indeed! "Mirram loved all the dogs about the place; but I think her greatest favourite was the wee wire-haired Scottish terrier. Perhaps it was because he was about her own size, or perhaps it was because he was so very ugly that she felt a kind of pity for him. But Mirram spent a deal of time in his company, and they used to go trotting away together along the lanes and the hedges, and sometimes they wouldn't return for hours, when they would trot home again, keeping close cheek-by-jowl, and looking very happy and very funny. "`Broom' this little dog had been called, probably in a frolic, and from some fancied resemblance between his general appearance and the hearth-brush. His face was saucy and impudent, and sharp as needles; his bits of ears cocked up, and his tiny wicked-looking eyes glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows, as if they had been boatman-beetles. I don't think Broom was ever afraid of anything, and very important the little dog and pussy looked when returning from a ramble. They had secrets of great moment between them, without a doubt. Perhaps, if her mistress had asked Mirram where they went together, and what they did, Mirram would have replied in the following words-- "`Oh! you know, my dear mistress, we go hunting along by the hedgerows and by the ponds, and in the dark forests, and we meet with such thrilling adventures! We capture moles, and we capture great rats and frightful hedgehogs, and Broom is so brave he will grapple even with a weasel; and one day he conquered and killed a huge polecat! Yes, he is so brave, and nothing can ever come over me when Broom is near.' "Now, no one would have doubted that, in such a pretty, pleasant country home as hers, with such a kind mistress, and so many playmates, pussy Mirram would have been as happy as ever a pussy could be. So she was, as a rule; but not always, because she had that one little fault-- thoughtlessness. Ah! those little faults, how often will they not lead us into trouble! "I don't say that pussy ever did anything very terrible, to cause her mistress grief. She never did eat the canary, for instance. But she often stopped away all night, and thus caused little Eenie much anxiety. Pussy always confessed her fault, but she was so thoughtless that the very next moonlight night the same thing occurred again, and Mirram never thought, while she was enjoying herself out of doors, that Eenie was suffering sorrow for her sake at home. "On the flat roof of a house where Mirram often wandered, in the moonlight was a tiny pigeon-hole, so small she couldn't creep in to save her life even, but from this pigeon-hole a bonnie wee kitten used often to pop out and play with Mirram. Where the pigeon-hole led to, or what was away beyond it, pussy couldn't even conjecture, though she often watched and wondered for hours, then put in her head to have a peep; but all was dark. "Perhaps, when she was quite tired of wondering, and was just going to retire for the night, the little face would appear, and Mirram would forget all about her mistress in the joy of meeting her small friend. "Then how pleased Mirram would look, and how loudly she would purr, and say to the kitten-- "`Come out, my dear, do come out, and you shall play with my tail.' "But it was really very thoughtless of Mirram, and just a little selfish as well, not to at once let kittie have her tail to play with; but no. "`Sit there, my dear, and sing to me,' she would say. "Kittie would do that just for a little while. Very demure she looked; but kittens can't be demure long, you know; and then there would commence the wildest, maddest, merriest game of romps between the two that ever was seen or heard of; but always when the fun got too exciting for her, kittie popped back again into her pigeon-hole, appearing again in a few moments in the most provoking manner. "What nights these were for Mirram, and how pleasantly they were spent, and how quickly they passed, perhaps no one but pussy and her little friend could tell. When tired of romping and running, like two feline madcaps, Mirram would propose a song, and while the stars glittered overhead, or the moon shone brightly down on them, they would seat themselves lovingly side by side and engage in a duet. Now, however pleasant cats' music heard at midnight may appear to the pussies themselves, it certainly is not conducive to the sleep of any nervous invalid who may happen to dwell in the neighbouring houses, or very soothing either. "Mirram found this out to her cost one evening, and so did the kitten as well, for a window was suddenly thrown open not very far from where they sat. "`Ah!' said Mirram, `that is sure to be some one who is delighted with our music, and is going to throw something nice to us.' "Alas! alas! the something _did_ come, but it wasn't nice. It took the shape of a decanter of water and an old boot. "One night pussy Mirram had stayed out very much longer, and Eenie had gone to bed crying, because she thought she would never, never see her Mirram more. "Thoughtless Mirram! At that moment she was once again on the roof, and the kittie's face was at the pigeon-hole. Mirram was sitting up in the most coaxing manner possible. "`Come out again,' she was saying to kittie, `come out again. Do come out to--' "She didn't see that terrible black cat stealing up behind; but she heard the low threatening growl, and sprang round to confront her and defend herself. "The fight was fierce and terrible while it lasted, and poor Mirram got the worst of it. The black cat had well-nigh killed her. "`Oh!' she sobbed, as she dropped bitter, blinding tears on the roof,--`oh, if I had never left my mistress! Oh, dear! oh, dear! whatever shall I do?' "You see Mirram was very sad and sorrowful now; but then, unfortunately, the repentance came when it was too late." "Thank you," Ida said, when I had finished; "I like the description of the garden ever so much. Now tell me something about birds; I'll shut my eyes and listen." "But won't you be tired, dear?" said my wife. "No, auntie," was the reply; "and I won't go to sleep. I never tire hearing about birds, and flowers, and woods, and wilds, and everything in nature." "Here is a little bit, then," I said, "that will just suit you, Ida. It is short. That is a merit. I call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ABOUT SUMMER SONGS AND SONGSTERS. "Sweet is the melody that at this season of the year arises from every feathered songster of forest, field, and lea. I am writing to-day out in the fields, seated, I might say, in the very lap of Nature--my county is the very wildest and prettiest in all mid-England--and I cannot help throwing down my pen occasionally to watch the motions or listen to the singing of some or other of my wild pets. Nothing will convince me that I am not as well known in the woods as if I were indeed a denizen thereof. The birds, at all events, know me, and they do not fear me, because I never hurt or frighten them. "High overhead yonder, and dimly seen against the light grey of a cloud, is the skylark. He is at far too great a height for me to see his head with the naked eye, so I raise the lorgnettes, and with these I can observe that even as he sings he turns his head earthwards to where, in her cosy grass-lined nest among the tender corn, sits his pretty speckled mate. He is singing to his mate. Yonder, perched on top of the hedgerow, is my friend the yellow-hammer. He is arrayed in pinions of a deeper, brighter orange now. Is it of that he is so proud? is it because of that that there comes ever and anon in his short and simple song a