commission of conservation canada supplement to animal sanctuaries in labrador supplement to an address presented by lt.-colonel william wood, f.r.s.c. before the second annual meeting of the commission of conservation in january, ottawa, june _animal sanctuaries in labrador_ supplement to an address by lt.-colonel william wood ottawa, canada supplement to an address on animal sanctuaries in labrador by lieut.-colonel william wood, f.r.s.c. the appeal prefixed to the original _address_ in announced the issue of the present supplement in , and asked experts and other leaders of public opinion to set the subject on firm foundations by contributing advice and criticism. the response was most gratifying. the twelve hundred review copies sent out to the canadian press, and the hundreds more sent out to general and specialist periodicals in every part of the english-speaking world, all met with a sympathetic welcome, and were often given long and careful notices. many scientific journals, like the _bulletin of the zoological society of america_, sporting magazines, like the canadian _rod and gun_, and zoophil organs, like the english _animals' guardian_, examined the _address_ thoroughly from their respective standpoints. the _empire review_ has already reprinted it _verbatim_ in london, and an association of outing men are now preparing to do the same in new york. but though the press has been of the greatest service in the matter of publicity the principal additions to a knowledge of the question have come from individuals. naturalists, sportsmen and leaders in public life have all helped both by advice and encouragement. quotations from a number of letters are published at the end of this supplement. the most remarkable characteristic of all this private correspondence and public notice, as well as the spoken opinions of many experts, is their perfect agreement on the cardinal point that we are wantonly living like spendthrifts on the capital of our wild life, and that the general argument of the _address_ is, therefore, incontrovertibly true. the gist of some of the most valuable advice is, that while the _address_ is true so far as it goes, its application ought to be extended to completion by including the leasehold system, side by side with the establishment of sanctuaries and the improvement and enforcement of laws. such an extension takes me beyond my original limits. yet, both for the sake of completeness and because this system is a most valuable means toward the end desired by all conservers of wild life, i willingly insert leaseholds as the connecting link between laws and sanctuaries. but before trying to give a few working suggestions on laws, leaseholds and sanctuaries, and, more particularly still, before giving any quotations from letters, i feel bound to point out again, as i did in the _address_ itself, that my own personality is really of no special consequence, either in giving the suggestions or receiving the letters. i have freely picked the brains of other men and simply put together the scattered parts of what ought to be a consistent whole. laws it is a truism and a counsel of perfection to say so, but, to be effective, wild-life protection laws, like other laws, must be scientific, comprehensive, accepted by the public, understood by all concerned, and impartially enforced. to be scientifically comprehensive they must define man's whole attitude towards wild life, whether for business, sport or study. one general code would suffice. a preamble could explain that the object was to use the interest, not abuse the capital of wild life. then the noxious and beneficial kinds could be enumerated, close seasons mentioned, regulations laid down, etc. from this one code it would be easy to pick out for separate publication whatever applied only to one place or one form of human activity. but even this general code would not be enough unless the relations between animal and plant life were carefully adjusted, so that each might benefit the other, whenever possible, and neither might suffer because the other was under a different department. if, in both the dominion and provincial governments there are unified departments of agriculture to aid and control man's own domestic harvest, why should there not also be unified departments to aid and control his harvest of the wilds? a _minister of fauna and flora_ sounds startling, and perhaps a little absurd. but fisheries, forests and game have more to do with each other than any one of them with mines. and, whatever his designation, such a minister would have no lack of work, especially in labrador. but here we come again to the complex human factors of three governments and more departments. yet, if this bio-geographic area cannot be brought into one administrative entity, then the next best thing is concerted action on the part of all the governments and all their departments. there is no time to lose. even now, when laws themselves stop short at the atlantic, new and adjacent areas are about to be exploited without the slightest check being put on the exploiters. an expedition is leaving new york for the arctic. it is well found in all the implements of destruction. it will soon be followed by others. and the musk-ox, polar bears and walrus will shrink into narrower and narrower limits, when, under protection, far wider ones might easily support abundance of this big game, together with geese, duck and curlews. it is wrong to say that such people can safely have their fling for a few years more. none of the nobler forms of wild life have any chance against modern facilities of uncontrolled destruction. what happened to the great auk and the labrador duck in the gulf? what happened to the musk-ox in greenland? what is happening everywhere to every form of beneficial and preservable wild life that is not being actively protected to-day? then, there is the disappearing whale and persecuted seal to think of also in those latitudes. the _laissez-faire_ argument is no better here than elsewhere. for if wild life is worth exploiting it must be worth conserving. there is need, and urgent need, for extending protective laws all along the atlantic labrador and over the whole of the canadian arctic, where the barren-ground caribou may soon share the fate of the barren-ground bear in ungava, especially if mineral exploitation sets in. ungava and the arctic are dominion grounds, the atlantic labrador belongs to newfoundland, greenland to denmark, and the open sea to all comers, among whom are many americans. under these circumstances the new international conference on whaling should deal effectively with the protection of all the marine carnivora, and be followed by an inter-dominion-and-provincial conference at which a joint system of conservation can be agreed upon for all the wild life of labrador, including the cognate lands of arctic canada to the north and newfoundland to the south. this occasion should be taken to place the whole of the fauna under law; not only _game_, but noxious and beneficial species of every kind. and here both local experts and trained zoologists ought to be consulted. probably everyone would agree that flies, wolves and english sparrows are noxious. but the indiscriminate destruction of all mammals and birds of prey is not a good thing, as a general rule, any more than any other complete upsetting of the balance of nature. a great deal could be learnt from the excellent work already done all over the continent with regard to the farmer's and forester's wild friends and foes. a migrating flight of curlew, snipe, plover or sandpipers is worth much more to the farmer alive than dead. but by no means every farmer knows the value of the difference. this is only one of the many reasons why a special effort should be made to bring a knowledge of the laws home to everyone in the areas affected, including the areas crossed by the lines of migration. the language should be unmistakeably plain. every form of wild life should be included, as wholly, seasonally, locally or otherwise protected, or as not protected, or as exterminable, with penalties and rewards mentioned in each case. all animals should be called by their scientific, english, french, and special local names, to prevent the possibility of mistake or excuse. every man, resident or not, who uses rod, gun, rifle, net or snare, afloat or ashore, should be obliged to take out a license, even in cases where it might be given gratis; and his receipt for it should contain his own acknowledgment that he has a copy of the laws, which he thoroughly understands. particular clauses should be devoted to rapacious dealers who get collecting permits as scientific men, to poison, to shooting from power boats or with swivel guns, to that most diabolical engine of all murderers--the maxim silencer,--to hounding and crusting, to egging and nefarious pluming, to illegal netting and cod-trapping, and last, but emphatically not least, to any and every form of wanton cruelty. the next step may be to provide against the misuse of aeroplanes. i believe it would be well worth while, from every point of view, to publish the laws, or at all events a digest of them, in all the principal papers. even educated people know little enough; and no one, even down the coast, at the trading posts, or in newfoundland, should have the chance of pleading ignorance. "we don't know no law here" ought to be an impossible saying two years hence. and we might remember that the newfoundlanders who chiefly use it are really no worse than others, and quite as amenable to good laws impartially enforced. they have seen the necessity of laws at home, after depleting their salmon rivers, deer runs and seal floes to the danger point. and there is no reason to suppose that an excellent population in so many ways would be any harder to deal with in this one than the hordes of poachers and sham sportsmen much nearer home. of course, everything ultimately turns on the enforcement of the laws. and i still think that two naturalists and twenty men afloat and the same number ashore, with double these numbers when hudson bay and the arctic are included, would be enough to patrol labrador satisfactorily, if they were in touch with local and leasehold wardens and with foresters, if the telegraph was used only on their side, if they and the general inspector were all of the right kind, and if the whole service was vigorously backed up at headquarters. two fast motor cruisers and suitable means of making the land force also as mobile as possible are _sine qua non_. the ungava peninsula, hudson bay and arctic together would mean a million square miles for barely a hundred men. but, with close co-operation between sea and land, they could guard the sanctuaries as efficiently as private wardens guard leased limits, watch the outlets of the trade, and harry law-breakers in the intervening spaces. of course, the system will never be complete till the law is enforced against both buyers and sellers in the market. but it is worth enforcing, worth it in every way. and the interest of the wild life growing on a million miles will soon pay the keep of the hundred men who guard its capital. leaseholds an article by mr. w.h. blake, k.c., of toronto, on "the laurentides national park" appeared in the february number of the _university magazine_. the following extracts have been taken from mr. blake's manuscript: "it was in the year , that the idea took substance of setting apart some two thousand five hundred square miles of the wild and mountainous country north of quebec and south of lake st. john as 'a forest reservation, fish and game preserve, public park and pleasure ground'. at a later date, the area was increased, until now some three thousand seven hundred square miles are removed from sale or settlement. an important though indirect object was the maintenance of water-level in the dozen or more rivers which take their rise in the high-lying plateau forming the heart of the park. "when the ice takes in early november the caribou make it their great rallying ground. these animals, so wary in summer and early autumn, appear to gain confidence by their numbers, and are easily stalked and all too easily shot. it is to be feared that too great an annual toll is taken, and that the herd is being diminished by more than the amount of its natural increase. slightly more stringent regulations, the allowance of one caribou instead of two, the forbidding of shooting in december and january, when the bulls have lost their horns, would effect the result, and would ensure excellent sport in the region so long as the park exists and is administered as it is to-day. there is, however, very serious menace to the caribou in the unfortunate fact that the great timber wolf has at last discovered this happy hunting ground. already it would seem that there are fewer caribou, but the marked increase in the number of moose may be one cause of this. before the days of the park the moose were almost exterminated throughout this region; but a few must have escaped slaughter in some inaccessible fastness, and under a careful and intelligent system of protection they have multiplied exceedingly. man may not shoot them, and probably only unprotected calves have anything to dread from the wolves. "in the administration of this reserve the government adopts a policy which has shown admirable results; and as this policy is in direct contrast to the one pursued in the algonquin park it may be interesting to explain and discuss it. it can be admitted, as a matter of theory, that a 'public park and pleasure ground' should be maintained by the people for the people, and that no individuals should have exclusive rights conferred upon them to fish or shoot within it. this ideal conception takes no account of human nature, and a scheme that has to do with the control and conduct of men should not disregard their weaknesses, or the powerful motive of self-interest. the greater part of the laurentide park is free to anyone who takes out a license and complies with certain regulations. but, at the points most threatened by poachers, the practice is followed of granting five-year leases of moderate areas to individuals and to clubs. the first requirement of these grants is that the lessee shall appoint a guardian, approved by the department, and shall cause the conceded territories to be protected in an adequate manner. the guardian, for his part, is immediately answerable to an individual who pays his salary. he contrasts his former precarious living as a trapper or poacher with the assured competence which he now earns more easily, and makes his election in favor of virtue. thus he becomes a faithful servant both of the government and his employer, and a really effective unit in the protection of the park. the lessee, in turn, will neither practice nor tolerate any infringement of the laws which would imperil his lease, nor deplete of fish and game a country which he intends to revisit. he would not necessarily be actuated by these motives if he entered the park casually and considered nothing but his own sport or pleasure. it may be added that the lessee has reasonable assurance of the extension of his privileges if they are not abused and knows that he will be compensated for moneys properly expended if the government sees fit not to renew his term. the guardians co-operate with one another under the general guidance of a most competent inspector, and the striking increase in fish, fur and feather is apparent not only in the region immediately protected but also ouside its boundaries. trappers who fought bitterly against being excluded from this part of the public domain now find that the overflow of wild life into the surrounding country enables them to bring more pelts to market than they did in the old days, and have become reconciled. guardians, gillies, carters, porters and canoemen live in whole or in part, on providing fishing and shooting. under no other arrangement could the conceded territory afford sport and a living to so many people, and in no other way could the balance between resources and their exhaustion be so nicely maintained." on page , mr. blake corroborates the statement of the shameful act i mentioned at the bottom of page of my _address_. "on sighting a band of six caribou he bade his man sit down to give him a rest for his rifle. he then fired and continued firing till all were killed. when his companion made to walk towards the animals, sir ---- said to him roughly: "'where are you going?' "'to cut up the caribou.' "'... i don't want them.'" this game murderer killed three times as many as the prescribed limit on this one occasion. yet nothing was done to him! sanctuaries however desirable they are from any point of view leaseholds are not likely to cover much of labrador for some time to come. they should be encouraged only on condition that every lessee of every kind--sportsman, professional on land or water, lumberman or other--accepts the obligation to keep and enforce the wild-life protection laws in co-operation with the public wardens who guard the sanctuaries, watch the open areas and patrol the trade outlets. i have very little to add to what i said about sanctuaries in the _address_. most of the information received since it was published has only emphasized the points it made. and as no one has opposed and many have supported the establishment of the harrington sanctuary i again recommend it strongly. the miles in a straight line between cape whittle and cape mekattina should be made into an absolute sanctuary for all birds and mammals. if some more ground can be taken in on either side, so much the better. but the miles must be kept in any case. the bird rocks and bonaventure island, one of the mingans, the perroquets, egg island and the pilgrims, are all desirable in every way. there are plenty of islands to choose from along the atlantic labrador and round hudson and james bays. it is most important to keep the migratory birds free from molestation during the first fortnight after their arrival; and the same applies to migratory mammals, though not quite in the same way. inland sanctuaries should be made near hamilton inlet, in the mingan and mistassini districts and up the eastmain river. ultimately an arctic sanctuary might be made on either baffin or melville islands. a meteorological station in the arctic, linked up with labrador by wireless, would be of great benefit to the weather forecasts, as we now have no reports from where so much of our cold or mild winters are affected by the different drift of enormous ice-fields; and whenever one is established, a wild-life protection station should accompany it. sanctuaries should never be too big; not one tenth of the whole area will ever be required for them. but they should be placed where they will best serve the double purpose of being natural wild "zoos" and over-flowing reservoirs of wild-life. the exact situations of most, especially inland, will require a good deal of co-operative study between zoologists and other experts. but there is no doubt whatever, that they ought to be established, no matter how well the laws are enforced over both leaseholds and open areas. civilised man is appreciating them more and more every day; and every day he is becoming better able to reach them. by giving absolute security to all desirable species in at least two different localities we can keep objects of nature study in the best possible way both for ourselves and our posterity. only twelve years ago forty mills were debasing the immemorial and gigantic sequoia into mere timber in its last refuge in california. but even the general public sees now that this was a barbarous and idiotic perversion of relative values. what is a little perishable timber, for which substitutes can be found elsewhere, compared with a grove of trees that will be the wonder and delight of generations? what is the fleeting but abominable gratification of destroying the harmless lizard-like tuatera of new zealand compared with the deep interest of preserving it as the last living vertebrate that takes us back to primary times? what is the momentary gratification of wearing egret feathers compared with the certainty of soon destroying the herons that produce them altogether; or what can compensate for the vile cruelty done to mutilated parent birds and starving young, or the murder of bradley, the bird warden when trying to protect them? letters the following quotations from a few of the many and wholly unsolicited letters received are arranged in alphabetical order. they are strictly _verbatim_: _australia._ the animals' protection society. f. montagu rothery, esq., secretary, pitt street, sydney, new south wales. here in this state our _fauna_ and _flora_ are both rapidly disappearing, there being so many agencies at work for their destruction. it will soon be too late to save many of our beautiful birds and animals, and i am anxious to bring under notice your words for the preservation of animals by a system of sanctuaries. dr. robert bell, late chief geologist, geological survey of canada, who has made many explorations in labrador and adjacent lands and waters, and who has always given special attention to the mammals, writes: i approve very heartily of the plan. it will be a humane thing to try to protect the animals and will be very advantageous in every way. it will no doubt receive the sympathy of all classes. there will, however, be some difficulties to overcome and much work to be done before the plan gets into successful operation.... as to the location and dimensions of the sanctuary, the north side of the lower st. lawrence is the most suitable or only region left, except where it is too far north to benefit the most of the mammals and birds which we should try to preserve. it will be desirable to reserve and protect as great a length of the shore as possible, but perhaps enough will be found between bradore bay on the east and great mekattina island on the west, or this might be extended to natashkwan. to carry it up to mingan, it would become more and more difficult to protect the coast the further up you come. between mekattina island and natashkwan, there are no attractive rivers to tempt trespassers to go inland, those which exist being difficult for canoe navigation.... the animals soon find out where they are safe and come to live in even a small area. the algonquin park is a case in point. there the bears have increased immensely in a few years and the less noticeable mammals and birds have also increased very much. i know of a more conspicuous case of a small area, on the nelson river, where, owing to an old-standing superstition of the indians, the animals have not been molested for a long period and they have become much more numerous than elsewhere.... everything that can be killed is called game. most of it should be called animal murder and should be discouraged. the sanctuary should be placed in charge of a committee of naturalists. but zoologists are scarce in canada and those who have taken an interest in the animals might be included. faithful men to carry out their instructions i think can be found. the president of the boone and crockett club, major w. austin wadsworth, geneseo, n.y., wrote: i wish to express officially the admiration of our club for your paper on animal sanctuaries in labrador, because the whole question of game refuges has been one of especial interest to us and we have been identified with all movements in that direction in this country. captain r.g. boulton, r.n., retired, was engaged for many years on the hydrographic survey of the lower st. lawrence, the gulf and newfoundland. he says: there is no doubt, as regards the conservation of _birds_, that sea-birds, such as gulls, &c., &c., are useful "aids to navigation," by warning the mariner of the proximity of land, on making the coast. on foggy shores, like those of nova scotia, newfoundland and labrador, they are especially useful, and it is to the advantage of the voyaging public to conserve what we have left. while carrying on the survey of georgian bay, and north channel of lake huron, - , the _bayfield_, my surveying vessel, was more than once kept off the rocks in the foggy weather which prevails in may and june, by the chirping and warbling of land birds. his excellency the right hon. james bryce, british ambassador at washington, who is a keen botanist and lover of the wilds, writes: it is painfully interesting. one finds it hard to realize that such wicked waste of the gifts of providence, and such horrible cruelty, should be going on in our time. you are doing a great service in calling attention to them and i heartily wish you success in your endeavours. at a special meeting of the board of governors of the camp-fire club of america, held on december th last, the following resolution was unanimously passed: "_whereas_, the camp-fire club of america desires to express its interest in and endorsement of the plan for the establishment of bird and animal sanctuaries in labrador, outlined by lieut.