kind of half-hysterical note of joy? Nay, _I_ know why he sings so, because I know where his nest is, and what is in it. "In the hollow of an old, old tree, bent and battered by the wind and weather, the starling has built, and the male bird trills his song on the highest branch, but in a position to be seen by his mate. Not much music in his song, yet he is terribly in earnest about the matter, and I've no doubt the hen admires him, not only for the green metallic gloss of his dark coat, but because he is trying to do his best, and to her his gurgling notes are far sweeter than the music of merle, or the song of the nightingale herself. "But here is something strange, and it may be new to our little folk. There are wee modest mites of birds in the woods and forests, that really do not care to be heard by any other living ears than those of their mates. I know where there is the nest of a rose-linnet in a bush of furze, and I go and sit myself softly down within a few feet of it, and in a few minutes back comes the male bird; he has been on an errand of some kind. He seats himself on the highest twig of a neighbouring bush. He is silent for a time, but he cannot be so very long; and so he presently breaks out into his tender songlet, but so soft and low is his ditty, that at five yards' distance methinks you would fail to hear it. There are bold singers enough in copse and wild wood without him. The song of the beautiful chaffinch is clear and defiant. The mavis or speckled thrush is not only loud and bold in his tones, but he is what you might term a singer of humorous songs. His object is evidently to amuse his mate, and he sings from early morning till quite late, trying all sorts of trick notes, mocking and mimicking every bird within hearing distance. He even borrows some notes from the nightingale, after the arrival of that bird in the country; a very sorry imitation he makes of them, doubtless, but still you can recognise them for all that. "Why is it we all love the robin so? Many would answer this question quickly enough, and with no attempt at analysis, and their reply would be, `Oh, because he deserves to be loved.' This is true enough; but let me tell you why I love him. Though I never had a caged robin, thinking it cruel to deprive a dear bird of its liberty, I always do all I can to make friends with it wherever we meet. I was very young when I made my first acquaintance with Master Robin. We lived in the country, and one time there was a very hard winter indeed; the birds came to the lawn to be fed, but one was not content with simple feeding, and so one colder day than usual he kept throwing himself against a lower pane in the parlour window--the bright, cheerful fire, I suppose, attracted his notice. "`You do look so cosy and comfortable in that nice room,' he seemed to say; `think of my cold feet out in this dreary weather.' "My dear mother--she who first taught me to love birds and beasts, and all created things--did think of his cold feet. She opened the window, and by-and-by he came in. He would have preferred the window left open, but being given to understand that this would interfere materially with family arrangements, he submitted to his semi-imprisonment with charming grace, and perched himself on top of a picture-frame, which became his resting-place when not busy picking up crumbs, or drinking water or milk, through all the livelong winter. We were all greatly pleased when one day he threw back his pert wee head and treated us to a song. And it was always while we were at dinner that he sang. "`I suppose,' he seemed to say, `you won't object to a little music, will you?' Then he would strike up. "But when the winter wore away he gave us to understand he had an appointment somewhere; and so he was allowed to go about his business. "My next adventure with a robin happened thus. I, while still a little boy, did a very naughty thing. By reading sea-stories I got enamoured of a sea life, and determined to run away from my old uncle, with whom I was residing during the temporary absence of my parents on the Continent. The old gentleman was not over kind to me--_that_ helped my determination, no doubt. I did not get very far away--I may mention this at once--but for two nights and days I stayed in the heart of a spruce-pine wood, living on bread-and-cheese and whortleberries. My bed was the branches of the pines, which I broke off and spread on the ground, and all day my constant companion was a robin. I think he hardly ever left me. I am, or was, in the belief that he slept on me. Be this as it may, he picked up the crumbs I scattered for him, and never forgot to reward me with a song. While singing he used to perch on a branch quite close overhead, and sang so very low, though sweetly, that I fully believed he sang for me alone. After you have read this you will readily believe, that there may have been a large foundation of truth in the beautiful tale of `The Babes in the Wood.' Before nor since my childish escapade, I never knew a robin so curiously tame as the one I met in the spruce-pine wood. "Birds take singular fancies for some people. I know a little girl who when a child had a great fancy for straying away by herself into the woods. She was once found fast asleep and almost covered with wild birds. Some might tell me the birds were merely keeping their feet warm at the girl's expense. I have a very different opinion on the subject. "Robins usually build in a green bank at the foot of a large tree, and lay four or five lightish yellow or dusky eggs; but I have found their nests in thorn-bushes. In the romantic Isle of Skye all small birds build in the rocks, because there are no trees there, and few bushes. In a cliff, for example, close to the sea, if not quite overhanging it, you will find at the lower part the nests of larks, finches, linnets, and other small birds; on a higher reach the nests of thrushes and blackbirds; higher still pigeons build; and near the top sea-gulls and birds of prey, including the owl family. "There is a short branch line not far from where I live, which ends five miles from the main artery of traffic. In the corner of a truck which had been lying idle at the little terminus for some time, a pair of robins built their nest, and the hen was sitting on five eggs when it became necessary to use the truck. "`Don't disturb the nest,' said the kindly station-master to his men; `put something over it. But I daresay the bird will forsake it; she's sure to do so.' "But the bird did nothing of the kind, and although she had a little railway journey gratis, once a day at least, to the main line and back, she stuck to her nest, and finally reared her family to fledglings. "Robins are early astir in the morning; their song is the first I hear. They sing, too, quite late at night; they also sing all the year round; and it is my impression, on the whole, that they like best to trill forth when other birds are silent. "The song-birds of our groves are neither jealous of each other nor do they hate each other. Down at the foot of my lawn I have a large shallow pan placed, which is kept half-filled with water in summer. I can see it from my bedroom window, and it is very pleasant to watch the birds having a bath in the morning. There is neither jealousy nor hatred displayed during the performance of this most healthful operation. I sometimes see blackbirds, thrushes, and sparrows all tubbing at one time, and quite hilarious over it. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. HARRY'S HOLIDAY--KING JOHN; OR, THE TALE OF A TUB--SINDBAD; OR, THE DOG OF PENELLAN. "Country life,--let us confess it, Man will little help to bless it, Yet, for gladness there We may readily possess it In its native air. "Rides and rambles, sports and farming, Home, the heart for ever warming, Books and friends and ease, Life must after all be charming, Full of joys like these." Tupper. "I'm not sure, Ida, that you will like the following story. There is truth in it, though, and a moral mixed up with it which you may unravel if you please. I call it--" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ HARRY'S HOLIDAY. "The hero of my little story was a London boy. Truth is, he had spent all the days and years of his young life in town. I do not think that he had ever, until a certain great event in his life took place, seen even the suburbs of the great city in which it was his lot to reside. His whole world consisted of stone walls, so to speak, of an interminable labyrinth of streets and lanes and terraces, for ever filled with a busy multitude, hurrying to and fro in the pursuit of their avocations. I believe he got to think at last that there was nothing, that there _could_ be nothing beyond this mighty London; and of country life, with all its joys and pleasures, he knew absolutely nothing. A tree to him was merely a dingy, sooty kind of shrub, that grew in the squares; flowers were gaudy vegetables used in window decorations; a lark was a bird that spent all its life in a box-cage, chiefly, in the neighbourhood of Seven Dials. As to trees growing in woods and in forests where the deer and the roe live wild and free; as to flowers carpeting the fields with a splendour of bloom; as to larks mounting high in air to troll their happy songs--he had not even the power of conception. True, he had read of such things, just as he had read of the moon as seen through a telescope, and the one subject was just as vague to him as the other. "Harry at this time was, I fear, just a little sceptical. He lacked in a great measure that excellent quality, without which there would be very little real happiness in this world--I mean faith. He only believed in what he really saw and could understand, from which, of course, you will readily infer that his mind was neither a very comprehensive nor a very clever one. And you are right. "Harry was not a strong boy; his face was pale, his eyes were large and lustrous, his poor little arms and legs were far from robust, and you could have found plenty of country lads who measured twice as much round the chest as Harry. Well, his parents, who really did all they could for their boy, were very pleased when one morning the postman brought them a letter from the far north, inviting their little son to come and spend a long autumn holiday at the farm of Dunryan, in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. He was to go all alone in the steamboat, simply in care of the steward, who promised to be very kind to him and look well after his comforts. And so he did, too; but I think that from the very moment that the great ship began to drop down the river, leaving the city behind it, with all its smoke and its gloom, Harry began to be a new boy. A new current of life seemed to begin to circulate in his veins, a better state of feeling to take possession of his soul. There was no end to the wonders Harry saw during his voyage to Aberdeen. The sea itself was a sight which until now he could not have imagined--could not have even dreamed of. Then there was the long line of wonderful coast. He had seen a panorama, but that couldn't have been very large, because it was contained within the four stone walls of a concert-room. But here was a panorama gradually unrolling itself before his astonished gaze hundreds and hundreds of miles in extent. No wonder that his eyes dilated as he beheld it: the black, beetling cliffs that frowned over the ocean's depths; the beautiful sandy beaches; the broad bays, with cities slumbering in the mists beyond; the green-topped hills; the waving woods; the houses; the palaces; and the grey old ruined castles that told of the might and strength of ages past and gone. All and every one of these seemed to whisper to Harry--seemed to tell him that there were more wonderful things even in this world than he had ever before believed in. "When night came on, the stars shone out--stars more beautiful than he had ever seen before--so clear, so large, so bright. And they carried his thoughts far, far beyond the earth. In their pure presence he felt a better boy than ever he had felt before, but at the same time he could not help feeling ashamed of that feeling of unbelief that had possessed him in London. He was beginning to have faith already--a little, at all events. Were I to tell you of all Harry's adventures, and all the strange sights he saw ere he reached Aberdeen, I would have quite a long story to relate. His uncle met him at the pier with a dog-cart, into which he helped him, the handsome, spirited horse giving just one look round, to see who was getting up. When he saw this mite of a hero of ours,-- "`Oh,' said the horse to himself, `he won't make much additional weight. I'd trot along with a hundred of such as he is.' "So away they went. Now Harry had been taught to look upon London as the finest and prettiest town in the world; but when he rattled along the wide and magnificent streets of the capital of the north, he found ample reason to alter his opinion. Here was no smoke--here was a sun shining down from a sky of cerulean hue, and here were houses built apparently of the costliest and whitest of marble. On went the dog-cart, and the closely-built streets gave place to avenues and terraces, and rows of palatial buildings peeping up through the greenery of trees. "Harry was a little tired that night before he reached the good farm of Dunryan; but his aunt and cousins were kindness itself, and after a bigger and nicer supper than ever he had eaten before in his life, he was shown to his snow-white couch, and the next thing he became conscious of was that the sun was shining broad and clearly into his chamber, and there was a perfect babel of sounds right down under his window, sounds that a country boy would easily have understood, but which were worse than Greek to Harry. He soon jumped out of bed, however, washed and dressed, and then opened the casement and looked down. I have already told you that Harry's eyes were large, but the sight he now witnessed made him open them considerably wider than he had done for many a day. A vast courtyard crowded with feathered bipeds of every kind that could be imagined. Harry hurried on with his toilet, so that he might be able to go downstairs and examine them more closely. "Everybody was glad to see him, but he had to eat his breakfast all alone nevertheless, for his cousins had been up and had theirs hours and hours before. One of his relatives was a pretty little auburn-haired lass of some nine or ten summers, with blue, laughing eyes, and modest mien. She volunteered to show Harry round the farm. But Harry felt just a little afraid nevertheless, and considerably ashamed for being so, when he found himself in the great yard quite surrounded by hens and ducks and gobbling geese and turkeys. I think the animals themselves knew this, and did all they could to frighten him. The hens were content with cackling and grumbling, evidently trying to incite the cocks to acts of open hostility against our trembling hero. The cocks crew loudly at him, or defiantly approached him, looking as if they meant to imply that he owed it entirely to their generosity that his life was spared. The turkey-cocks put themselves into all sorts of queer shapes--tried to look like fretful porcupines, elevated the red rag that Harry was astonished to see depending from their noses, and made terrible noises at him. The ducks were content with standing on tiptoe, clapping their snow-white wings, and crying, `What! what! what!' at the top of their voices. The peahens were merely curious and impertinent; but the geese were alarmingly intrusive. They stretched out their necks to the longest extent, approached him thus, and gave vent to hissings unutterable by any other creature than a goose. "`They won't bite or anything, will they?' faltered our hero, feeling very small indeed. "But his little companion only laughed right merrily. Then taking Harry's hand, she ran him off to show him more wonders--great horses that looked to the London boy as big as elephants; enormous oxen as big as rhinoceroses; donkeys that looked wiser than he could have believed it possible for a donkey to look; and goats that looked simply mischievous and nothing else. What a blessing it was for Harry that he had such a wise little guardian and mentor as his Cousin Lizzie. She went everywhere with him, and explained away all his doubts and difficulties. Ay, and she chaffed him not a little either, and laughed at all his queer mistakes; but I think she pitied him a good deal at the same time. `Poor boy,' Lizzie used to think to herself, `he has never been out of London before. What can he know?' "Little Lizzie had the same kind pity on Harry's physical weakness as she had for his mental. Her cousin couldn't climb the broom-clad hills as she could--not at first, at all events; but after one month's stay in this wild, free country, new life and spirit seemed to be instilled into him. He could climb hills now fast enough; and he was never tired wandering in the dark pine forests, or over the mountains that were now bedecked in the glorious purple of the heather's bloom. "Harry's uncle gave him many a bit of good advice, which went far to dispel both his doubts and fears, and that means his ignorance; for only the very ignorant dare to doubt what they cannot understand. `There are more things in heaven and earth,' said his uncle one day, `than we have dreamed of in our philosophy. What would you think of my honest dog there if he told you the electric telegraph was an impossibility, simply because _he_ couldn't understand it? Have faith, boy, have faith.' "But would it be believed that this boy, this London boy, didn't know where chickens came from? He really didn't. Very little things sometimes form the turning-point in the history of great men, and lead them to a better train of thought. For remember that our mighty rivers that bear great navies to the ocean, like mighty thoughts, have very small beginnings. "Harry observed a hen one day in a very great blaze of excitement. Her chickens were hatching. One after another they were popping out of the shell, and going directly to seek for food. One little fellow, who had just come out, was clapping his wings and stretching himself as coolly as if he had just come by train, and was glad the journey was over. This was all very wonderful to Harry; it led him to think; the thought led to wisdom and faith. "Harry took a long walk that day in his favourite pine forest, and for the first time in his life, it struck him that every creature he saw there had some avocation; flies, beetles, and birds, all were working. Says Harry to himself, `I, too, will be industrious. I may yet be something in this great world, in which I am now convinced everything is well ordained.' "He kept that resolve firmly, unflinchingly; he is, while I write, one of the wealthiest merchants in London city; he is happy enough in this world, and has something in his breast which enables him to look beyond." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Now one other," said Ida; "I know you have lots of pretty tales in that old portfolio." "Well," I said, smiling, "here goes; and then you'll sleep." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ KING JOHN; OR, THE TALE OF A TUB. "King John, he called himself, but every human being about the farm of Buttercup Hill called him Jock--simply that, and nothing else. But Jock, or King John, there was one thing that nobody could deny--he was not only the chief among all the other fowls around him, but he thought himself a very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no wonder that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at any one who chanced to take particular notice of him, or that he asked in defiant tones, `Kok _aik_ uk uk?' with strong emphasis on the `_aik_,' and which in English means, `How dare you stand and stare at _me_?' "King John's tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the darkest purple, his wattles and comb were of the rosiest red, his wings and neck were crimson and gold, and his batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long as one's little finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel. Had you dared to go too near any one of his feathered companions--that is, those whom he cared about--you would have repented it the very next minute, and King John's spurs would have been brought into play. But Jock wouldn't have objected to your admiring them, so long as you kept at a respectable distance, on the other side of the fence, for instance. And pretty fowls they were--most of them young too--golden-pencilled Hamburgs, sprightly Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say nothing of two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were admitted to the high honour of roosting every night one on each side of the king, and were moreover taken into consultation by him, in every matter likely to affect the interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior members of the farmyard. "Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the office he held. He was a very proud king--though, to his credit be it said, he was also a very good king. And never since he had first mounted his throne--an old water-tub, by the way--and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a challenge to every cock or king within hearing--never, I say, had he been known to fill his own crop of a morning until the crops of all the hens about him were well packed with all good comestibles. Such then was Jock, such was King John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not been a king all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince. There was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging from the colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jock _ought_ to have been a Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the sort, as one glance at our picture will be sufficient to convince you. But I think it highly probable that the egg in question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause it to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may, Jock was duly hatched, and in course of time was fully fledged, and one day attempted to crow, for which little performance he was not only pecked on the back by the two fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by King Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard. When he grew a little older he used to betake himself to places remote from observance, and study the song of chanticleer. But the older he grew the prettier he grew, and the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo seemed to dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and every evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at last Jock's life became most unbearable. One morning, however, when glancing downwards at his legs, he observed that his spurs had grown long and strong and sharp, and after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the fortune of war even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to himself he would be no worse off than before. "Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a nice large potato, and said he to himself, `Hullo! I'm fortunate to-day; I'll have such a nice breakfast.' "`Will you indeed?' cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear, and he found himself in the dread presence of King Cockeroo, a very large yellow Cochin China. `Will you indeed?' repeated his majesty. `How dare _you_ attempt to eat a _whole_ potato. Put it down at once and leave the yard.' "`I won't,' cried the little cock, quite bravely. "`Then I'll make you,' roared the big one. "`Then I shan't,' was the bold reply. "Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart, so the battle that followed was of short duration, but very decisive for all that, and in less than five minutes King Cockeroo was flying in confusion before his young but victorious enemy. "When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now triumphant Jock mounted his throne--the afore-mentioned water-butt--and crew and crew and crew, until he was so hoarse that he couldn't crow any longer; then he jumped down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John. "The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to come near the yard, in which he had at one time reigned so happily. He slept no longer on his old roost, but was fain to perch all alone on the edge of the garden barrow in the tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share his meals with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every day he got lazier and fatter, till at last it was all he could do to move about with anything like comfort. When he wanted to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to waddle away to a safe distance from the yard, or else King John would have flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly. "And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of him, used to laugh when they heard him crowing, and remark to young King John-- "`Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,' for his articulation was not so distinct as it formerly was. "`Kurr-r-r!' the new king would reply, `he'd better keep at a respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I'll--I'll eat him entirely up!' "`I think,' said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his wife--`I think we'd better have t'ould cock for our Sunday's dinner.' "`Won't he be a bit tough?' his good wife replied. "`Maybe, my dear,' said the farmer, `but fine and fat, and plenty of him, at any rate.' "Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony of fate, for on the very morning of this deposed monarch's execution, the sun was shining, the birds singing, the corn springing up and looking so green and bonny; and probably the last thing he heard in life was King John crowing, as he proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for the dead King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that, while in life and in power, he had been both a bully and a coward. "But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other faults in many beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to lead the possessors thereof to a bad end. I have nothing to say against ambition, so long as it is lawful and kept within due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the character of even old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how this failing brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely end. "After the death of King Cockeroo the pride of Jack knew no bounds. His greatest enemy was gone, and there was not--so he thought--another cock in creation who would dare to face him; for did they not all prefer crowing at a distance, and did he not always answer them day or night, and defy them? His bearing towards the other fowls began to change. He still collected food for the hens, it is true, but he no longer tried to coax them to eat it. They would doubtless, he said, partake of it if they were hungry, and if they were not hungry, why, they could simply leave it. "Jack had never had much respect for human beings--_they_! poor helpless things, had no wings to clap, and they couldn't crow; _they_ had no pretty plumage of their own, but were fain to clothe themselves in sheep's raiment or the cocoons of caterpillars; and _now_ he wholly despised them, and showed it too, for he spurred the legs of Gosling the ploughboy, and rent into ribbons the new dress of Mary the milkmaid, because she had invaded his territory in search of eggs. Even the death of the two favourite hens I have told you of, which took place somewhat suddenly one Saturday morning, failed to sober him or tone down his rampant pride. He installed two other very fat hens in their place on the perch, and then crowed more loudly than ever. "He spent much of his time now on his old throne; for it was always well filled with water, which served the purpose of a looking-glass, and reflected his gay and sprightly person, his rosy comb, and his nodding plumes. He would sometimes invite a favourite fowl to share the honours of his throne with him, but I really believe it was merely that its plainer reflection might make his own beautiful image the more apparent. "`Oh!' he would cry, `don't I look lovely, and don't you look dowdy beside _me_? Kurr! Kurr-r-r! Am I not perfection itself?' "Of course no one of the fowls in the yard dared to contradict him or gainsay a word he spoke, but still I doubt whether they believed him to be altogether such a very exalted personage as he tried to make himself out. "And now my little tale draws speedily to its dark, but not, I trust, uninstructive close. "The sun rose among clouds of brightest crimson one lovely summer's morning, and his beams flooded all the beautiful country, making every creature and everything glad, birds and beasts, flowers and trees, and rippling streams. Alas! how often in this world of ours is the sunrise in glory followed by a sunset in gloom. Noon had hardly passed ere rock-shaped clouds began to bank up in the south and obscure the sun, the wind fell to a dead calm, and the stillness became oppressive; but it was broken at length by a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend the earth to its very foundations. Then the sky grew darker and darker; and the darker it grew, the more vividly the lightning flashed, the more loudly pealed the thunder. Then the rain came down, such rain as neither the good farmer of Buttercup Hill nor his wife ever remembered seeing before. King John was fain to seek shelter for himself and his companions under the garden seat, but even there they were drenched, and a very miserable sight they presented. "`Oh I what a terrible storm!' cried a wise old hen. "`Who is afraid?' said the proud King John, stepping out into the midst of it. `Behold my throne; it shall never be moved.' "Dread omen! at that very moment a hoop suddenly sprang up with a loud bang, the staves began to separate, and the water came pouring out between them, deluging all the place, and well-nigh drowning one of the two hens which had bravely tried to share Jock's peril with him! "`Kur-r-r!' cried the king, astonishment and rage depicted on every lineament of his