-colonel william wood in his address before the commission of conservation delivered at quebec, in january, ; "we believe that the establishment of adequate sanctuaries is one of the most potent factors in the conservation of our rapidly disappearing wild life. the camp-fire club of america has taken, and is taking, an active part in the movement for the establishment of such sanctuaries in various places. we believe that such sanctuaries should be established in labrador in the near future, while an abundance of undeveloped land is available and before the wild life has been decimated to such an extent as to make its preservation difficult; "_be it therefore resolved_, that the secretary convey to colonel wood the assurance of our hearty interest in and approval of the plan to establish adequate animal sanctuaries in labrador, and our hope that such sanctuaries will be established in the near future." dr. john m. clarke, director, science division, new york state education department, and a gentleman acquainted with the wild life of the gulf of st. lawrence, writes: i have taken much interest in reading your paper. it seems to be based on an extraordinary acquaintance with the situation. canada is blessed with many unique natural resorts of animal life and i have been particularly impressed with the invasions that have been made on the wonderful nesting places of the waterfowl. in my repeated stays on the coast of gaspe and the islands of the gulf, now running over a dozen years, i have had my attention forced to the hideous sacrifices of bird life that are constantly going on; for example in the magdalen islands with their extraordinary array of shore birds. the great lagoons within the islands afford ideal breeding conditions, and an extraordinary attraction for the hunter as well. my observation leads me to the conviction that the shooting law is not in the least respected on these islands, except perhaps by the residents themselves. in some cases the outsider is obliged to wait for the fall migration of the ducks and geese and so comes within the law, but there are plenty of early migrants that arrive during the close season, only to be quickly picked up by the summer hunter, who realizes that he is too far away to incur the law's force. as far as the shore birds are concerned, it is not the occasional hunter that does the real damage. the islands are becoming widely known to students of birds, and it is the bird student, the member of the audubon society, (in most instances, i regret to say, men of my own country) who are guilty of ruthless slaughter of the shore birds for their skins, and particularly for their eggs; all this in the protected season. the situation is even worse on the bird rocks. that is a protected area and yet is subject to fearful attacks from the egg hunters. i do not mean the commercial "eggers," but the member of the audubon society who has a collection of birds' eggs and skins and wants duplicates in order to enter into exchange with his colleagues. i met there on one of my visits an american "student" who had taken clutches of eggs of each of the seven or more species of waterfowl there breeding, thus destroying at one swoop upwards of two thousand potential birds. it is no wonder that, with such a hideous desecration of the rights of the birds, the population of the rocks is rapidly decreasing. i believe the light-keeper is supposed to be a conservator of the birds and to prevent such uncontrolled destruction; but what can he do, a man who is practically exiled from the rest of his race for the entire year, frozen in for six months of the year? he is naturally so overjoyed at the sight of a fellow creature from the big world outside as to indulge him, whatever his collecting proclivities may be. the eggs that are taken by the occasional sailor seem to me to cut no figure at all in the actual diminution of the bird life there. that is a slender thing compared with the destruction caused by the bird students. it is a severe indictment of the ornithologist that such statements as the foregoing happen to be true. almost as remarkable for its number of waterfowl of the same species is the roost on the east cliffs of bonaventure island. these have fortunately been rendered by nature, thus far, inaccessible and the bird men have not yet found a way of getting among them. yet, even so, there is constantly a great deal of reckless shooting at the birds simply for the sake of "stirring them up." this place is not protected by law, i believe, as a special reservation, but that might easily be brought about if the matter were placed in the hands of some responsible citizen residing on that island. there is a happy situation in connection with the great percé rock at percé, on the top of which the gulls and cormorants have kept house for untold generations. these birds are a constant temptation to the men with a gun, but the percé people are so attached to the birds that no one would ever think of killing one, except the occasional french fisherman who will eat a young gull when hard pressed. any attempt made by outsiders to use the birds as targets is resented so strongly that even the cormorants are let live. your address seems to me timely and extremely pertinent. i hope your proposition may receive more than passing attention and the suggestions therein be made effective, for they certainly aim to maintain the natural attractions and the natural resources of the country. mr. napoleon a. comeau, author of _life and sport on the north shore_, and one who has had fifty years' practical experience within the labrador area, writes from godbout river, que.: i trust your good work will be crowned with success. a lot of good has already been accomplished by the spreading of literature on this subject by the audubon society, the a.o.u. and others, but much remains to be accomplished. it has always been my aim in this section to prevent wanton destruction of all kinds and i am glad to say i have had considerable success in educating our younger generation here. small birds of all kinds used to be wantonly killed by boys, a thing i rarely see now--it was the same in the other ways by men--but i must say that _real_ trappers or indians are not the worst by any means. these men will kill at all times and seasons but only through necessity; strangers and so-called sportsmen are generally the offenders. i have been a trapper myself for years, a professional, but had been taught never to kill wantonly.... of course, much study and care must be exercised in preserving species of birds and animals from destruction, or else, as you say, mistakes may be made. there are species of such that are destructive to others when allowed to increase beyond certain limits, and it takes a very short time to do that in some cases.... about three years ago, ruffed grouse were so scarce everywhere that i have travelled hundreds of miles without seeing one. they were protected by law, which no doubt did much near the densely populated sections, but as far as our coast was concerned did absolutely nothing because indians and trappers shot them on sight for food. last year there were a few seen here and there and all at once, during the present season, there are thousands. hundreds have been shot and they are reported abundant all over. i imagine this must be due to particularly favourable weather conditions and the immense number of foxes trapped last winter. there is also this fall, an extraordinary number of muskrats--they are swarming everywhere, even in totally, unfavourable localities, doing much damage in some places. what is the cause of this? presumably it must be through some cause decreasing the number of their enemies. this is why i think much care must be taken before any steps are taken to protect certain species. some still hold their own against all odds. his royal highness the duke of connaught, governor general of canada, acknowledged the receipt of the _address_ from balmoral castle in september, granted an interview at ottawa in december, and authorized the use of his name to show his sympathy with the movement. dr. w.t. grenfell has a long and most intimate knowledge of the atlantic labrador. he writes: the matters of animal preservation which interest me most are: the rapid decline in numbers of harp seals which we northern people can get for our boots and clothing. this food and clothing supply, formerly readily obtainable all along the labrador, helped greatly to maintain in comfort our scattered population. it is scarcely now worth while putting out seal nets. we attribute this to the destruction of seals at the time of their whelping, by steamers which are ever growing larger and more numerous. no mammal, producing but one offspring can long survive this. along the labrador coast east of the canadian border, birds are destroyed on sight and nests robbed wherever found. the laws are a dead letter because there is no one to enforce them. there is great need also for scientific inquiry with regard to the fisheries--the herring and mackerel are apparently gone, the salmon are getting scarcer, and the cod fisheries have been failing perceptibly these past years. yet there is no practical effort made to discover the reason and obviate it. on the th of september, , earl grey made the following entry in the visitors' book at la roche: i desire to thank the provincial government of quebec for having given me the opportunity of visiting, as their guest, the laurentides national park, and to acknowledge the great pleasure which i have derived from all i have seen and done.... i would also like to congratulate them on the wisdom of their policy in establishing so large a reserve, as a protection for various breeds of wild animals which would otherwise be in danger of extinction, and as a place of rest, refreshment, and recreation for those who love the quiet of the wilds. mr. george bird grinnell, one of the greatest authorities in the world on the indian and wild life of north america, writes: i have recently read with extraordinary interest your address, presented last january to the commission of conservation.... i wish to offer you my personal thanks for the effective way in which you have set forth the desirability of establishing wild-life refuges in labrador, and i trust that what you have said will start a movement in canada to carry out this good project. it has long interested me to know that your people and their officials seem much more farseeing than those on this side of the line, and canada's show of national parks and reservations is far more creditable than that of her neighbour to the south. dr. h. mather hare, who does on the canadian labrador what dr. grenfell does on the newfoundland or atlantic labrador, and whose headquarters are at harrington, where the first coast sanctuary ought to be established at the earliest possible moment, says: may i make a suggestion? the fishermen coming here from nova scotia and newfoundland do not believe there is really a law against egging and shooting. they say it is a put-up job by the people living on the coast, because they want all the eggs and birds themselves. this being the case, would it not be a good idea to have a notice in several of the nova scotia and newfoundland papers warning the fishermen against breaking the law, and in this way putting the interdiction on a legal footing; so they may understand that it is not a mere bluff on the part of the people living on the coast. so far there has been nothing but talk, and nothing official; no arrest made, etc., so one can hardly blame them for the position they take, especially as they have been doing the same thing for many years. the notice should be very clear and penalties set forth plainly. mr. w.t. lindsay, m.e., who has travelled thousands of miles through labrador, writes: i have spent two summers in the north eastern wilderness of quebec and can fully appreciate your suggestions. i take the liberty of sending you a copy of an "interview" by the _montreal witness_ upon my return in , by which you will see that i am in accord with your views, _i.e._, unless the government takes immediate steps to protect the wild animals in the province of quebec, many of them will become extinct.... i would suggest that the commission of conservation make a close investigation of the _ways and means_ of the fur traders along the north shore, and i believe that official, unbiassed and independent investigation will expose a very peculiar state of affairs in connection with the mal-conservation of game. mr. clive phillips-wolley, the well known authority on big-game sport, writes from koksilah, nanaimo, b.c., canada: ... of course i agree with your views: we have in this province been doing our best to put them in practice with the most excellent results. dr. w.t. hornaday stirred us up, and, though we did not put our sanctuaries exactly where he suggested we took a hint from him and have been rewarded by an extraordinary increase in big-horns, wapiti and other big game. i, of course, have shot a great deal as a big game hunter, but, thank god, i don't remember one wanton kill, and i know i have not killed one per cent. of the beasts i might have done. no one wants to.... the hon. theodore roosevelt, ex-president of the united states, writes: i desire to extend my most earnest good wishes and congratulations to the commission of conservation of canada. your address on the need of animal sanctuaries in labrador must appeal, it seems to me, to every civilized man. the great naturalist, alfred russell wallace, in his book, "the world of life," recently published, says that all who profess religion, or sincerely believe in the deity, the designer and maker of this world and of every living thing, as well as all lovers of nature, should treat the wanton and brutal destruction of living things and of forests as among the first of forbidden sins. in his own words, "all the works of nature, animate or inanimate, should be invested with a certain sanctity, to be used by us but not abused, and never to be recklessly destroyed or defaced. to pollute a spring or a river, to exterminate a bird or a beast, should be treated as moral offences and as social crimes. never before has there been such widespread ravage of the earth's surface by the destruction of vegetation, and with it, animal life, and such wholesale defacement of the earth. the nineteenth century saw the rise and development and culmination of these crimes against god and man. let us hope that the twentieth century will see the rise of a truer religion, a purer christianity." i have condensed what mr. wallace said because it is too long to quote in full. he shows that this wanton and brutal defacement of nature, this annihilation of the natural resources that should be part of the national capital of our children and children's children, this destruction of so much that is beautiful and grand, goes hand in hand with the sordid selfishness which is responsible for so very much of the misery of our civilization. the movement for the conservation of our natural resources, for the protection of our forests and of the wild life of the woods, the mountains and the coasts, is essentially a democratic movement. democracy, in its essence, means that a few people shall not be allowed for their own selfish gratification, to destroy what ought to belong to the people as a whole. the men who destroy our forests for their own immediate pecuniary benefit, the men who make a lifeless desert of what were once coasts teeming with a wonderfully varied bird life, these, whether rich or poor, and their fellows in destruction of every type, are robbing the whole people, are robbing the citizens of the future of their natural rights. over most of the united states, over all of south africa and large portions of canada, this destruction was permitted to go on to the bitter end. it is late now, but it is not too late for us to put a stop to the process elsewhere. what is being done in labrador is substantially what was done, and is still, in places, being done in florida. a resolute effort is now being made by the audubon societies, and all kindred organizations, to stop the waste in the united states. great good can be done by this effort, for there is still very much left to save in the united states. but there is very much more left to save in canada. canada has taken the lead in many matters of far-reaching importance to the future welfare of mankind, and has taught other nations much. she can teach no more important lesson to other nations, and incidentally, she can benefit herself in no more striking way, than by resolutely setting to work to preserve her forests, and the strange and beautiful wild creatures, both beasts and birds, of her forests and her sea-coasts. labrador offers one of the best of all possible fields for such work. the forests, the wild beasts and wild birds of labrador can be kept perpetually as one of the great assets of canada; or they can he destroyed in a spirit of brutal and careless vandalism, with no permanent benefit to anyone, and with the effect of ruining the country and preventing its ever becoming what it otherwise would become. the economic argument is by no means the only argument, and, in my eyes, is hardly the most important argument for preserving the forests and wild life of labrador, as your commission desires to preserve them, but it is in itself so important that, even though there were no other reason to be adduced, it would amply warrant the taking of the action you recommend. i extend you my warmest good wishes for the success of your movement. mr. ernest thompson seton writes: ... your most interesting and convincing address on _animal sanctuaries in labrador_. you certainly have hit the nail on the head. it is now demonstrated by experiments in many parts of the world that the only sure way to preserve indefinitely a supply of wild animals is by giving them well-placed, well-selected sanctuaries, wherein at all seasons they are safe. i am delighted to know that you are taking up this important matter with such vigor. _south africa_. major hamilton, superintendent, transvaal government game reserves, koomatipoort, says: i have been much interested in reading col. wood's address. they seem to have the same difficulties to contend with there as we have here, _i.e._, ignorance and apathy of the public, and active opposition from those with axes to grind. major hamilton encloses the _regulations under section_ _of the game preservation ordinance_, , (c)--_reserves_. by these it appears that "owners of private land situate in a reserve or persons having the permission in writing of such owners shall have free access to every part of such land." but routes of access in the reserve generally are exactly defined and must be followed. penalties up to £ may be imposed for the infraction of any one of six different clauses. major hamilton also says: the game sanctuaries of the transvaal stretch