countenance. `Kurr! kurr! what trickery is this? But, behold, I have but to mount my throne and crow, and at once the thunder and the rain will cease, and the sun will shine again!' "He suited the action to the word, but, alas! the sun never shone again for him. His additional weight completed the mischief, and the tottering throne gave way with a crash. "There was woe in the farmyard that day, for under the ruins of his throne lay the lifeless body of Jock--the once proud, the once mighty King John." "Oh!" cried Ida, "but that is _too_ short. Pray, just one little one more, then I will sleep. You shall play me to sleep. Let it be about a dog," she continued. "You can always tell a story about a dog." I looked once more into the old portfolio, and found this-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SINDBAD; OR, THE DOG OF PENELLAN. "Unless you go far, very far north indeed, you will hardly find a more primitive place than the little village of Penellan, which nestles quite close to the sea on the southern coast of Cornwall. I say it _nestles_, and so it does, and nice and cosy it looks down there, in a kind of glen, with green hills rising on either side of it, with its pebbly beach and the ever-sounding sea in front of it. "It was at Widow Webber's hostelry that there arrived, many years ago, the hero, or rather heroes, of this short tale. Spring was coming in, the gardens were already gay with flowers, and the roses that trailed around the windows and porches of the pilchard fishermen's huts were all in bud, and promised soon to show a wealth of bloom. "Now, not only Widow Webber herself, but the whole village, were on tiptoe to find out who the two strangers were and what could possibly be their reason for coming to such a little outlying place--fifteen miles, mind you, from the nearest railway town. It appeared they were not likely soon to be satisfied, for the human stranger--the other was his beautiful Newfoundland retriever, `Sindbad'--simply took the widow's best room for three months, and in less than a week he seemed to have settled down as entirely in the place, as though he had been born there, and had never been out of it. The most curious part of the business was that he never told his name, and he never even received a letter or a visitor. He walked about much out of doors, and over the hills, and he hired a boat by the month, and used to go long cruises among the rocks, at times not returning until sun was set, and the bright stars twinkling in the sky. He sketched a great deal, too--made pictures, the pilchard fishermen called it. Was he an artist? Perhaps. "The `gentleman,' as he was always called, had a kind word and a pleasant smile, for every one, and his dog Sindbad was a universal favourite with the village children. How they laughed to see him go splashing into the water! And the wilder the sea, and the bigger the waves, the more the dog seemed to enjoy the fun. "Being so quiet and neighbourly, it might have been thought that the gentleman would have been as much a favourite with the grown-up people as Sindbad was with the young folk. Alas! for the charity of this world, he was not so at first. Where, they wondered, did he come from? Why didn't he give his name, and tell his story? It couldn't possibly be all right, they felt sure of that. "But when the summer wore away, and winter came round, and those policemen, whom they fully expected to one day take the gentleman away, never came, and when the gentleman seemed more a fixture than ever, they began to soften down, and to treat him as quite one of themselves. Sindbad had been one of them for a very long time, ever since he had pulled the baker's little Polly out of the sea when she fell over a rock, and would assuredly have been drowned except for the gallant dog's timely aid. "So they were content at last to take the gentleman just as they had him. "`Concerts!' cried Widow Webber one evening, in reply to a remark made by the stranger. `Why, sir, concerts in our little village! Whoever will sing?' "But the stranger only laid down his book with a quiet smile, and asked the widow to take a seat near the fire, and he would tell her all about it. "With honest Sindbad asleep on the hearthrug, and pussy singing beside him, and the kettle singing too, and a bright fire in the grate, the room looked quite cosy and snug-like. So the poor widow sat down, and the stranger unfolded all his plans. "And it all fell out just as the stranger wished it. He was an accomplished pianist, and also a good performer on the violin. And he had good-humour and tact, and the way he kept his class together, and drew them out, and made them all feel contented with their efforts and happy, was perfectly wonderful. The first concert was a grand success, a crowded house, though the front seats were only sixpence and the back twopence. And all the proceeds were handed over to the clergyman to buy books and magazines. "So the winter passed more quickly and cheerfully than any one ever remembered a winter to pass before, and summer came once more. "It would need volumes, not pages, to tell of all poor Sindbad's clever ways. Indeed, he became quite the village dog; he would go errands for any one, and always went to the right shop with his basket. Every morning, with a penny in his mouth, he went trotting away to the carrier's and bought a paper for his master; after that he was free to romp and play all the livelong day with the children on the beach. It might be said of Sindbad as Professor Wilson said of his beautiful dog--`_Not_ a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward.' "Another winter went by quite as cheerily as the last, and the stranger was by this time as much a favourite as his dog. The villagers had found out now that he was not by any means a rich man, although he had enough to live on; but they liked him none the less for that. "The Easter moon was full, and even on the wane, for it did not, at the time I refer to, rise till late in the evening. A gale had been blowing all day, the sea was mountains high, for the wind roared wildly from off the broad Atlantic. One hundred years ago, if the truth must be told, the villagers of Penellan would have welcomed such a gale; it might bring them wealth. They had been wreckers. "Every one was about retiring for rest, when boom boom! from out of the darkness seaward came the roar of a minute gun. Some great ship was on the rocks not far off. Boom! and no assistance could be given. There was no rocket, no lifeboat, and no ordinary boat could live in that sea. Boom! Everybody was down on the beach, and ere long the great red moon rose and showed, as had been expected, the dark hull of a ship fast on the rocks, with her masts gone by the board, and the sea making a clean breach over her. The villagers were brave; they attempted to launch a boat. It was staved, and dashed back on the beach. "`Come round to the point, men,' cried the stranger. `I will send Sindbad with a line.' "The point was a rocky promontory almost to windward of the stranded vessel. "The mariners on board saw the fire lighted there, and they saw that preparations of some kind were being made to save them, and at last they discerned some dark object rising and falling on the waves, but steadily approaching them. It was Sindbad; the piece of wood he bore in his mouth had attached to it a thin line. "For a long time--it seemed ages to those poor sailors--the dog struggled on and on towards them. And now he is alongside. "`Good dog!' they cry, and a sailor is lowered to catch the morsel of wood. He does so, and tries hard to catch the dog as well. But Sindbad has now done his duty, and prepares to swim back. "Poor faithful, foolish fellow! if he had but allowed the sea to carry him towards the distant beach. But no; he must battle against it with the firelight as his beacon. "And in battling _he died_. "But communication was effected by Sindbad betwixt the ship and the shore, and all on board were landed safely. "Need I tell of the grief of that dog's master? Need I speak of the sorrow of the villagers? No; but if you go to Penellan, if you inquire about Sindbad, children even yet will show you his grave, in a green nook near the beach, where the crimson sea-pinks bloom. "And older folk will point you out `the gentleman's grave' in the old churchyard. He did not _very_ long survive Sindbad. "The grey-bearded old pilchard fisherman who showed it to me only two summers ago, when I was there, said-- "`Ay, sir! there he do lie, and the sod never hid a warmer heart than his. The lifeboat, sir? Yes, sir, it's down yonder; his money bought it. There is more than me, sir, has shed a tear over him. You see, we weren't charitable to him at first. Ah, sir! what a blessed thing charity do be!'" CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A SHORT, BECAUSE A SAD ONE. "Why do summer roses fade, If not to show how fleeting All things bright and fair are made, To bloom awhile as half afraid To join our summer greeting?" "Now," said Frank one evening to me, "a little change is all that is needed to make the child as well again as ever she was in her life." "I think you are right, Frank," was my reply; "change will do it--a few weeks' residence in a bracing atmosphere; and it would do us all good too; for of course you would be of the party, Frank?" "I'll go with you like a shot," said this honest-hearted, blunt old sailor. "What say you, then, to the Highlands?" "Just the thing," replied Frank. "Just the place-- "`My heart's in the Hielans. My heart is not here; My heart's in the Hielans, chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer and following the roe-- My heart's in the Hielans, wherever I go.'" "Bravo! Frank," I cried; "now let us consider the matter as practically settled. And let us go in for division of labour in the matter of preparation for this journey due north. You two old folks shall do the packing and all that sort of thing, and Ida and I will--get the tickets." And, truth to tell, that is really all Ida and myself did do; but we knew we were in good hands, and a better caterer for comfort on a journey, or a better baggage-master than Frank never lived. He got an immense double kennel built for Aileen and Nero; all the other pets were left at home under good surveillance, not even a cat being forgotten. This kennel, when the dogs were in it, took four good men and true to lift it, and the doing so was as good as a Turkish bath to each of them. We had a compartment all to our four selves, and as we travelled by night, and made a friend of the burly, brown-bearded guard, the dogs had water several times during the journey, and we human folks were never once disturbed until we found ourselves in what Walter Scott calls-- "My own romantic town." A week spent in Edinburgh in the sweet summer-time is something to dream about ever after. We saw everything that was to be seen, from the Castle itself to Greyfriars' Bobby's monument, and the quiet corner in which he sleeps. Then onward we went to beautiful and romantic Perth. Then on to Callander and Doune. At the latter place we visited the romantic ruin called Doune Castle, where my old favourite Tyro is buried. In Perthshire we spent several days, and once had the good or bad fortune to get storm-stayed at a little wayside hotel or hostelry, where we had stopped to dine. The place seemed a long way from anywhere. I'm not sure that it wasn't at the back of the north wind; at all events, there was neither cab nor conveyance to be had for love nor money, and a Scotch mist prevailed--that is, the rain came down in streams as solid and thick as wooden penholders. So we determined to make the best of matters and stay all night; the little place was as clean as clean could be, and the landlady, in mutch of spotless white, was delighted at the prospect of having us. She heaped the wood on the hearth as the evening glome began to descend; the bright flames leapt up and cast great shadows on the wall behind us, and we all gathered round the fire, the all including Nero and Aileen; the circle would not have been complete without them. No, thank you, we told the landlady, we wouldn't have candles; it was ever so much cosier by the light of the fire. But, by-and-by, we would have tea. Despite the Scotch mist, we spent a very happy evening. Ida was more than herself in mirth and merriment; her bright and joyous face was a treat to behold. She sang some little simple Highland song to us that we never knew she had learned; she said she had picked it up on purpose; and then she called on Frank to "contribute to the harmony of the evening"--a phrase she had learned from the old tar himself. "Me!" said Frank; "bless you, you would all run out if I began to sing." But we promised to sit still, whatever might happen, and then we got the "Bay of Biscay" out of him, and he gave it that genuine, true sea-ring and rhythm, that no landsman, in my opinion, can imitate. As he sang, in fact, you could positively imagine you were on the deck of that storm-tossed ship, with her tattered canvas fluttering idly in the breeze, her wave-riddled bulwarks, and wet and slippery decks. You could see the shivering sailors clinging to shroud or stay as the green seas thundered over the decks; you could hear the wind roaring in the rigging, and the hissing boom of the breaking waters, all about and around you. He stopped at last, laughing, and-- "Now, Gordon, it is your turn at the wheel," he said. "You must either sing or tell a story." "My dear old sailor man," I replied, "I will sing all the evening if you don't ask me to tell a story." "But," cried Ida, shaking a merry forefinger at me, "you've got to do _both_, dear." There were more stories than mine told that night by the "ingleside" of that Highland cot, for Frank himself must "open out" at last, and many a strange adventure he told us, some of them humorous enough, others pathetic in the extreme. Frank was not a bad hand at "spinning a yarn," as he called it, only he was like a witness in a box of justice: he required a good deal of drawing out, and no small amount of encouragement in the shape of honest smiles and laughter. Like all sailors, he was shy. "There's where you have me," Frank would say. "I am shy; there's no getting over it; and no getting out of it but when I know I'm amusing you, then I could go on as long as you like." I have pleasing reminiscences of that evening. As I sit here at my table, I have but to pause for a moment, put my hands across my eyes, and the Rembrandt picture comes up again in every feature. Yonder sits Frank, with his round, rosy face, looking still more round and rosy by the peat-light. Yonder, side by side, with their great heads pointing towards the blaze, lie the "twa dogs," and Ida crouched beside them, her fair face held upwards, and all a-gleam with happiness and joy. When lights were brought at last, it was plain that the honest old landlady, bustling in with the tea-things, had dressed for the occasion, and from the pleased expression on her face I felt sure she had been listening somewhere in the gloom behind us. The cottage where we went at last to reside in the remote Highlands was a combination of