along the eastern border of the province for a length of miles with an average breadth of miles. they are in charge of a warden under whom are six rangers. five of these rangers are in charge of each of one of the five areas into which the reserves are divided, four for the sabi reserve and one for the singwitsi reserve, and each has at his disposal a force of native rangers or police. the sixth ranger is specially employed in the capture of live animals for zoological purposes, the destruction of vermin and for any emergency duty which may arise. his headquarters are, therefore, within easy reach of the warden. the warden has, further, in the districts included in the game reserve, the powers of a resident justice of the peace, a sub native commissioner, and a customs officer, while the rangers, white and native, have the full powers and duties of police. the area is therefore quite self-contained, and at the warden's headquarters, are police barracks, court house and lock-up, and a post of the transvaal police in charge of a corporal is permanently stationed there. the special by-laws which are enforced are set forth in the attached slip. there are about , natives, all told, resident within the area. most of them have been admitted as residents on condition of their giving assistance to the staff, and hold their tenure conditionally on their behaviour. this system has been found to work admirably, for, while practically no harm is done by these residents, very considerable assistance has been obtained from them in detecting poachers. all carnivorous mammals are treated as vermin and are systematically destroyed. no shooting or hunting of any kind is permitted in the reserve, and in fact members of the public except on special permit are not allowed to carry firearms or to leave certain main tracks. the species of game mammals found are as follows: elephant, rhinoceros, hippopotamus, giraffe, buffalo, zebra, sable and roan antelope, kudu, water buck, blue wilde-beest, impalla, reed buck, bush-buck, steenbok, duiker, klipspringer, mountain reed buck, red duiker. of game birds there are: five kinds of francolin, two kinds of knorhaan, sand grouse, quail and crested paauw. the most destructive of the carnivora are lions, leopards, chitas, hunting dogs, caracals and servals. baboons, porcupines, &c., being destructive in various ways, are considered to be vermin. vermin have perceptibly decreased during the last few years, in spite of the fact that the game has increased at the rate of fully per cent, per annum. about , head of vermin, on an average, are destroyed annually. the figures for included lions, leopards, wild dogs, &c., the balance being made up of chetahs, caracals, servals, civets, genets, wild cats, hyenas, jackals, otters, baboons, crocodiles, pythons and birds of prey. there were prosecutions for infringement of the regulations, all against natives. dr. charles w. townsend, boston, mass., an eminent ornithologist, says: i have just read with much interest your address on _animal sanctuaries in labrador_, and wish to tell you how fully i agree with you, not only as to the importance of stopping the destruction in labrador before it is too late, but also in the value of animal sanctuaries in general and of labrador in particular. i sincerely hope you will succeed in your good work. in the _birds of labrador_, , boston society of natural history, by mr. glover, mr. allen and myself, we called especial attention to the great destruction of life that has gone on and is still going on there, and we suggested the protection of the eiders for their down, as is done in norway, instead of their extermination, the present course. commander w. wakeham, of the department of marine, says: no one can question the desirability of having certain areas set apart, where wild animals may find asylum, and rest.... a few years ago, from some unusual cause, the woodland caribou, in great numbers, visited that part of labrador, east of forteau, and along down as far as st. charles. a large number were there killed by the white settlers--but this was a solitary, and exceptional year. the indians who hunt in the interior of labrador undoubtedly do kill a large number of these caribou; but, when we consider the great extent of country over which these deer migrate, compared with the comparatively small number of indians--and there is a steadily decreasing number--i can hardly believe that there is much fear of their ever exterminating these deer. then, could we possibly prevent these indians from hunting the deer wherever they meet them? i hardly think we could. the barren-ground caribou are not hunted to any extent by whites. during the month of august, the eskimo of the ungava peninsula, as well as those in baffin island, resort to certain fords, or narrows where these caribou usually pass at the beginning of the fall migration. they kill considerable numbers--rather for the skins as clothing, than for food. but the eskimo are few in number, and i cannot conceive that there is any fear of these caribou ever being greatly reduced in number by these native hunters. any one who has ever met a herd of barren-ground caribou, and seen the countless thousands of them, could hardly conceive of their ever being exterminated. nor would they be if we had to deal only with the native hunters. but, with our experience of what happened to the buffalo when the white man took up the slaughter, we must take precaution in time. up to the present, very few white men have penetrated any distance into the interior of the labrador peninsula, and i do not see that they are very likely to, in the near future. but we never can tell. a few years ago we would have said the same of the yukon region, so that it would be a wise precaution to have set apart a considerable section of the labrador, in the interior, as a sanctuary.... it would perhaps be better to have two regions set apart, one near the saguenay country and another nearer the atlantic coast. we have, however, to consider the fact that sanctuaries will be of no value unless they are well guarded. in the case of the birds the conditions are bad; the destruction on the labrador is horrible to contemplate. the outer islands were scoured by crews from foreign vessels, and whole loads of eggs carried off. there has not been much of this done in recent years. there can he no doubt that, if certain of the larger and less inhabited islands were set apart, and carefully protected, the birds would return to them. i believe that owing to the constant way in which the birds--eider ducks, certain of the divers, gulls, &c., were disturbed, on their natural and original nesting places, they have changed their habits; and, instead of nesting on the islands and by the sea, they have moved to the shores of the interior lakes. you see flocks of young birds in the fall; they have come from the interior, as they were not hatched out on the islands as they used to be. the destruction of geese and curlew does not take place on the labrador. these birds are not disturbed on their nesting grounds; but, to the south and west when they are passing to their winter haunts. geese are found feeding on the hill-sides, on the most distant and northern islands--as far north as any of our explorers have gone. the first birds sverdrup met as he was coming south, in the early spring, were wild geese. these birds are not disturbed on their breeding grounds. the eskimo do not meddle with them. in the same way caribou are found feeding about the shores of hudson bay and strait. like the geese, they feed on berries about the hill sides. i have shot them at the mouth of churchill river, and near cape digges in august, when they were very fat--so fat that it is said that, on falling on hard ground, they would burst open; though this did not actually happen in my case. i certainly think that it would be a grand thing to have certain groups of islands--or even certain sections of coast--set apart as bird sanctuaries. your paper deals entirely with conditions in labrador. there is, however, another part of the gulf coast, where the need of protection is much greater than on the labrador. that is the interior of the gaspe peninsula. a certain region in the interior has been set aside as a park, but it is quite unprotected. here, we have moose, woodland caribou and the red deer, besides nearly all the fur-bearing animals that we find on the labrador. there is no game protection whatever. moose and caribou are killed mostly out of season--when they are yarded, or when it is easy to run them down. in many cases the meat is left in the woods, the hide only being wanted. lumbermen are penetrating up the rivers, further into the interior--every lumber camp is a centre from which the game laws are persistently violated.... the game, both fur and feather, (particularly the ruffled grouse) is rapidly disappearing before their pitiless onslaughts. lumber camps are opened much earlier in the season than they used to be; so that the interior lakes and head waters of the rivers are being cleaned out of fish taken while in the act of spawning. all this may seem very strong language; but it is really not exaggerated. it may help to show the need of more and better conservation.... mr. alfred russell wallace, the founder and exponent of the science of zoo-geography, writes: ... your address on "animal sanctuaries" in labrador, which i have read with the greatest interest and astonishment. such reckless destruction i should hardly have thought possible. there is a considerable public opinion now against the use of feathers as _ornaments_[a] because it inevitably leads to the extermination of some of the most beautiful of living things; but i think the attempts to stop it by legal enactments begin at the wrong end. they seek to punish the actual collectors or importers of the plumes, who are really the least guilty and the most difficult to get at. it is the actual _wearers_ of such ornaments who should be subject to fines or even imprisonment, because, without the _demand_ they make there would be no supply. they also are, presumably, the most educated and should know better. if it were known that any lady with a feather in her hat (or elsewhere) would be taken before a magistrate and _fined_, and, on a second offence, _imprisoned_, and if this were the case in the chief civilized countries of europe and america, the whole trade would at once cease and the poor birds be left in peace. you have, however, treated the subject very carefully and thoroughly, and i hope your views will be soon carried out.... i am glad to hear that mr. roosevelt is a reader of the "world of life." my own interest is more especially in the preservation of adequate areas of the glorious tropical and equatorial forests, with their teeming and marvellous forms of life. numerous other letters from all parts of the world expressing appreciation of the _address_ have been received, the correspondents expressing strong approval of the effort to establish animal sanctuaries in labrador. the names of some of the correspondents are given herewith: sir robert baden-powell, london; prof. h.t. barnes, montreal; julien corbett, london; rudyard kipling; lord stamfordham, london; sir james lemoine, quebec; j.m. macoun, ottawa; henry f. osborn, new york; madison grant, new york. _note._--as a postscript i might add that the owner of part of a very desirable little archipelago, not far from the saguenay, has already offered to give the property outright if a suitable sanctuary can be made out of the whole. this is all the more encouraging because such a gift involves the refusal of an offer from a speculative purchaser. may others be moved to do the same! footnotes: [footnote a: mr. wallace refers to feathers like egrets, not the permissable kinds, like ostrich plumes.] file was produced from images generously made available by the university of florida, the internet archive/children's library) the adventures of a dog, and a good dog too by alfred elwes [illustration: cover] [illustration: a family party] the adventures of a dog, and a good dog too. by alfred elwes, author of "the adventures of a bear," "ocean and her rulers," etc., etc. with eight illustrations by harrison weir. london: george routledge and co., farringdon street, and , beekman street, new york. . london: thomas harrild, printer, , salisbury square, fleet street. contents. page introduction by miss minette gattina early days changes ups and downs the inundation pains and pleasures duty illustrations. page a family party (frontispiece) lady bull good dog! a canine butcher afloat a worthy subject a severe blow consolation preface. i love dogs. who does not? it is a natural feeling to love those who love us; and dogs were always fond of me. thousands can say the same; and i shall therefore find plenty of sympathy while unfolding my dog's tale. this attachment of mine to the canine family in general, and their affection towards myself, have induced me, like the vizier in the "arabian nights," of happy memory, to devote some time to the study of their language. its idiom is not so difficult as many would suppose. there is a simplicity about it that often shames the dialects of man; which have been so altered and refined that we discover people often saying one thing when they mean exactly the reverse. nothing of the sort is visible in the great canine tongue. whether the tone in which it is uttered be gruff or polished, sharp or insinuating, it is at least sincere. mankind would often be puzzled how to use it. like many others, its meaning is assisted by gestures of the body, and, above all, by the expression of the eye. if ever language had its seat in that organ, as phrenologists pretend, it lies in the eye of the dog. yet, a good portion finds its way to his tail. the motion of that eloquent member is full of meaning. there is the slow wag of anger; the gentle wag of contentment; the brisker wag of joy: and what can be more mutely expressive than the limp states of sorrow, humility, and fear? if the tongue of the dog present such distinctive traits, the qualities of the animal himself are not less striking. although the dispositions of dogs are as various as their forms--although education, connections, the society they keep, have all their influence--to the credit of their name be it said, a dog never sullies his mouth with an untruth. his emotions of pleasure are genuine, never forced. his grief is not the semblance of woe, but comes from the heart. his devotion is unmixed with other feelings. it is single, unselfish, profound. prosperity affects it not; adversity cannot make it swerve. ingratitude, that saddest of human vices, is unknown to the dog. he does not forget past favours, but, when attached by benefits received, his love endures through life. but i shall have never done with reciting the praises of this noble animal; the subject is inexhaustible. my purpose now has narrower limits. from the archives of the city of caneville, i lately drew the materials of a bear's biography. from the same source i now derive my "adventures of a dog." my task has been less that of a composer than a translator, for a feline editoress, a miss minette gattina, had already performed her part. this latter animal appears, however, to have been so learned a cat--one may say so deep a puss--that she had furnished more notes than there was original matter. another peculiarity which distinguished her labours was the obscurity of her style; i call it a peculiarity, and not a defect, because i am not quite certain whether the difficulty of getting at her meaning lay in her mode of expressing herself or my deficiency in the delicacies of her language. i think myself a tolerable linguist, yet have too great a respect for puss to say that any fault is attributable to her. the same feeling has, naturally, made me careful in rendering those portions which were exclusively her own. i have preferred letting her say little to allowing her to express anything she did not intend. her notes, which, doubtless, drew many a purr of approval from her own breast, and many a wag of approbation from the tails of her choice acquaintance, i have preferred leaving out altogether; and i have so curtailed the labours of her paw, and the workings of her brain, as to condense into half-a-dozen pages her little volume of introduction. the autobiography itself, most luckily, required no alteration. it is the work of a simple mind, detailing the events of a simple but not uneventful life. whether i have succeeded in conveying to my readers' intelligence the impression which this dog's adventures made on mine, they alone can decide. a. e. lyndhurst road, peckham. introduction. by miss minette gattina. it may seem peculiar to any but an inhabitant of this renowned city of caneville, that one of _our_ nation should venture on the task of bringing to the notice of the world the memoir i have undertaken to edit. but, besides that in this favoured place animals of all kinds learn to dwell in tolerable harmony together, the subject of this biography had so endeared himself to all classes and to every tribe by his kindness of heart, noble devotion, and other dog-like qualities, that there was not a cat, in spite of the supposed natural antipathy existing between the great feline and canine races, who would not have set up her back and fought to the last gasp in defence of this dear old fellow. many a time has he saved me from the rough treatment of rude and ill-conducted curs, when i have been returning from a concert, or tripping quietly home after a pleasant chat with a friend. often and often, when a kitten, has he carried me on his back through the streets, in order that i might not wet my velvet slippers on a rainy day: and once, ah! well do i remember it, he did me even greater service; for a wicked tom of our race, who had often annoyed me with his attentions, had actually formed a plan of carrying me off to some foreign land, and would have succeeded too, if dear doggy had not got scent of the affair, and pounced on that treacherous tom just as he was on the point of executing his odious project. i can speak of these things _now_ without the slightest fear of being accused of vanity. if i say my eyes were beautifully round and green, they are so no longer. if i boast of the former lightness of my step, it drags, alas! but too heavily now. if i dwell on the sweetness of my voice and melody of my purr at one period, little can be said in their favour at the present day, and i feel therefore less scruple in dilating on the elegance of my figure, and the taste of my _toilette_, as, when speaking of them, i seem to be referring to another individual puss, with whom the actual snuffy old tabby has little or no connection. but, it will be said, these last matters have not much to do with the object i have in hand. i must not attempt to palm off on my readers any adventures of my own under the shadow of a dog. i must rather allow my cat's-paw to perform the office for which it has become noted, namely, that of aiding in the recovery of what its owner is not intended to participate. i must endeavour to place before the world of caneville, to be thence transmitted to the less civilized portions of the globe, those incidents in our dog's life which he has been too modest to relate himself, in order that after-generations may fully appreciate all the goodness of his character. to _greatness_, he had no pretension, although few animals are aware how close is the relation between these two qualities. i think i see the dear old dog now, as it has been often my privilege to behold him, seated in his large arm-chair, his hair quite silvered with age, shading his thoughtful, yet kindly face, his pipe in his paw, his faithful old friend by his side, and surrounded by a group of attentive listeners of both sexes, who seemed to hang upon every word of wisdom as it dropped from his mouth; all these spring to my mind when i recal his image, and if i were a painter i think i should have no difficulty in presenting to my readers this pleasant "family party." the very room in which these meetings were held comes as strongly to my recollection as the various young and old dogs who were wont to assemble there. plainly furnished, it yet boasted some articles of luxury; works of statuary and painting, presented to old job by those who admired his goodness, or had been the objects of his devotion. one of these, a statuette representing a fast little dog upon a tasteful pedestal, used often to excite my curiosity, the more because job showed no inclination to gratify it. i managed, however, at last to get at the incident which made job the possessor of this comical little figure, and as the circumstance worthily illustrates his character, i will relate it as the anecdote was told to me. it was once a fashion in caneville, encouraged by puppies of the superior classes, to indulge in habits of so strange a nature as to meet on stated occasions for the express purpose of trying their skill and strength in set combats; and although the most frightful consequences often ensued, these assemblies were still held until put down by the sharp tooth of the law. the results which ensued were not merely dangerous to life, but created such a quarrelsome disposition, that many of these dogs were never happy but when fighting; and the force granted them by nature for self-defence was too often used most wantonly to the annoyance of their neighbours. it one day happened that job was sitting quietly on a steep bank of the river where it runs into the wood at some distance from the city, at one moment watching the birds as they skimmed over the water, at another following the movements of a large fish, just distinguishable from the height, as it rose at the flies that dropped upon the stream; when three dogs, among the most celebrated fighters of the time, passed by that way. two of them were of the common class, about the size and weight of job; the other was a young puppy of good family, whose tastes had unfortunately led him into such low society. seeing the mild expression of job's face, and confident in their own prowess, they resolved to amuse themselves at his expense, and to this end drew near to him. unobserved by their intended victim, with a rapid motion they endeavoured to push him head foremost into the river, master puppy having dexterously seized hold of his tail to make the somersault more complete. job, although thus unexpectedly set upon from behind, was enabled, by the exertion of great strength, to defeat the object of his assailants. in the struggle which ensued, his adversaries discovered that, in spite of their boasted skill, they had more than found their match. one of them got rolled over into the stream, out of which he managed to crawl with considerable difficulty half a mile lower down; the second took to his heels, with his coat torn, and his person otherwise disordered; and the fashionable pup, to his great horror, found himself seized in the formidable jaws of the unoffending but own angry dog. imagine how much his terror was increased when job, carrying him, as i would a mouse, to the edge of the precipitous bank, held him sheer over the roaring river. the poor fellow could not swim, he had a perfect antipathy to the water, and he felt himself at that moment on the point of being consigned to certain death without a chance of safety. but he did not know the noble heart of the animal he had offended. job let him feel for a few dreadful seconds the danger to which he had been so thoughtlessly and in joke about to consign himself, and then placed him in safety on the bank, with the admonition to reflect for the future on the probable result of his diversions before he indulged in them, and to consider whether, although amusing to himself, such games might not be fatal to the animals on whom they were played off. the shivering puppy was too much alarmed at the time to attend either to the magnanimity of his antagonist or the wisdom of his advice, but they were evidently not lost upon him. many can bear testimony to the change which that hour wrought in his character; and some weeks after the event, job received that statue of his little adversary, which had so often struck me, executed by a native artist, with a long letter in verse, a beautiful specimen of doggrel; indeed, gifts both equally creditable to the sculptor and the writer, and most honourable to the animal in whose favour they had been executed. my task will scarce be thought complete without a few words concerning the personal appearance of my old friend; although, perhaps, few things could be more difficult for me to describe. dogs and cats are apt to admire such very different forms of beauty, that the former often call beautiful what we think just the reverse. he was tall, strong, and rather stout, with a large bushy tail, which waved with every emotion of his mind, for he rarely disguised his feelings. his features were considered regular, though large, his eyes being particularly bright and full, and the upper part of his head was broad and high. but none who knew job ever thought of his being handsome or otherwise. you seemed to love him for something more than you could see, something which had little to do with face, or body, or tail, and yet appeared in them all, and shone clearly out of his eyes; i mean the spirit of goodness, which made him so remarkable, and was so much a part of job, that i do believe a lock of his hair worn near one's own heart would help to make it beat more kindly to one's fellow creatures. this idea may be considered too fanciful, too cat-like, but i believe it notwithstanding. such was the dog whose autobiography i have great pleasure in presenting to the world. many may object to the unpolished style in which his memoirs are clothed, but all who knew him will easily pardon every want of elegance in his language; and those who had not the honour of his acquaintance, will learn to appreciate his character from the plain spirit of truth which breathes in every line he wrote. i again affirm that i need make no apology for attaching my name to that of one so worthy the esteem of his co-dogs, ay, and co-cats too; for in spite of the differences which have so often raised up a barrier between the members of his race and ours, not even the noblest among us could be degraded by raising a "mew" to the honour of such a thoroughly honest dog. minette gattina. the upper mews, caneville. early days. i was not born in this city of caneville, but was brought here at so young an age, that i have no recollection of any other place. i do not remember either my father or my mother. an old doggess,[a] who was the only creature i can recal to mind when i was a pup, took care of me. at least, she said she did. but from what i recollect, i had to take most care of myself. it was from her i learnt what i know about my parents. she has told me that my father was a foreign dog of high rank; from a country many, many miles away, called newfoundland, and that my mother was a member of the mastiff family. but how i came to be under the care of herself, and how it happened, if my parents were such superior animals, that i should be forced to be so poor and dirty, i cannot tell. i have sometimes ventured to ask her; but as she always replied with a snarl or a bite, i soon got tired of putting any questions to her. i do not think she was a very good temper; but i should not like to say so positively, because i was still young when she died, and perhaps the blows she gave me, and the bites she inflicted, were only intended for my good; though i did not think so at the time. [footnote a: i have preferred adopting this word in speaking of female dogs, as it comes nearer to the original, _zaïyen_.] as we were very poor, we were forced to live in a wretched kennel in the dampest part of the town, among dogs no better off than ourselves. the place we occupied overhung the water, and one day when the old doggess was punishing me for something i had done, the corner in which i was crouched being rotten, gave way, and i fell plump into the river. i had never been in the water before, and i was very frightened, for the stream was so rapid that it carried me off and past the kennels i knew, in an instant. i opened my mouth to call out for help; but as i was almost choked with the water that got into it, i shut it again, and made an effort to reach the land. to my surprise i found that, by moving my paws and legs, i not only got my head well above the water, but was able to guide myself to the bank, on to which i at length dragged myself, very tired and out of breath, but quite recovered from my fear. i ran over the grass towards the town as fast as i could, stopping now and then to shake my coat, which was not so wet, however, as you would suppose; but before i had got half way home i met the doggess, hopping along, with her tongue out of her mouth, panting for breath, she having run all the way from the kennel, out of which i had popped so suddenly, along the bank, with the hope of picking me up somewhere. she knew, she said, that i should never be drowned. but how she _could_ know that was more than i could then imagine. when we met, after i had escaped so great a danger, i flew to her paws, in the hope of getting a tender lick; but as soon as she recovered breath, she caught hold of one of my ears with her teeth, and bit it till i howled with pain, and then set off running with me at a pace which i found it difficult to keep up with. i remember at the time thinking it was not very kind of her; but i have since reflected that perhaps she only did it to brighten me up and prevent me taking cold. this was my first adventure, and also my first acquaintance with the water. from that day i often ventured into the river, and in the end became so good a swimmer, that there were few dogs in caneville who could surpass me in strength and dexterity afloat. many moons came and passed away, and i was getting a big dog. my appetite grew with my size, and as there was little to eat at home, i was forced to wander through the streets to look after stray bones; but i was not the only animal employed thus hunting for a livelihood, and the bits scattered about the streets being very few and small, some of us, as may be imagined, got scanty dinners. there was such quarrelling and fighting, also, for the possession of every morsel, that if you were not willing to let go any piece you had seized upon, you were certain to have half-a-dozen curs upon your back to force you to do so; and the poor weakly dog, whose only hope of a meal lay in what he might pick up, ran a sad chance of being starved. one of the fiercest fights i have ever been engaged in occurred upon one of these occasions. i had had no breakfast, and it was already past the hour when the rich dogs of caneville were used to dine. hungry and disconsolate, i was trotting slowly past a large house, when a side-door opened, and a servant jerked a piece of meat into the road. in the greatest joy i pounced upon the prize, but not so quickly but that two ragged curs, who were no doubt as hungry as myself, managed to rush to the spot in time to get hold of the other end of it. then came a struggle for the dainty; and those who do not know how hard dogs will fight for their dinner, when they have had no breakfast, should have been there to learn the lesson. after giving and receiving many severe bites, the two dogs walked off--perhaps they did not think the meat was worth the trouble of contending for any longer--and i was left to enjoy my meal in peace. i had scarcely, however, squatted down, with the morsel between my paws, than a miserable little puppy, who seemed as if he had had neither dinner nor breakfast for the last week, came and sat himself at a little distance from me, and without saying a word, brushed the pebbles about with his ragged tail, licked his chops, and blinked his little eyes at me so hopefully, that, hungry as i was, i could not begin my meat. as i looked at him, i observed two tears gather at the side of his nose, and grow bigger and bigger until they would no longer stop there, but tumbled on to the ground. i could bear it no longer. i do not know even now what ailed me; but my own eyes grew so dim, that there seemed a mist before them which prevented my seeing anything plainly. i started up, and pushing to the poor whelp the piece of meat which had cost me three new rents in my coat and a split ear, i trotted slowly away. i stopped at the corner to see whether he appeared to enjoy it, and partly to watch that no other dog should take it from him. the road was quite clear, and the poor pup quite lost in the unusual treat of a good meal; so i took my way homewards, with an empty stomach but a full heart. i was so pleased to see that little fellow enjoy his dinner so thoroughly. this sort of life, wherein one was compelled either to fight for every bit one could get to eat or go without food altogether, became at last so tiresome to me that i set about for some other means of providing for my wants. i could not understand how the old doggess used to manage, but though she never had anything to give me, she did not seem to be without food herself. she was getting so much more cross and quarrelsome, perhaps on account of her age and infirmities, that i now saw but little of her, as i often, on a fine night, preferred curling myself up under a doorway or beneath a tree, to returning to the kennel and listening to her feeble growls. she never seemed to want me there, so i had less difficulty in keeping away from her. chance assisted me in the choice of my new attempt at getting a living. i was walking along one of the narrow streets of caneville, when i was stopped by an old dog, who was known to be very rich and very miserly. he had lately invented a novel kind of match for lighting pipes and cigars, which he called "a fire-fly," the composition of which was so dangerous that it had already caused a good deal of damage in the town from its exploding; and he wanted some active young dogs to dispose of his wares to the passers-by according to the custom of caneville. as he expected a good deal of opposition from the venders of a rival article, it was necessary to make choice of such agents as would not be easily turned from their purpose for fear of an odd bite or two. i suppose he thought i was well fitted for the object he had in view. i was very poor--one good reason, for his employing me, as i would be contented with little; i was strong, and should therefore be able to get through the work; i was willing, and bore a reputation for honesty--all sufficient causes for old fily (that was his name) to stop me this fine morning and propose my entering his service. terms are easily arranged where both parties are willing to come to an agreement. after being regaled with a mouldy bone, and dressed out in an old suit of clothes belonging to my new master, which, in spite of a great hole in one of the knees, i was not a little proud of, with a bundle of wares under my arm and a box of the famous "fire-flies" in my paw, i began my commercial career. but, alas! either the good dogs of caneville were little disposed to speculate that day, or i was very awkward in my occupation, but no one seemed willing to make a trial of my "fire-flies." in vain i used the most enticing words to set off my goods, even going so far as to say that cigars lighted with these matches would have a very much finer flavour, and could not possibly go out. this i said on the authority of my employer, who assured me of the fact. it was of no use; not a single "fire-fly" blazed in consequence, and i began to fear that i was not destined to make my fortune as a match-seller. at length there came sweeping down the street a party which at once attracted me, and i resolved to use my best efforts to dispose, at least, of one of my boxes, if it were only to convince my master that i had done my best. the principal animal of the group was a lady doggess, beautifully dressed, with sufficient stuff in her gown to cover a dozen ordinary dogs, a large muff to keep her paws from the cold, and a very open bonnet with a garden-full of flowers round her face, which, in spite of her rich clothes, i did not think a very pretty one. a little behind her was another doggess, not quite so superbly dressed, holding a puppy by the paw. it was very certain that they were great animals, for two or three dogs they had just passed had taken off their hats as they went by, and then put their noses together as if they were saying something about them. [illustration: lady bull] i drew near, and for the first time in my life was timid and abashed. the fine clothes, no doubt, had something to do with making me feel so, but--i was still very young. taking courage, i went on tiptoe to the great lady, and begged her to buy a box of "fire-flies" of a poor dog who had no other means of gaining his bread. now, you must know that these matches had not a pleasant smell--few matches have; but as they were shut up in the box, the odour could not have been _very_ sensible. however, when i held up the article towards her ladyship, she put her paw to her nose--as though to shut out the odour--uttered a low howl, and, though big enough and strong enough to have sent me head over heels with a single blow, seemed on the point of falling to the ground. but at the instant, two male servants, whom i had not seen, ran to her assistance, while i, who was the innocent cause of all this commotion, stood like a silly dog that i was, with my box in the air and my mouth wide open, wondering what it all meant. i was not suffered to remain long in ignorance; for the two hounds in livery, turning to me, so belaboured my poor back that i thought at first my bones were broken; while the young puppy, who, it appears, was her ladyship's youngest son, running behind me, while i was in this condition, gave my tail such a pull as to cause me the greatest pain. they then left me in the middle of the road, to reflect on my ill success in trade, and gather up my stock as i best could. i do not know what it was which made me so anxious to learn the name and rank of the lady doggess who had been the cause of my severe punishment, but i eagerly inquired of a kind mongrel, who stopped to help me collect my scattered goods, if he knew anything about her. he said, she was called lady bull; that her husband. sir john bull, had made a large fortune somehow, and that they lived in a splendid house, had about thirty puppies, little and big, had plenty of servants, and spent a great deal of money. he could hardly imagine, he said, that it was the odour of the "fire-flies" which had occasioned me to be knocked down for upsetting her ladyship, as she had been a butcher's daughter, and was used to queer smells, unless her nose had perhaps got more delicate with her change of position. he said much more about her and her peculiarities than i either remember or care to repeat; but, imagining he had some private reasons for saying what he did, i thanked him for his trouble, and bid him good day. whatever the cause of my failure, it seemed that i was not fitted for the match-business. at all events, the experience of that morning did not encourage me sufficiently to proceed. so, returning the unsold "fire-flies" to old fily, i made him a present of the time i had already spent in his service, and, with a thoughtful face and aching bones, took my way towards the kennel by the water-side. changes. the sun was just going down as i came in sight of the river and the row of poor kennels which stood on the bank, many of them, like our own, projecting half over the water. i could not help wondering at the pretty effect they made at a distance, with the blue river dancing gaily by their side, the large trees of the wood on the opposite bank waving in beauty, and the brilliant sun changing everything that his rays fell upon into gold. he made the poor kennels look so splendid for the time, that no one would have thought the animals who lived in them could ever be poor or unhappy. but when the rich light was gone,--gone with the sun which made it to some other land,--it seemed as if the whole place was changed. the trees shivered as though a cold wind was stirring them. the river ran dark and sullenly by the poor houses; and the houses themselves looked more wretched, i thought, than they had ever appeared before. yet, somehow, they were more homelike in their dismal state than when they had a golden roof and purple sides, so, resuming my walk, for i had stopped to admire the pretty picture, i soon came near the door. it was open, as usual. but what was _not_ usual, was to hear other sounds from within than the voice of the old doggess, making ceaseless moans. now it seemed as if all the doggesses of the neighbourhood had met in the poor hut to pass the evening, for there was such confusion of tongues, and such a rustling sound, as told me, before i peeped inside, that there was a large party got together, and that tails were wagging at a fearful rate. when i stood before the open door, all the scene broke upon me. on her bed of straw, evidently at the point of death, lay my poor doggess. her eyes had almost lost their fierce expression, and were becoming fixed and glassy--a slight tremor in her legs and movement of her stumpy tail, were all that told she was yet living; not even her breast was seen to heave. i had not much reason to bear love to the old creature for any kindness she had ever shown me, but this sight overcame me at once. springing to her aide, and upsetting half a dozen of the gossips by the movement, i laid my paw on hers; and, involuntarily raising my head in the air, i sent forth a howl which shook the rotten timbers of the old kennel, and so frightened the assembled party as to make them scamper out of the place like mad things. the sound even called back the departing senses of the dying doggess. she drew me to her with her paws, and made an effort to lick me. the action quite melted me. i put down my head to hers and felt a singular pleasure mixed with grief whilst i licked and caressed her, i could not help thinking then, as i have often thought since, of how much happiness we had lost by not being more indulgent to each other's faults, forgiving and loving one another. she also seemed to be of this opinion, if i might judge by the grateful look and passive manner in which she received my attentions. perhaps the near approach of her end gave a softness to her nature which was unusual to her; it is not unlikely; but, of a certainty, i never felt before how much i was losing, as when i saw that poor doggess's life thus ebbing away. night had come on while i sat watching by her side. everything about the single room had become more and more indistinct, until all objects were alike blended in the darkness. i could no longer distinguish the shape of my companion, and, but that i _knew_ she was there, i could have thought myself alone. the wind had fallen; the water seemed to run more gently than it was wont to do; and the noises which generally make themselves heard in the streets of caneville appeared to be singularly quieted. but once only, at another period of my life, which i shall speak of in its proper place, do i ever remember to have been so struck by the silence, and to have felt myself so entirely alone. the moon appeared to rise quicker that night, as though it pitied the poor forlorn dog. it peeped over an opposite house, and directly after, shone coldly but kindly through the open door. at least, its light seemed to come like the visit of a friend, in spite of its showing me what i feared, that i was _indeed_ alone in the world. the poor doggess had died in the darkness between the setting of the sun and the moon's rise. i was sure that she was dead, yet i howled no more. my grief was very great; for it is a sad, sad thing when you are young to find you are without friends; perhaps sadder when you are old; but that, i