comfort and rusticity, and Ida especially was delighted with everything, more particularly with her own little room, half bedroom, half boudoir, and the rustic flowers which old Mrs McF-- brought every day were in her eyes gems of matchless beauty. Then everything out of doors was so new to her, and so beautiful and grand withal, that we did not wonder at her being happy and pleased. "When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath--" So sings Byron. Well, _he_ had some kind of training to this species of progression. Ida had none. _She_ was a young Highlander from the very first day, and a bold and adventuresome one too. Nor torrent, cataract, nor cliff feared she. And no bird, beast, or butterfly was afraid of Ida. Her chief companion was a matchless deerhound, whom we called Ossian. Sometimes, when we were all seated together among the heather, Ossian used to put his enormous head on her lap and gaze into her face for minutes at a time. I've often thought of this since. Nero, I think, was a little piqued and jealous when Ossian went bounding, deer-like, from rock to rock. Ah! but when we came to the lake's side, then it was Ossian's turn to be jealous, for in the days of his youth he had neglected the art of swimming, in which many of his breed excel. Two months of this happy and idyllic life, then fell the shadow and the gloom. There was nothing romantic about Ida's illness and death. She suffered but little pain, and bore that little with patience. She just faded away, as it were; the young life went quietly out, the young barque glided peacefully into the ocean of eternity. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Poor Frank had an accident in the same year, and ere the winter was over succumbed to his injuries. He died on such a night as one seldom sees in England. The bravest man dared not face that terrible snowstorm unless he courted death. Therefore I could not be with Frank at the end. The generous reader will easily understand why I say no more than these few words about my dear friend's death. Alas! how few true friends there are in this world, and it seems but yesterday he was with us, seems but yesterday that I looked into his honest, smiling face, as I bade him good-bye at my garden gate. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. THE LAST. "Once more farewell! Once more, my friends, farewell!" Coleridge. I have never mentioned Frank's dog, this for the simple reason that I hope one day ere long to write a short memoir of her. Meggie was a collie, a Highland collie, and a very beautiful one too. So much for her appearance. As for her moral qualities, it is sufficient to say that she was Frank's dog--and I myself never yet saw the dog that did not borrow some of the mental qualities of the master, whose constant companion he was, especially if that master made much of him. Frank loved his dog, and she loved but him. She _liked_ but few. _We_ were among the number of those she liked, but, strange creature that she was, she was barely civil to any one else in the world. She had one action which I never saw any other dog have, but it might have been taught her by Frank himself. She used to stand with her two paws on his knees, and lean her head sideways, or ear downwards, against his breast, just like a child who is being fondled, and thus she would remain for half an hour at a time, if not disturbed. When my friend was ill in bed, poor loving Meggie would put her paws on the edge of it, and lay her head sideways on his breast, and thus remain for an hour. What a comfort this simple act of devotedness was to Frank! When Frank died, Meggie fell into the best of hands, that of a lady who had a very great regard for her, and so was happy; but I know she never forgot her master. She died only a few months ago. Her owner--she, may I say, who held her in trust--brought her over for me to look at one afternoon. I prescribed some gentle medicine for her, but told Miss W--she could only nurse her, that her illness was very serious. Meggie's breath came very short and fast, and there was a pinched and anxious look about her face that spoke volumes to me. So when Miss W--was in the house I took the opportunity of going back to the carriage, and patting Frank's dog's head and whispering, "Good-bye." I cannot help confessing here, although many of my readers may have guessed it before, that I believe in immortality for the creatures, we are only too fond of calling "the lower animals." I have many great-souled men on my side in the matter of this belief, but if I stood alone therein, I would still hold fast thereto. I have one firm supporter, at all events, in the person of my friend, the Rev J.G. Wood [Note 1]. Nay, but my kindly poet Tupper, whose face I have never seen, but whose verses have given me many times and oft so much of real pleasure, have I not another supporter in you? Aileen Aroon left us at last, dying of the fatal complaint that had so long lain dormant in her blood. We had hopes of her recovery from the attack that carried her off until the very end. She herself was as patient as a lamb, and her gratitude was invariably expressed in her looks. There are those reading these lines who may ask me why I did not forestall the inevitable. Might it not have been more merciful to have done so? These must seek for answer to such questions in my other books, or ask them of any one who has ever _loved_ a faithful dog, and fully appreciated his fidelity, his affection, and his almost human amount of wisdom and sagacity. The American Indians did use to adopt this method of forestalling the inevitable; in fact, they slew their nearest and dearest when they got old and feeble. Let who will follow their example, I could not _if the animal had loved me and been my friend_. Theodore Nero lived for years afterwards, but I do not think he ever forgot Aileen Aroon--poor simple Sable. I buried her in the garden, in a flower border close to the lawn, and I did not know until the grave was filled in that Nero had been watching the movements of my man and myself. A fortnight after this I went to her grave to plant a rosebush there, Nero following; but when he saw me commencing to dig, a change that I had never seen the like of before passed over his face; it was wonder, blended with joy. He thought that I was about to bring her back to life and him. In his last illness, poor Nero's mattress and pillow were placed in a comfortable warm room. He seldom complained, though suffering at times; and whenever he did, either myself or my wife went and sat by him, and he was instantly content. I had ridden down with the evening letters, and was back by nine o'clock. It was a night in bleak December, 'twixt Christmas and the New Year. When I went to the poor patient's room I could see he was just going, and knelt beside him, after calling my wife. In the last short struggle he lifted his head, as if looking for some one. His eyes were turned towards me, though he could not see; and then his head dropped on my knee, and he was gone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Down at the foot of our bird-haunted lawn, in a little grassy nook, where the nightingales are now singing at night, where the rhododendrons bloom, and the starry-petalled syringas perfume the air, is Nero's grave--a little grassy mound, where the children always put flowers, and near it a broken, rough, wooden pillar, on which hangs a life-buoy, with the words--"Theodore Nero. Faithful to the end." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Author of "Man and Beast." Two volumes. Messrs. Daldy and Isbister.