fortunately do not myself know, for i am old, and have many friends. i recollect putting my nose between my paws, and lying at full length on the floor, waiting till the bright sun should come again, and thinking of my forlorn condition. i must have slept and dreamed--yet i thought i was still in the old kennel with the dead doggess by my side. but everything seemed to have found a voice, and to be saying kind things to me. the river, as it ran and shook the supports of the old kennel, appeared to cry out in a rough but gay tone: "job, job, my dog, cheer up, cheer up; the world is before you, job, cheer up, cheer up." the light wind that was coming by that way stopped to speak to me as it passed. it flew round the little room, and whispered as it went: "poor dog, poor dog, you are very lonely; but the good need not be so; the good may have friends, dear job, however poor!" the trees, as they waved their heads, sent kindly words across the water, that made their way to my heart right through the chinks of the old cabin; and when morning broke, and a bright sky smiled beautifully upon the streets of caneville, i woke up, sad indeed, but full of hope. some ragged curs arrived, and carried the old doggess away. she was very heavy, and they were forced to use all their strength. i saw her cast into the water, which she disliked so much alive; i watched her floating form until the rapid current bore it into the wood, and i stayed sitting on the brink of the river wondering where it would reach at last, and what sort of places must lie beyond the trees. i had an idea in my own mind that the sun rested there all night, only i could not imagine how it came up again in the morning in quite an opposite quarter; but then i was such a young and ignorant puppy! after thinking about this and a good many other matters of no importance to my story, i got upon my legs, and trotted gently along the bank, towards a part of the city which i did not remember to have seen before. the houses were very few, but they were large and handsome, and all had pretty gardens in nice order, with flowers which smelt so sweet, that i thought the dogs who could always enjoy such advantages must be very happy. but one of the houses, larger than all the rest, very much struck me, for i had never an idea of such a splendid place being in caneville. it was upon a little hill that stood at some distance from the river, and the ground which sloped down from the house into the water was covered with such beautiful grass, that it made one long to nibble and roll upon it. while i was quietly looking at this charming scene, i was startled by a loud noise of barking and howling higher up the river, and a confused sound, as if a great many dogs were assembled at one place, all calling out together. i ran at once in the direction of the hubbub, partly out of curiosity and in part from some other motive, perhaps the notion of being able to render some help. a little before me the river had a sudden bend, and the bank rose high, which prevented me seeing the cause of the noise; but when i reached the top, the whole scene was before me. on my side of the river a great crowd had assembled, who were looking intently upon something in the water; and on the opposite bank there was a complete stream of dogs, running down to the hill which belonged to the beautiful house i had been admiring. every dog, as he ran, seemed to be trying to make as much noise as he could; and those i spoke to were barking so loudly, and jumping about in such a way, that i could at first get no explanation of what was the matter. at last i saw that the struggling object in the water was a young puppy, which seemed very nicely dressed, and at the same moment the mongrel, who had helped me to pick up my matches the day before, came alongside of me, and said: "ah, young firefly, how are you? isn't this a game? that old lady bull who got you such a drubbing yesterday, is in a pretty mess. her thirty-second pup has just tumbled into the water, and will certainly be drowned. isn't she making a fuss? just look!" one rapid glance showed me the grand lady he spoke of, howling most fearfully on the other side of the stream, while two pups, about the same size as the one in the water, and a stout dog, who looked like the papa, were sometimes catching hold of her and then running about, not knowing what to do. i stopped no longer. i threw off my over-coat, and running to a higher part of the bank, leapt into the water, the mongrel's voice calling after me: "what are you going to do? don't you know its the son of the old doggess who had you beat so soundly? look at your shoulder, where the hair has been all knocked off with the blows?" without paying the least attention to these words, which i could not help hearing they were called out so loudly, i used all my strength to reach the poor little pup, who, tired with his efforts to help himself, had already floated on to his back, while his tiny legs and paws were moving feebly in the air. i reached him after a few more efforts, and seizing his clothes with my teeth, i got his head above the water, and swam with my load slowly towards the bank. as i got nearer, i could see lady bull, still superbly dressed, but without her bonnet, throw up her paws and nose towards the sky, and fall back into the arms of her husband; while the two pups by her side expressed their feelings in different ways; for one stuffed his little fists into his eyes, and the other waved his cap in the air, and broke forth into a succession of infantile bow-wows. [illustration: good dog!] on reaching, the bank, i placed my load at the feet of his poor mother, who threw herself by his side and hugged him to her breast, in a way which proved how much tenderness was under those fine clothes and affected manners. the others stood around her uttering low moans of sympathy, and i, seeing all so engaged and taken up with the recovered dog, quietly, and, as i thought, unseen by all, slid back into the water, and permitted myself to be carried by the current down the river. i crawled out at some short distance from the spot where this scene had taken place, and threw myself on to the grass, in order to rest from my fatigue and allow the warm sun to dry my saturated clothes. what i felt i can scarce describe, although i remember so distinctly everything connected with that morning. my principal sensation was that of savage joy, to think i had saved the son of the doggess who had caused me such unkind treatment. i was cruel enough, i am sorry to say, to figure to myself her pain at receiving such a favour from me--but that idea soon passed away, on reflecting that perhaps she would not even know to whom she owed her son's escape from death. in the midst of my ruminations, a light step behind me caused me to raise my head. i was positively startled at the beautiful object which i beheld. it was a lady puppy about my own age, but so small in size, and with such an innocent sweet look, that she seemed much younger. her dress was of the richest kind, and her bonnet, which had fallen back from her head, showed her glossy dark hair and drooping ears that hung gracefully beside her cheeks. poorly as i was dressed, and wet as i still was from my bath, she sat herself beside me, and putting her little soft paw upon my shoulder, said, with a smile-- "ah, job!--for i know that's your name--did you think you could get off so quietly without any one seeing you, or stopping you, or saying one single 'thank you, job,' for being such a good noble dog as you are? did you think there was not one sharp eye in caneville to watch the saver, but that all were fixed upon the saved? that every tongue was so engaged in sympathizing with the mother, that not one was left to praise the brave? if you thought this, dear job, you did me and others wrong, great wrong. there are some dogs, at least, who may forget an injury, but who never forget a noble action, and i have too great a love for my species to let you think so. i shall see you again, dear job, though i must leave you now. i should be blamed if it were known that i came here to talk to you as i have done; but i could not help it, i could not let you believe that a noble heart was not understood in caneville. adieu. do not forget the name of fida." she stooped down, and for a moment her silky hair waved on my rough cheek, while her soft tongue gently licked my face. before i could open my mouth in reply--before, indeed, i had recovered from my surprise, and the admiration which this beautiful creature caused me, she was gone. i sprang on to my legs to observe which way she went, but not a trace of her could i see, and i thought it would not be proper to follow her. when i felt certain of being alone, i could hardly restrain my feelings. i threw myself on my back, i rolled upon the grass, i turned head over heels in the boisterousness of my spirit, and then gambolled round and round like a mad thing. did i believe all the flattering praises which the lovely fida had bestowed on me? i might perhaps have done so then, and in my inexperience might have fancied that i was quite a hero. time has taught me another lesson. it has impressed upon me the truth, that when we do our duty we do only what should be expected of every dog; only what every dog ought to do. of the two, fida had done the nobler action. she had shown not only a promptness to feel what she considered good, but she had had the courage to say so in private to the doer, although he was of the poorest and she of the richest class of caneville society. in saving the little pup's life, i had risked nothing; i knew my strength, and felt certain i could bring him safely to the shore. if i had _not_ tried to save the poor little fellow i should have been in part guilty of his death. but she, in bestowing secret praise and encouragement upon a poor dog who had no friends to admire her for so doing, while her action would perhaps bring blame upon her from her proud friends, did that which was truly good and noble. the thought of returning to my solitary home after the sad scene of the night before, and particularly after the new feelings just excited, was not a pleasant one. the bright sky and fresh air seemed to suit me better than black walls and the smell of damp straw. resolving in my mind, however, to leave it as soon as possible, i re-crossed the river, and, with a slower step than usual, took the road which led thither. ups and downs. i should not probably have spoken of these last incidents in my life, as the relation of them savours rather too much of vanity, but for certain results of the highest importance to my future fortunes. when i reached the old kennel i found, waiting my return, two terrier dogs in livery, with bulls' heads grinning from such a quantity of buttons upon their lace coats that it was quite startling. they brought a polite message from sir john and lady bull, begging me to call upon them without delay. as the servants had orders to show me the road, we set off at once. i was very silent on the journey, for my companions were so splendidly dressed that i could not help thinking they must be very superior dogs indeed; and i was rather surprised, when they spoke to each other, to find that they talked just like any other animals, and a good deal more commonly than many that i knew. but such is the effect of fine clothes upon those who know no better. we soon reached the grounds of the mansion, having crossed the river in a boat that was waiting for us; and after passing through a garden more beautiful than my poor dog's brain had ever imagined, we at last stood before the house itself. i need not describe to you, who know the place so well, the vastness of the building or the splendour of its appearance. what struck me more even than the palace, was the number of the servants and the richness of their clothes. each of them seemed fine enough to be the master of the place, and appeared really to think so, if i could judge by the way they strutted about and the look they gave at my poor apparel. i was much abashed at first to find myself in such a company and make so miserable a figure; but i was consoled with the thought that not one of them that morning had ventured, in spite of his eating his master's meat and living in his master's house, to plunge into the water to save his master's son. silly dog that i was! it did not enter my head at the same time to inquire whether any of them had learnt to swim. if the outside of the mansion had surprised me by its beauty, the interior appeared of course much more extraordinary to my ignorant mind. every thing i was unused to looked funny or wonderful; and if i had not been restrained by the presence of such great dogs, i should have sometimes laughed outright, and at others broken forth into expressions of surprise. the stout sir john bull was standing in the middle of the room when i entered it, while the stouter lady bull was lying on a kind of sofa, that seemed quite to sink beneath her weight. i found out afterwards that it was the softness of the sofa which made it appear so; for sitting on it myself, at my lady's request, i jumped up in the greatest alarm, on finding the heaviest part of my body sink lower and lower down, and my tail come flapping into my face. sir john and lady bull now thanked me very warmly for what i had done, and said a great many things which it is not worth while to repeat. i remember they were very pleasing to me then, but i am sure cannot be interesting to you now. after their thanks, sir john began to talk to me about myself--about my parents--my wishes--what i intended to do--and what were my means? to his great surprise he learnt that parents i had none; that my only wishes were the desire to do some good for myself and others, and earn my meat; that i had no notion what i intended doing, and had no means whatever to do anything with. it may be believed that i willingly accepted his offer to watch over a portion of his grounds, to save them from the depredations of thieves, on condition of my receiving good clothes, plenty of food, and a comfortable house to live in. it was now my turn to be thankful. but although my heart was full at this piece of good fortune, and i could _think_ of a great many things to say to show my gratitude, not a single word could i find to express it in, but stood before them like a dumb dog, with only the wave of my tail to explain my thanks. they seemed, however, to understand it, and i was at once ordered a complete suit of clothes and everything fitted for my new position. i was also supplied with the most abundant supper i had ever had in my life, and went to rest upon the most delightful bed; so that before i went to sleep, and i do believe afterwards too, i kept saying to myself, "job, job, you have surely got some other dog's place; all this good luck can't be meant for you; what have you done, job, that you should eat such meat, and sleep on so soft a bed, and be spoken to so kindly? don't forget yourself, job; there must be some mistake." but when i got up in the morning, and found a breakfast for me as nice as the supper, and looked at my clothes, which, if not so smart as some of the others, were better and finer than any i could ever have thought i should have worn, i was at last convinced, that although i was poor job, and although i did not, perhaps, deserve all the happiness i felt, that it was not a dream, but real, plain truth. "as it is so," i said again, "i must do my duty as well as i am able, for that is the only way a poor dog like me can show his gratitude." after breakfast, i accompanied sir john to the place of my future home. a quarter of an hour's walk brought us to a gentle hill, which, similar to the one whereon the mansion itself was situated, sloped downwards to the water. one or two trees, like giant sentinels, stood near the top, and behind them waved the branches of scores more, while beyond for many a mile spread the dark mass of the thick forest of which i have more than once made mention. nearly at the foot of the hill, beneath a spreading oak, was a cottage, a very picture of peace and neatness; and as we paused, sir john pointed out the peculiarities of the position and explained my duties. it appeared that this part of his grounds was noted for a delicate kind of bird, much esteemed by himself and his family, and which was induced to flock there by regular feeding and the quiet of the situation. this fact was, however, perfectly well known to others besides sir john; and as these others were just as fond of the birds as himself, they were accustomed to pay nightly visits to the forbidden ground, and carry off many of the plumpest fowl. the wood was known to shelter many a wandering fox, who, although dwelling so near the city, could not be prevailed on to abandon their roguish habits and live in a civilised manner. these birds were particularly to their taste, and it required the greatest agility to keep off the cunning invaders, for, though they had no great courage, and would not attempt to resist a bold dog, they frequently succeeded in eluding all vigilance and getting off with their booty. often, too, a stray cur, sometimes two or three together, from the lowest classes of the population, would, when moved by hunger, make a descent on the preserves, and battles of a fierce character not seldom occurred, for, unlike the foxes, they were never unwilling to fight, but showed the utmost ferocity when attacked, and were often the aggressors. but those were not all. the grounds were exactly opposite that part of the city of caneville known as the "mews," and occupied by the cat population, who have a general affection for most birds, and held these preserved ones in particular esteem. fortunately, the water that interposed was a formidable barrier for the feline visitors, as few pussies like to wet their feet; but, by some means or other, they frequently found their way across, and by their dexterity, swiftness, and the quiet of their movements, committed terrible ravages among the birds. when sir john had told me all this, he led the way down the hill to the small house under the tree. it had two rooms, with a kennel at the back. the front room was the parlour, and i thought few places could have been so neat and pretty. the back was the sleeping-room, and the windows of both looked out upon the soft grass and trees, and showed a fine view of the river. "this," said sir john, "is your house, and i hope you will be happy in it yourself, and be of service to me. you will not be alone, for there"--pointing to the kennel at the back--"sleeps an old servant of the family, who will assist you in your duties." he then called out "nip," when a rumbling noise was heard from the kennel, and directly after a lame hound came hopping round to the door. the sight of this old fellow was not pleasant at first, for his hair was a grizzly brown and his head partly bald; his eyes were sunk, and, indeed, almost hidden beneath his bushy brows, and his cheeks hung down below his mouth and shook with every step he took. i soon found out that he was as singular in his manners as in his looks, and had such a dislike to talking that it was a rare thing for him to say more than two or three words at one time. sir john told him who i was, and desired him to obey my orders; commanded us both to be good friends and not quarrel, as strange dogs were rather apt to do; and after some more advice left us to ourselves, i in a perfect dream of wonderment, and "nip" sitting winking at me in a way that i thought more funny than agreeable. after we had sat looking at one another for some time, i said, just to break the silence, which was becoming tiresome-- "a pretty place this!" nip winked. "have you been here long?" i asked. "think so," said nip. "all alone?" i inquired. "almost," nip replied. "much work to do, eh?" i asked. the only answer nip gave to this was by winking first one eye and then the other, and making his cheeks rise and fall in a way so droll that i could not help laughing, at which nip seemed to take offence, for without waiting for any farther questions he hopped out of the room, and i saw him, soon after, crawling softly up the hill, as if on the look out for some of the thieves sir john had spoken of. i, too, went off upon the watch. i took my way along the bank, i glided among the bushes, ran after a young fox whose sharp nose i spied pointed up a tree, but without catching him, and finally returned to my new home by the opposite direction. nip came in shortly after, and we sat down to our dinner. although this portion of my life was, perhaps, the happiest i have ever known, it has few events worth relating. the stormy scenes which are so painful to the dog who suffers them, are those which are most interesting to the hearer; while the quiet days, that glide peacefully away, are so like each other, that an account of one of them is a description of many. a few hours can be so full of action, as to require volumes to describe them properly, and the history of whole years can be written on a single page. i tried, as i became fixed in my new position, to do what i had resolved when i entered it; namely, my duty. i think i succeeded; i certainly obtained my master's praise, and sometimes my own; for i had a habit of talking to myself, as nip so rarely opened his mouth, and would praise or blame myself just as i thought i deserved it. i am afraid i was not always just, but too often said, "well done, job; that's right, job;" when i ought to have called out, "you're wrong, job; you ought to feel, job, that you're wrong;" but it is not so easy a thing to be just, even to ourselves. one good lesson i learned in that little cottage, which has been of use to me all my life through; and that was, to be very careful about judging dogs by their looks. there was old nip: when i first saw him, i thought i had never beheld such an ugly fellow in my life, and could not imagine how anything good was to be expected from so cross a looking, ragged old hound. and yet nothing could be more beautiful, more loveable than dear old nip, when you came to know him well. all the misfortunes he had suffered, all the knocks he had received in passing through the world, seemed to have made his heart more tender; and he was so entirely good-natured, that in all the time we were together, i never heard him say an unkind thing of living or dead animal. i believe his very silence was caused by the goodness of his disposition; for as he could not help seeing many things he did not like, but could not alter, he preferred holding his tongue to saying what could not be agreeable. dear, dear nip! if ever it should be resolved to erect a statue of goodness in the public place of caneville, they ought to take you for a model; you would not be so pleasant to look on as many finer dogs, but when once known, your image would be loved, dear nip, as i learned to love the rugged original. it can be of no interest to you to hear the many fights we had in protecting the property of our master during the first few moons after my arrival. almost every night we were put in danger of lives, for the curs came in such large numbers that there was a chance of our being pulled to pieces in the struggle. yet we kept steady watch; and after a time, finding, i suppose, that we were never sleeping at our post, and that our courage rose with every fresh attack, the thieves gradually gave up open war, and only sought to entrap the birds by artifice; and, like the foxes and cats, came sneaking into the grounds, and trusted to the swiftness of their legs rather than the sharpness of their teeth when nip or i caught sight of them. and thus a long, long time passed away. i had, meanwhile, grown to my full size, and was very strong and active: not so stout as i have got in these later years, when my toes sometimes ache with the weight which rests on them, but robust and agile, and as comely, i believe, as most dogs of my age and descent. the uniformity of my life, which i have spoken of as making me so happy, was interrupted only by incidents that did not certainly cause me displeasure. i renewed my acquaintance with "fida," no longer _little_ fida, for she had grown to be a beautiful lady-dog. our second meeting was by chance, but we talked like old friends, so much had our first done to remove all strangeness. i don't think the next time we saw each other was quite by accident. if i remember rightly, it was not; and we often met afterwards. we agreed that we should do all we could to assist one another, though what _i_ could do for so rich and clever a lady-dog i could not imagine, although i made the promise very willingly. on her part, she did for me what i can never sufficiently repay. she taught me to read, lending me books containing strange stories of far-off countries, and beautiful poetry, written by some deep dogs of the city; she taught me to write; and in order to exercise me, made me compose letters to herself, which nip carried to her, bringing me back such answers as would astonish you; for when you thought you had got to the end, they began all over again in another direction. besides these, she taught me to speak and act properly, in the way that well-behaved dogs ought to do; for i had been used to the company of such low and poor animals, that it was not surprising if i should make sad blunders in speech and manners. i need not say that she taught me to love herself, for that you will guess i had done from the first day i saw her, when i was wet from my jump in the river, and she spoke to me such flattering words. no; she could not teach me more love for herself than i already knew. that lesson had been learnt _by heart_, and at a single sitting. our peaceful days were drawing to a close. sir john died. lady bull lived on for a short time longer. many said, when she followed, that she ate herself to death; but i mention the rumour in order to deny it, for i am sure it was grief that killed her. it is a pity some dogs will repeat everything they hear, without considering the mischief such tittle-tattle may occasion--although it has been asserted by many that in this case the false intelligence came from the cats, who had no great affection for poor lady bull. whatever the cause, she died, and with her the employment of poor nip and myself. the young bulls who came into possession of the estate, sold the preserves to a stranger; and as the new proprietor intended killing off the birds, and did not require keepers, there being no longer anything for them to do, we were turned upon the world. the news came upon us so suddenly, that we were quite unprepared for it; and we were, besides, so far from being rich, that it was a rather serious matter to find out how we should live until we could get some other occupation. i was not troubled for myself; for, though i had been used to good feeding lately, i did not forget the time when i was often forced to go the whole day with scarce a bit to eat; but the thought of how poor old nip would manage gave me some pain. having bid adieu to the peaceful cottage, where we had spent such happy times, we left the green fields and pleasant trees and proceeded to the town, where, after some difficulty, we found a humble little house which suited our change of fortune. here we began seriously to muse over what we should do. i proposed making a ferry-boat of my back, and, stationing myself at the waterside near the "mews," swim across the river with such cats as required to go over and did not like to walk as far as where the boat was accustomed to be. by these means i calculated on making enough money to keep us both comfortably. nip thought not. he said that the cats would not trust me--few cats ever did trust the dogs--and then, though he did not dislike cats, not at all, for he knew a great many very sensible cats, and very good ones too, he did not like the idea of seeing his friend walked over by cats or dogs, or any other animal, stranger or domestic. besides, there were other objections. strong as i was, i could not expect, if i made a boat of myself, that i could go on and on without wanting repair any more than a real boat; but where was the carpenter to put _me_ to rights, or take out _my_ rotten timbers and put in fresh ones. no; that would not do; we must think of something else. it must not be imagined that nip made all this long speech in one breath, or in a dozen breaths. it took him a whole morning to explain himself even as clearly as i have tried to do; and perhaps i may still have written what he did not quite intend, for his words came out with a jump, one or two at a time, and often so suddenly that it would have startled a dog who was not used to his manner. nip himself made the next proposal, and though i did not exactly like it, there seemed so little choice, that i at once agreed to do my part in the scheme. nip was the son of a butcher, and though he had followed the trade but a short time himself, he was a very good judge of meat. he, therefore, explained that if i would undertake to become the seller, he would purchase and prepare the meat, and he thought he could make it look nice enough to induce the dogs to come and buy. our stock of money being very small, a house-shop was out of the question, so there was no chance of getting customers from the better class,--a thing which i regretted, as i had little taste for the society of the vulgar; but, again, as it could not be helped, the only thing to do was to make the best of it. a wheelbarrow was therefore bought by nip, with what else was necessary to make me a complete "walking butcher," and having got in a stock of meat the day before, nip cut, and contrived, and shaped, and skewered, in so quiet and business-like a way as proved he knew perfectly well what he was about. with early morning, after nip had arranged my dress with the same care as he had bestowed upon the barrow and its contents, i wheeled my shop into the street, and amid a great many winks of satisfaction from my dear old friend, i went trudging along, bringing many a doggess to the windows of the little houses by my loud cry of "me-eet! fresh me-eet!" as i was strange in my new business, and did not feel quite at my ease, i fancied every dog i met, and every eye that peeped from door and casement, stared at me in a particular manner, as if they knew i was playing my part for the first time, and were watching to see how i did it. the looks that were cast at my meat, were all, i thought, intended for me, and when a little puppy leered suspiciously at the barrow as he was crossing the road, no doubt to see that it did not run over him, i could only imagine that he was thinking of the strange figure i made, and my awkward attempt at getting a living. feelings like these no doubt alarm every new beginner; but time and habit, if they do not reconcile us to our lot, will make it at least easier to perform, and thus, after some two hours' journeying through the narrow lanes of caneville, i did what my business required of me with more assurance than when i first set out. one thing, however, was very distasteful to me, and i could so little bear to see it, that i even spoke of it aloud, and ran the risk of offending some of my customers. i mean the _way_ in which several of the dogs devoured the meat after they had bought it. you will think that when they had purchased their food and paid for it, they had a right to eat it as they pleased: i confess it; nothing can be more true; but still, my ideas had changed so of late, that it annoyed me very much to see many of these curs, living as they did in the most civilized city in this part of the world, gnawing their meat as they held it on the ground with their paws, and growling if any one came near as though there was no such thing as a police in caneville. i forgot when i was scolding these poor dogs, that perhaps they had never been taught better, and deserved pity rather than blame. i forgot too that i had myself behaved as they did before i had been blessed with happier fortune, and that, even then, if i had looked into my own conduct, i should have found many things more worthy of censure than these poor curs' mode of devouring their food. the lane i was passing along was cut across by a broad and open street, the favourite promenade of the fashionables of caneville. there might be seen about mid-day, when the sun was shining, troops of well-dressed dogs and a few superior cats, some attended by servants, others walking alone, and many in groups of two or three, the male dogs smoking cigars, the ladies busily talking, while they looked at and admired one another's pretty dresses and bonnets. by the time i had got thus far, i had become tolerably used to my new work, and could imagine that when the passers-by cast their eyes on my barrow, their glances had more to do with the meat than with myself. but i did not like the idea of crossing the road where such grand dogs were showing off their finery. after a little inward conversation with myself, which finished with my muttering between my teeth, "job, brother job, i am ashamed of you! where is your courage, brother job? go on; go on;" i went on without further delay. i had got half-way across, and was already beginning to praise myself for the ease with which i turned my barrow in and out of the crowd without running over the toes of any of the puppies, who were far too much engaged to look after them themselves when a dirty little cur stopped me to buy a penn'orth of meat. i set down my load just in time to avoid upsetting a very fat and splendidly dressed doggess, who must, if i had run the wheel into her back, and it was very near it, have gone head foremost into the barrow. this little incident made me very hot, and i did not get cooler when my customer squatted down in the midst of the well-dressed crowd, and began tearing his meat in the way i have before described as being so unpleasant. at the same moment another dog by his side, with a very ragged coat, and queer little face, held up his paw to ask for "a little bit," as he was very hungry, "only a little bit." i should, probably, have given him a morsel, as i remembered the time when i wanted it as much as he seemed to do, but for an unexpected meeting. turning my head at a rustling just behind me, i saw a well-dressed dog, with a hat of the last fashion placed so nicely on his head that it seemed to be resting on the bridge of his nose, the smoke from a cigar issuing gracefully from his mouth, and his head kept in an upright posture by a very stiff collar which ran round the back of his neck, and entirely prevented his turning round his head without a great deal of care and deliberation, while a tuft of hair curled nicely from beneath his chin, and gave a fine finish to the whole dog. but though i have spoken of this caneville fashionable, it was not he who caused the rustling noise, or who most attracted my attention. tripping beside him, with her soft paw beneath his, was a lady-dog, whose very dress told her name, at least in my eyes, before i saw her face. i felt sure that it was fida, and i wished myself anywhere rather than in front of that barrow with an ill-bred cur at my feet gnawing the penn'orth of meat he had just bought of me. before i had time to catch up my load and depart, a touch on my shoulder, so gentle that it would not have hurt a fly, and yet which made me tremble more than if it had been the grip of a giant animal, forced me again to turn. it _was_ fida; as beautiful and as fresh as ever, who gave me a sweet smile of recognition and encouragement as she passed with her companion, and left me standing there as stupid and uncomfortable as if i had been caught doing something wrong. [illustration: a canine butcher] you will say that it was very ridiculous in me to feel so ashamed and disconcerted at being seen by her or any other dog or doggess in my common dress, and following an honest occupation. i do not deny it. and in telling you these things i have no wish to spare myself, i have no excuse to offer, but only to relate events and describe feelings precisely as they were. the inundation. that evening it seemed as if nip and i had changed characters. it was he who did all the talking, while i sat in a corner, full of thought, and answered yes or no to everything he said, and sometimes in the wrong place, i am sure; for once or twice he looked at me very attentively, and winked in a way which proved that he was puzzled by my manner. the reason of his talkativeness was the success i had attained in my first morning's walk, for i had sold nearly all the meat, and brought home a pocket full of small money. the cause of my silence was the unexpected meeting with fida, and the annoyance i felt at having been seen by her in such a position. this was the first time i had set eyes on her for several days. when we left our pretty country lodging, i wrote her a letter, which nip carried as usual to her house, but he was told that she had gone on a visit to some friends at a distance, but that the letter should be given to her on her return. i had not, therefore, been able to inform her of what we had been compelled to do, as i would have wished; but thus, without preparation, quite unexpectedly, i had been met by her in the public street, acting the poor dogs' butcher, with the implements of my business before me, and a dirty cur growling and gnawing his dinner at my feet. what made the matter more serious, for serious it seemed to me, though i can but smile _now_ to think why such a thing should have made me uncomfortable, was, that the whole scene had taken place in so open a part, with so many grand and gay dogs all round, to be witnesses of my confusion. i did not reflect that, of all the puppies who were strutting past, there was probably not one who could have remembered so common an event as the passing of a butcher's barrow; and if they looked at me at all, it was, doubtless, for no other reason than to avoid running against my greasy coat and spoiling their fine clothes. these confessions will prove to you that i was very far from being a wise dog or even a sensible one; all the books i had read had, as yet, served no other purpose than that of feeding my vanity and making me believe i was a very superior animal; and you may learn from this incident, that those who wish to make a proper figure in the world, and play the part they are called on to perform in a decent manner, must study their lesson in the world itself, by mingling with their fellows, for books alone can no more teach such knowledge than it can teach a dog to swim without his going into the water. nip and i had our dinner; and when it was over, my old friend went out to procure a supply of meat for the next day's business. i sat at the window with my nose resting on the ledge, at times watching some heavy clouds which were rolling up the sky, as if to attend a great meeting overhead; at another moment, looking at the curs in the streets, who were playing all sorts of games, which generally turned into a fight, and often staring at the house opposite without seeing a single stone in the wall, but in their place, fidas, and puppies with stiff collars, and barrows with piles of meat, ready cut and skewered. i was awoke from this day-dream by the voice of an old, but very clean doggess, inquiring if my name was mr. job? i answered that i was so called, when she drew from her pocket and gave me a pink-coloured note, which smelt like a nice garden, and even brought one to my view as plainly as if it had suddenly danced before me, and saying there was no reply, returned by the way she had come. i did not require to be told by whom it was sent. i knew the writing too well. the neat folding, the small but clean address assured me that a lady's paw had done it all, and every word of the direction-- +---------------------------------------+ | master job, | | | | in the little dogs' street, | | | | f. lower caneville. | +---------------------------------------+ spoke to me of fida, and did not even need the f. in the corner to convince me of the fact. with her permission, i here give you the contents:-- "my dear job, "i am sorry i was away from home when your letter arrived, and would have told you i was going, but that i thought the news might cause you pain, as i, by some mischance, had got my tail jammed in a door, and was forced to leave home in order to visit a famous doctor, who lives at some distance. he fortunately cured me after a few days' illness, and the tail wags now as freely as ever, although it was very annoying, as well as ridiculous, to see me walking up and down the room with that wounded member so wrapped up that it was as thick as my whole body, and was quite a load to drag about. "but, dear job, i do not write this to talk about myself, though i am forced to give you this explanation of my silence: what i wish is to say something about _you_. and to begin, as you have always been a good, kind dog, and listened to me patiently when i have praised, you must now be just as kind and good, and even more patient, because i am going to scold. "dear job, when i met you this morning in your new dress and occupation, i had not then read your letter. i had but just returned, and was taking a walk with my brother, who had arrived from abroad during my absence. i knew you at once, in spite of your change of costume, and though i did not particularly like the business you had chosen, i felt certain you had good reasons for having selected it. but when i looked in your face, instead of the smile of welcome which i expected from you, i could read nothing but shame, confusion, and annoyance. why? dear job, why? if you were _ashamed_ of your occupation, why had you chosen it? i suppose when you took it up, you resolved to do your duty in it properly; then why feel _shame_ because _your friend_ sees you, as you must have thought she would one day see you, since the nature of your new business carries you into different parts of the city? "but, dear job, i feel certain, and i would like you to be equally sure, that there is no need of _shame_ in following any busines which is _honest_, and which can be carried on without doing injury to others. it is not the business, believe me, dear job, which lowers a dog; _he himself_ is alone capable of _lowering_ himself, and one dog may be truly good and noble, though he drive a meat-barrow about the streets, while another may be a miserable, mean animal, though living in a palace and never soiling his paws. "i have a great deal more to say, my dear job, upon this subject, but i must leave the rest till i see you. i have already crossed and recrossed my note, and may be most difficult to understand where i most want to be clear. here is a nice open space, however, in the corner, which i seize on with pleasure to write myself most distinctly, "your friend, "fida." a variety of feelings passed through my mind as i read these lines. but they were all lost in my wonder at fida's cleverness in being able to read my face, as if it had been a book. i was grateful to her for the good advice she gave me, and now felt ashamed for having been ashamed before. the best way i thought to prove my thankfulness would be to act openly and naturally as fida had pointed out, for i could not help confessing, as my eyes looked again and again over her note, that she was quite right, and that i had acted like a very silly animal. i was interrupted during my reflections by the bursting of rain upon the house-roofs, and the stream which rose from the streets as the large drops came faster and faster down. i went to the door to look for my old friend, but not a dog was to be seen. i was surprised at the sight of the sky where i had observed the clouds rising a little while before, for now those same clouds looked like big rocks piled one above another, with patches of light shining through great caverns. as i stared eagerly down the street, torrents of water poured from above, which, instead of diminishing, seemed to be growing more terrible every moment. i had never seen so fearful a storm. it did not appear like mere rain which was falling; the water came down in broad sheets, and changed the road into a river. i got more and more anxious about old nip. it was getting dark, and i knew he was not strong. my hope was that he had taken shelter somewhere; but i could not rest, for i was sure he would try and get home, if only to quiet me. while running in and out in my anxiety--the water having meanwhile risen above the sill of the door, and poured into our little house, where it was already above my paws--i spied a dark figure crawling along the street, and with great difficulty making way against the beating of the storm. i at once rushed out, and swimming rather than running towards the object, i found my poor friend almost spent with fatigue, and scarcely able to move, having a heavy load to carry besides his own old limbs, which were not fit to battle with such a tempest. i caught up his package; and assisting him as well as i was able, we at length got to our cottage, though we were forced to get upon the bench that stood by the wall to keep our legs out of the water. the rain had now become a perfect deluge. a stream of water went hissing down the street, and rushed in and out of the houses as if they had been baths. when nip recovered breath, he told me that terrible things were happening in the parts of the city by the waterside. the river had swollen so much, that some kennels had been carried away by the current, and it was impossible to learn how many poor dogs had been drowned. this news made me jump again from the bench where i had been sitting. "what is it?" said nip. "i am going out, nip," replied i. "i must not be idle here, when i can, perhaps, be of use somewhere else." "that is true," said nip; "but, job, strong as you are, the storm is stronger." "yes, nip," answered i; "but there are dogs weaker than myself who may require such assistance as i can give them, and it is not a time for a dog to sit with his tail curled round him, when there are fellow-creatures who may want a helping paw. so good-bye, old friend; try and go to sleep; you have done your duty as long as your strength let you, it is now for me to do mine." without waiting for a reply, i rushed out at the door. it did not need much exertion to get through our street or the next, or the next after that, for as they all sloped downwards, the water more than once took me off my legs, and carried me along. sad as nip's news had been, i was not prepared for the terrible scene which met my eyes when i got near the river. the houses at the lower part of the street i had reached had been swept away by the torrent, and a crowd of shivering dogs stood looking at the groaning river as it rolled past in great waves as white as milk, in which black objects, either portions of some kennel or articles of furniture, were floating. every now and then, a howl would break from a doggess in the crowd, as a dead body was seen tossed about by the angry water; and the same dolorous cries might be heard from different quarters, mixed up with the roar of the river. while standing with a group of three or four, staring with astonishment at the frightful scene, uncertain what to do, a howl was heard from another direction, so piercing that it made many of us run to learn the cause. the pale light showed us that the torrent had snapped the supports of a house at some distance from the river's bank, but which the swollen stream had now reached, and carried away at least half the building. by some curious chance, the broken timbers had become fixed for the moment in the boiling water, which, angry at the obstruction, was rushing round or flying completely over them; and it was easy to see that in a very short time the mass would be swept away. upon the timbers thus exposed were three little pups scarce two months old, yelping most dismally as they crouched together, or crawled to the edge of their raft; while on the floor of the ruin from which this side had been torn away, was their poor mother, whose fearful howl had attracted us thither, and who was running from side to side of the shattered hut as if she was frantic. great as the danger was, i could not bear to think the wretched mother should see her little ones swallowed up by the stormy water, before her very eyes, without a single attempt being made to save them. although i could scarcely hope even to reach them in safety, and in no case could bring more than one of them to land at once, if i even got so far, i resolved to make the trial. better save one, i thought, than let all die. holding my breath, i launched into the current in the direction of the raft, and soon found that i had not been wrong in calculating the difficulties and dangers of the undertaking. it was not the water alone which made the peril so great, though the eddies seemed at every moment to be pulling me to the bottom, but there were so many things rushing along with the stream as to threaten to crush me as they flew by; and had they struck me, there is no doubt there would have been an end of my adventures. avoiding them all, though i know not how, i was getting near the spot where the little pups were crying for their mother, when i felt myself caught in an eddy and dragged beneath the water. without losing courage, but not allowing myself to breathe, i made a strong effort, and at last, got my head above the surface again; but where was the raft? where were the helpless puppies? all had gone--not a trace was left to tell where they had been--the river foamed over the spot that had held them for a time, and was now rushing along as if boasting of its strength. seeing my intentions thus defeated, i turned my head towards the shore, resolving to swim to land. to my surprise, i found that i made no progress. i put out all my strength--i fought with the water--i threw myself forward--it was in vain--i could not move a paw's breadth against the current. i turned to another point--i again used every exertion--all was useless--i felt my tired limbs sink under me--i felt the stream sweeping me away--my head turned round in the agony of that moment, and i moaned aloud. my strength was now gone--i could scarce move a paw to keep my head down the river. a dark object came near--it was a large piece of timber, probably a portion of some ruined building. seizing it as well as my weakness would permit me, i laid my paws over the floating wood, and, dragging my body a little more out of the water, got some rest from my terrible labours. [illustration: afloat] where was i hurrying to? i knew not. every familiar object must have been long passed, but it was too obscure to make out anything except the angry torrent. on, on i went, in darkness and in fear--yes, great fear, not of death, but a fear caused by the strangeness of my position, and the uncertainty before me; on, on, till the black shores seemed to fly from each other, and the river to grow and grow until all land had disappeared, and nothing but the water met my aching eyes. i closed them to shut out the scene, and tried to forget my misery. had i slept? and what was the loud noise which startled me so that i had nearly let go my hold? i roused myself--i looked around--i was tossing up and down with a regular motion, but could see nothing clearly, i was no longer carried forward so swiftly as before, but the dim light prevented me making out the place i was now in. suddenly, a flash broke from the black clouds, and for a single moment shed a blue light over everything. what a spectacle! all around, for miles and miles and miles, was nothing but dancing water, like shining hills with milky tops, but not a living creature beside myself to keep me company, or say a kind word, or listen to me when i spoke, or pity me when i moaned! oh! who could tell what i then felt, what i feared, and what i suffered! alone! alone! when i think, as i often do now, of that terrible scene, and figure to myself my drenched body clinging to that piece of timber, i seem to feel a strange pity for the miserable dog thus left, as it seemed, to die, away from all his fellows, without a friendly howl raised, to show there was a single being to regret his loss--and i cannot help at such times murmuring to myself, as if it were some other animal, "poor job! poor dog!" i remember a dimness coming over my eyes after i had beheld that world of water--i have a faint recollection of thinking of fida--of poor nip--of the drowning puppies i had tried in vain, to save--of my passing through the streets of caneville with my meat-barrow, and wondering how i could have been so foolish as to feel ashamed of doing so--and then--and then--i remember nothing more. pains and pleasures. when i again opened my eyes after the deep sleep which had fallen upon me, morning was just breaking, and a grey light was in the sky and on the clouds which dotted it all over. as i looked round, you may well think, with hope and anxiety, still nothing met my view but the great world of water, broken up into a multitude of little hills. i now understood that i was on the sea, where i had been borne by the rushing river; that sea of which i had often read, but which i could form no idea about till this moment. the sad thought struck me that i must stop there, tossed about by the wind and beaten by the waves, until i should die of hunger, or that, spent with fatigue, my limbs would refuse to sustain me longer, and i should be devoured by some of the monsters of the deep, who are always on the watch for prey. such reflections did not help to make my position more comfortable, and it was painful enough in itself without them. it was certain, however, that complaint or sorrow could be of no service, and might be just the contrary, as the indulging in either would, probably, prevent my doing what was necessary to try and save myself should an opportunity offer. the grey light, in the meantime, had become warmer and warmer in its tone, until the face of every cloud towards the east was tinged with gold. while i was admiring the beautiful sight, for it was so beautiful that it made me forget for a time my sad position, my eyes were caught by the shining arch of the rising sun, as it sprang all of a sudden above the surface of the sea. oh! never shall i forget the view! between me and the brilliant orb lay a pathway of gold, which rose, and fell, and glittered, and got at last so broad and dazzling, that my eyes could look at it no longer. i knew it was but the sun's light upon the water, but it looked so firm, that i could almost fancy i should be able to spring upon it, and run on and on until i reached some friendly country. but alas! there seemed little chance of such a thing happening as my ever reaching land again. as the sun got high up, and poured his rays on to the sea, i began to feel a craving for food, and, though surrounded with water, yet the want of some to drink. when the thirst came upon me, i at first lapped up a few drops of the sea-water with avidity, but i soon found that it was not fit to drink, and that the little i had taken only made my thirst the greater. in the midst of my suffering, a poor bird came fluttering heavily along, as if his wings were scarce able to support his weight. every little object was interesting to me just then, and as i sat upon my piece of timber i looked up at the trembling creature, and began comparing his fate with my own. "ah, job," i said, half-aloud, "you thought, perhaps, that you were the only unhappy being in the world. look at that poor fowl; there he is, far away from land, from his home, from his friends, perhaps his little ones (for many birds have large families), with tired wings, and not a piece of ground as broad as his own tail for him to rest upon. he must go on, fatigued though he may be, for if he fall, nothing can prevent his death; the water will pour among his feathers, clog his wings, and not only prevent him ever rising more into the air, but pull him down until his life is gone. so, job, badly off as you are just now, there is another, as you see, whose fate is worse; and who shall say that in other places, where your eye cannot reach, there are not others yet so very, very miserable, that they would willingly, oh! how willingly! change places with you, or with that poor fluttering bird?" this talk with myself quieted me for a time, and i felt a certain joy when i saw the bird slowly descend, and having spied my uncomfortable boat, perch heavily on the other end of it. he did not do so until he had looked at me with evident alarm; and, worn out as he was, and his heart beating as though it would burst through his yellow coat, he still kept his eyes fixed upon me, ready to take wing and resume his journey, wherever he might be going, at the least motion i should make. some time passed over in this way; myself in the middle, and dicky at the end of the beam. we did not say a word to each other; for, as i spoke no other language but my own, and he seemed about as clever as myself, we merely talked with our eyes. a thought now came into my head. my thirst returned, and i felt very hungry. what if i should suddenly dart on little dicky, and make a meal of him? i did not consider at the instant that, by so doing, i should be acting a very base part, for dicky had placed confidence in me; and killing him for trusting to my honour, and eating him because he was poor and unfortunate, would be neither a good return nor a kind action. luckily for dicky, and even for myself, although he was not able to speak foreign languages, he could read my meaning in my eyes; for when i turned them slowly towards him, just to see my distance, he took alarm, and rose into the air with a swiftness which i envied. i am sorry to say my only thought at first was the having lost my dinner: but as i watched him through the air, flying on and on, until he diminished to a misty speck, and then disappeared, my better feelings came back to me and said, "oh, job! i would not have believed this of you!" "but," replied my empty stomach, "i am so hungry; without food, i shall fall in, and job will die." "let job die," said my better self again, in a cold, firm tone; "let job rather die, than do what he would live to feel ashamed of." as the day wore on, i began to think that death only could relieve me; and the thought was very, very painful. nothing before and around but the salt waves--nothing above but the blue sky and hot sun--not even a cloud on which to rest my aching eyes. the want of water which i could drink was now becoming terrible. when i thought of it, my head began to turn; my brain seemed to be on fire; and the public basins of caneville, where only the lowest curs used to quench their thirst, danced before me to add to my torture; for i thought, though i despised them once, how i could give treasures of gold for one good draught at the worst of them just then. there is not a misfortune happens to us from which we may not derive good if our hearts are not quite hardened, and our minds not totally impenetrable. great as my sufferings were during this incident of my life, i learnt from it much that has been useful to me in after years. but even if it had taught me no other truth than that we should despise nothing which is good and wholesome, merely because it is ordinary, i should not have passed through those sad hours in vain. we dogs are so apt, when in prosperity, to pamper our appetites, and, commonly speaking, to turn up our noses at simple food, that we require, from time to time, to be reminded on how little canine life can be preserved. all have not had the advantage of the lesson which i was blessed with; for it _was_ a blessing; one that has so impressed itself on my memory, that sometimes when i fancy i cannot eat anything that is put before me, because it is too much done, or not done enough, or has some other real or supposed defect, i say to myself, "job, job, what would you have given for a tiny bit of the worst part of it when you were at sea?" and then i take it at once, and find it excellent. as the sun got lower, clouds, the same in shape that had welcomed him in the morning, rose up from the sea as if to show their pleasure at his return. he sunk into the midst of them and disappeared; and then the clouds came up and covered all the sky. i suffered less in the cool evening air, and found with pleasure that it was growing into a breeze. my pleasure soon got greater still, for, with the wind, i felt some drops of rain! the first fell upon my burning nose; but the idea of fresh water was such a piece of good fortune, that i dared not give loose to my joy until the drops began to fall thickly on and around me, and there was a heavy shower. i could scarcely give my rough coat time to get thoroughly wet before i began sucking at it. it was not nice at first, being mixed with the salt spray by which i had been so often covered; but as the rain still came down, the taste was fresher every moment, and soon got most delicious. i seemed to recover strength as i licked my dripping breast and shoulders; and though evening changed to dark night, and the rain was followed by a strong wind, which got more and more fierce, and appeared to drive me and my friendly log over the waves as if we had been bits of straw, i felt no fear, but clung to the timber, and actually gave way to hope. i must have slept again, for daylight was once more in the sky when i unclosed my eyes. where was i now? my sight was dim, and though i could see there was no longer darkness, i could make out nothing else. was i still on the rolling water? surely not; for i felt no motion. i passed my paw quickly across my eyes to brush away the mist which covered them. i roused myself. the beam of wood was still beneath me, but my legs surely touched the ground! my sight came back to me, and showed me, true, the sea stretching on, on, on, in the distance, but showed me also that _i_--oh, joy!--_i_ had reached the shore! when my mind was able to believe the truth, i sprang on to the solid land with a cry which rings in my ears even now. what though my weakness was so great that i tumbled over on to the beach and filled my mouth with sand? i could have licked every blade of grass, every stone, in my ecstacy; and when forced to lie down from inability to stand upon my legs, i drove my paws into the earth, and held up portions to my face, to convince myself that i was indeed on shore. i did not trouble myself much with questions as to how i got there. i did not puzzle my brain to inquire whether the wind which had risen the evening before, and which i felt driving me on so freely, had at length chased me to the land. all i seemed to value was the fact that i was indeed _there_; and all i could persuade myself to say or think was the single, blessed word, saved! i must have lain some time upon the sand before i tried again to move, for when i scrambled on to my legs the sun was high and hot--so hot, that it had completely dried my coat, and made me wish for shelter. dragging myself with some trouble to a mound of earth, green and sparkling with grass and flowers, i managed to get on top of it; and when i had recovered from the effort, for i was very weak, looked about me with curiosity to observe the place where i had been thrown. the ground was level close to where i stood, but at a little distance it rose into gentle grassy hills, with short bushes here and there; and just peeping over them, were the tops of trees still farther off, with mountains beyond, of curious forms and rich blue colour. while considering this prospect, i suddenly observed an animal on one of the hills coming towards me, and i lay down at full length on the grass to examine who he might be. as he drew nearer, i was surprised at his form and look (i afterwards learnt that he was called an ape), and thought i had never beheld so queer a being. he had a stick in his right hand, and a bundle in his left, and kept his eyes fixed on the ground as he walked along. when he was quite close, i rose again, to ask him where i could procure food and water, of which i felt great want. the motion startled him; and stepping back, he took his stick in both hands as if to protect himself. the next moment he put it down, and coming up to me, to my surprise addressed me in my own language, by inquiring how i came there. my astonishment was so great at first that i could not reply; and when i did speak, it was to ask him how it happened that he used my language. to this he answered, that he had been a great traveller in his day, and among other places had visited my city, where he had studied and been treated kindly for a long time; that he loved dogs, and should be only too happy now to return some of the favours he had received. this speech opened my heart; but before he would let me say more, he untied his bundle, and spread what it contained before me. as there were several savoury morsels, you may believe i devoured them with great appetite--indeed, i hope master ximio's opinion of me was not formed from the greediness with which i ate up his provisions. after i had refreshed myself at a spring of water, we sat down, and i told him my story. he heard me patiently to the end, when, after a pause, he exclaimed-- "come, job, come with me. a few days' rest will restore your strength, and you can return to your own city. it is not a long journey over land; and with stout limbs like those, you will soon be able to get back and lick old nip again." i need not dwell upon this part of my story, although i could fill many pages with the narration of master ximio's dwelling, and above all of his kindness; he kept me two or three days at his house, and would have detained me much longer, but, besides that i was anxious to return to nip, i felt certain pains in my limbs, which made me wish to get back to caneville, as i did not like the idea of troubling my good friend with the care of a sick dog. he was so kind-hearted, however, and showed me such attention, that i was afraid to say anything about my aches, lest he should insist on keeping me. he seemed to think it was quite natural i should desire to get home; and when he saw my impatience to depart, he assisted to get me ready. having supplied me with everything i could want on my journey, and pressed upon me many gifts besides, he led me by a little path through the wood, until we came to the sea. "along this shore," he said, "your road lies. follow the winding of the coast until you reach the mouth of a broad river, the waters of which empty themselves into the sea. that river is the same which runs through your city. keep along its banks and you will shortly arrive at caneville, where i hope you may find everything you wish--for i am sure you wish nothing that is unreasonable. if pleasure awaits you there, do not, in the midst of it, forget ximio. if, against my hopes, you should find yourself unhappy, remember there is a home always open to you here, and a friend who will do his best to make you forget sorrow. farewell!" i was greatly moved at his words and the memory of his kindness. we licked each other tenderly--murmured something, which meant a good deal more than it expressed--and then we parted. i turned my head often as i went, and each time beheld ximio waving his hand in the air; at last a dip in the ground hid him from my sight, and i continued my journey alone. it was fortunate i had been well furnished with provisions by my good friend, for as i proceeded, i found the pains in my limbs so great that i could scarce drag one leg after the other, and should probably have died of hunger, as i had no strength left to procure food, and did not meet with any more ximios to assist me had i stood in need. with long rests, from which i rose each time with greater difficulty,--with increasing anxiety as i drew near my home, to learn all that had taken place during my absence,--and yet with legs which almost refused to carry me; after many days that seemed to have grown into months,--they were so full of care and suffering,--i toiled up a hill, which had, i thought, the power of getting steeper as i ascended. at length i reached the top, and to my joy discovered the well-known city of caneville, lying in the plain beneath me. the sight gave me strength again. i at once resumed my journey, and trotted down the hill at a pace which surprised myself. as i got warm with my exertions, the stiffness seemed by degrees to leave my limbs; i ran, i bounded along, over grass and stone through broad patches of mud which showed too plainly to what height the river had lately risen, out of breath, yet with a spirit that would not let me flag, i still flew on, nor slackened my speed until i had got to the first few houses of the town. there i stopped indeed, and fell; for it then seemed as if my bones were all breaking asunder. my eyes grew dim; strange noises sounded in my ears; and though i fancied i could distinguish voices which i knew, i could neither see nor speak; i thought it was my dying hour. from the mouths of nip and others i learnt all which then occurred, and all that had passed after my supposed loss on the night of the inundation. how my noble conduct (for so they were kind enough to call it, though i only tried to do my duty, and failed) had been made known to the great dogs of caneville, and how they had sought after me to thank me for it;--how they had offered rewards to those who assisted in my recovery;--how, when it was supposed that i was dead, they took nip from our modest home, and placed him in this present house, fitted with everything that could make him comfortable for life;--how, when all hope was gone, my unexpected appearance brought a crowd about me, each one anxious to assist me in my distress, though some maliciously said, in order to lay claim to the reward;--and how i was finally brought again to my senses through the care of our clever canine doctors, and the kind nursing of dear old nip. it was long, however, before i recovered my legs sufficiently to be able to use them without support. my long exposure at sea, the want of food, and the trouble i had gone through, during my involuntary voyage, had all assisted to weaken me. but my anxiety to enjoy the fresh air again, took me out into the streets directly it was thought safe for me to do so, and with a pair of crutches beneath my arms, i managed to creep about. never shall i forget the first time this pleasure was allowed me. the morning was so fresh and bright; the sun shone so gaily upon the houses; the river, now reduced to its usual size, ran so cheerily along, that i got into my old habit, and began to think they were all talking to me and bidding me welcome after my long illness. kind words were soon said to me in right earnest, for before i had got half-way down the street, with old nip just behind me,--his hat still adorned with the band which he had unwillingly put on when he thought me dead and gone, and which he had forgotten to take off again,--the puppies ran from different quarters to look up in my face and say, "how do you do, job? i hope you are better, job." many a polite dog took off his hat to bid me good morrow; and praises more than i deserved, but which i heard with pleasure, came softly to my ear, as i hobbled slowly along. nip told me afterwards, that there had been another in the crowd who kept a little back, and who, though she said nothing, seemed to be more glad to see me than all the rest. i had not seen her, nor did he mention her name, but that was not necessary. my heart seemed to tell me that it could only have been fida. [illustration: a worthy subject] duty. the idle life which i was compelled to spend gave me time for reflection, and i believe my mind was more active during the few months my body was on crutches than it had been for years previous. my thoughts received little interruption from nip, who, after having recounted the events which had taken place during my absence, had little more to say. the kindness of the great city dogs having removed all fear of want, or even the necessity of labour, from our comfortable home, produced at first a pleasing effect upon me; but as my strength returned, and i managed to walk about the room without assistance, a desire for active employment became quite necessary to my happiness. "what have i done, nip?" i would often say, as i took my usual exercise in our modest parlour; "what have i done, nip, that i should be clothed, and fed, and housed, without labouring for such advantages, like the rest of dog-kind? these paws, large and strong as they are, were never intended for idleness; this back, broad as it is, was meant for some other purpose than to show off a fine coat; this brain, which can reflect and admire and resolve, had not such capabilities given to it in order that they might be wasted in a life of ease. work, nip, work; such work as a dog _can_ do should be sought after and done, for nothing can be more shocking than to see an animal's powers, either of body or mind, wasted away in idleness." nip replied but little, although he winked his eyes very vigorously. i was used to his manner now, and could understand his meaning without the necessity of words. both his looks and gestures told me that he thought as i did, and i only waited till i could use my own legs freely, to set about a resolution i had been forming in my mind. it was a happy day when i could again mix in the bustle of the streets, and find my strength once more restored. the first use i made of it was to go to the great house where the chief dogs of caneville are accustomed to sit during a certain time of the day to judge matters relating to the city. when i arrived, they were almost alone, and i was therefore able to present myself without delay, and explain my business. i began by thanking them for what they had done for me and my old friend nip, in providing us with a house and with so many comforts. i told them, although the goodness of nip rendered him worthy of every attention, as he had grown old in a useful and laborious life, i had no such claims. i was still young--my strength had come back to me--i had no right to eat the food of idleness where so many dogs, more deserving than i, were often in want of a bone, but whose modesty prevented them making known their necessities. i would still thankfully enjoy the home, which the kindness of the great animals of caneville had furnished me, but they must permit me to work for it--they must permit me to do something which might be useful to the city in return, for i should devour the fare provided for me with a great deal more appetite, if i could say to myself when i felt hungry, "job, brother job, eat your dinner, for you have _earned_ it." the assembly of dogs heard me with great attention to the end; not a bark interrupted my little speech, not a movement disturbed my attention. i was pleased to see that tails wagged with approbation when i had concluded, and was charmed to hear the chief among them, who was white with age, express himself _delighted_, yes, that was the word, delighted with my spirit. "we are pleased, job," he said, at the end of his reply, "we are pleased to observe that there are yet _true dogs_ in caneville; there have been animals calling themselves so, whose character was so base, and whose manner was so cringing, that they have brought disrepute upon the name; and we are sorry to say that in many countries the title of a _dog_ is given to the vilest and most worthless creatures. all the finer qualities of our race have been lost sight of, because a few among us have been mean or wicked; and a whole nation has been pointed at with scorn, because some of its members have acted badly. we are happy, job, to find in you a 'worthy subject,' and we shall be glad to give you all assistance in choosing an occupation in which you may employ your time, and be of use to your fellow-creatures." i should not have repeated this to you, as it is not, perhaps, necessary for my story, but that i wished to correct an error, which many have made, concerning the character of this very dog. he has been described by several as cold, and proud, and sometimes cruel; and yet to me he was warm, and friendly, and most kind. do not you think when we hear animals grumbling against their fellows, it would be just as well to think who the grumblers are, before we form our opinions? or, at least, hear the opinions of many before we decide ourselves? i need not tell you all that passed between us, and what was said by this dog and by that, about the choice of my occupation. it was agreed at last that i should be appointed chief of the caneville police, as the place had become vacant through the death of a fine old mastiff some days previous. i wonder whether he was a relation of my own, for i have already told you my mother belonged to that great family. he had received some severe wounds when trying to capture a fierce beast of the name of lupo, the terror of the city, and he had died from the effects of them in spite of all the care of the doctors. what made the matter worse, was the fact that lupo was yet at liberty, and many dogs were afraid to go out at night for fear of meeting with this terrible animal. to tell the truth, i was rather pleased than otherwise that lupo had still to be taken. it was agreeable to me to think that work, difficult work, was to be done, and that _i_ was called upon to do it. i felt proud at the idea that the animals of the great city of caneville would look up to me, _to me_, poor job, as the dog chosen to releive them of their fears, and restore security to their streets. "job," i cried out to myself, in a firm tone, "job, here is a chance of being useful to your country; let no danger, no fear, even of death, stop you in the good work. job, you are called upon to perform a duty, and let nothing, mind _nothing_, turn you from it." after i had become acquainted with all the dogs who were under my command, i spent much time each day in exercising them, and in endeavouring by kind words, and by my own example, to make them attend strictly to their work. i was pleased to observe that i succeeded. some, who were pointed out to me as difficult to manage, became my most faithful followers, and i had not been two months in my employment before all were so devoted to me, that i believe they would have died to serve me. in all this time, nothing had been heard of the terrible lupo, and all my inquiries procured no information concerning where he was to be found. i learned that he was not a native of caneville, although his father once belonged to the city. he was born in a country beyond the great wood, and his mother came from a fierce tribe of wolves, who, although they a little resemble dogs in appearance, and speak a very similar language, are much more ferocious, and seem to look upon the whole canine family as natural enemies. the opinion began to spread in caneville that lupo had at length left the city, and the inhabitants, by degrees, recovered their usual quiet; when, suddenly, the alarm spread more widely than before; as, two nights in succession, some rich dogs were robbed and ill-treated, and one of them was lamed by the ferocity of the chief of the terrible band who had attacked them, and whose description convinced me it was lupo. these accounts caused me much pain, as i had neither been able to prevent the attacks, nor discover the animals who had made them. in my desire to find out and capture the robbers, i could scarcely take food or rest. i managed to sleep a little in the day-time, and at night, dressed in the simplest manner, so as to excite no attention, i wandered quietly from street to street, stopping to listen to the slightest noise, and going in any direction that i heard a murmur. one or two of my dogs generally followed at a distance, ready to assist me if i called for help. it was a fine night. the moon and stars were brilliant in the sky, and made the blue all the deeper from their own bright rays. i had been already two hours crawling through the lower parts of the city, and was mounting the hill which led to a fine building where my steps often carried me--sometimes without my intending it--in order to watch over the safety of those who slept within. it was the house of fida--that fida who had been to me so kind, so tender; that fida, who so patiently softened down my rudeness, and had tried to teach me to know what was good by letting me become her friend. i had nearly reached the top of the hill, and paused an instant to observe the bright light and dark shadows which the house displayed, as the moon fell upon it, or some portion of the building interposed. profound sleep had fallen upon the city. the river might be seen from the spot where i was standing, running swiftly along; and so deep was the silence that you could even hear the gush of the water as it fretted round some large stones in the centre of the stream. suddenly there rose into the air from the ground above me, the sharp, clear howl of a female voice, and at the same instant the sound of a rattle broke upon my ear as a signal of alarm. i sprang up the few feet which were between me and the house with the speed of lightning, and turning rapidly the corner of the building, reached the principal entrance. one look told me everything: at an upper window, in a loose dress, was fida herself, springing the rattle which she held in her paw, with a strength that fear alone could have given her; and below, where i myself stood, were four or five dogs differently engaged, but evidently trying to get into the house. a kick from my right leg sent one of them to the ground, and, with my clenched paw, i struck a blow at the second. never do i remember feeling such strength within me, such a resolution to attack twenty dogs if it were necessary, although the next minute i might be torn in pieces. i have sometimes asked myself whether the presence of fida had anything to do with it, or if a sense of duty only inspired me. i have never been able to reply to the question in a satisfactory manner. i only know that the fact was as i say, and that the blow i gave was surprising even to myself; my paw caught the animal precisely under his chin, and sent him flying backwards, with his nose in the air and his hat behind him; and as the moon shone brilliantly upon his upturned face, i recognised the features described to me as those of lupo. he lay so still upon the ground that i thought he must be killed; so, leaving him for a moment, i pursued some others who were running off in the distance, but did not succeed in catching them. i said a few cheering words to fida at the window, and returned to the spot of my encounter with lupo; but instead of that terrible beast, found some of my own followers, the father of fida, and one or two servants, who had been roused by the tumult, and had come out to learn the cause. lupo was nowhere to be seen. he had either partly recovered from the blow, and had managed to crawl away, or had been dragged off by some of his troop. nothing could have been more fortunate to me than this night's adventure. the father of fida, who had seen the attack from his window, was the head of one of the best families of dogs in caneville, and being, besides, very rich, he enjoyed great power. he was so pleased with what i had done, that he not only took a great liking to me himself, but he spoke of my conduct in the highest terms to the great assembly. i received public thanks; i was admitted to the honour which i now hold, that of forming one of the second assembly of the city; i was loaded with rich presents, and equally rich praise; and i may also date from that night, the obtaining the richest gift of all, the gift which has made the happiness of my best years; i mean the possession of my wife, the beautiful fida. [illustration: a severe blow] it is true that i did not procure that felicity at once. there were many difficulties to be got over before the noble spaniel would think of allowing his daughter to become the wife of plain mr. job. his son, also, of whom i have spoken previously, could not bear, at first, the idea of his sister not marrying some one as noble as herself, and thought, very naturally, that she was far too good to have her fortunes united with mine. fida herself, however, was so firm, and yet so tender; so straightforward, and yet so modest, that she finally broke down all opposition. she persuaded her father that no title could be more noble than the one i had acquired, that of "honest job;" she won over her brother, by slily asking him, which among his grand companions could have met a whole band of fierce dogs, with lupo at their head, and, single-pawed, could have conquered them all? by degrees, every objection was cleared away, and fida became mine. the chief interest of my life terminates here; for although, in my position as head of the police, i had many other adventures, they were too much alike, and of too common an order, to be worth relating. before i close, however, i must mention a circumstance which occurred shortly after my battle with the robbers, as it is curious in itself, and refers to an animal of whom i have before spoken. i was quietly walking along a bye-street of caneville, when a miserable, thin, little puppy came behind me, and gently pulled my coat. on turning round to ask him what he wanted, he begged me in the most imploring tone to come and see his father, who was very ill. "and who is your father, little pup?" i inquired. "his name is lupo," said the thin dog, in a trembling voice. "lupo!" i cried out in surprise. "but do you not know who i am, and that i am forced to be your father's greatest enemy?" "i know, i know," the pup replied; "but father told me to come and seek _you_, for that you were good, and would not harm him, if you knew he was so miserable." and here the little dog began howling in a way which moved me. "go on," i said, after a moment; "go on; i will follow you." as the little dog ran before, through some of the low and miserable parts of the city, the idea once came into my head that perhaps this was a scheme of lupo's to get me into his power. but the puppy's grief had been too real to allow me to believe, young as he was, that he could be acting a part; so with a stout resolution i went forward. we arrived at a low and dirty kennel, where only the greatest misery could bear to live. we passed through a hole, for so it appeared, rather than a doorway, and i found myself in a little room, lit by a break in the wall. on the single poor bed lay a wretched object, gasping for breath, while a ragged pup, somewhat older than my little guide, had buried his face in the clothes at the bottom of the bed. three other tiny creatures, worn to the bone with poverty and want of food, came crowding round me, in a way that was piteous to behold; and with their looks, not words, for they said nothing, asked me to do something for their miserable parent. i procured from a neighbouring tavern a bason of broth with which i succeeded in reviving the once terrible lupo; but it was only a flash before life departed for ever. in broken words, he recommended to my care the poor little objects round. bad as he was, he still had feeling for them, and it was easy to observe that at this sad moment his thoughts were more of _them_ than of himself; for when i promised to protect them, he pressed my paw with his remaining strength to his hot lips, moaned faintly, and expired. [illustration: consolation] my tale is over. would that it had been more entertaining, more instructive. but the incidents of my career have been few, and my path, with the one or two exceptions i have described, has been a smooth one. i have heard it said that no history of a life, however simple, is without its lesson. if it be so, then perhaps some good may be derived from mine. if it teach the way to avoid an error, or correct a fault; if any portion of it win a smile from a sad heart, or awake a train of serious thought in a gay one, my dog's tale will not have been unfolded in vain. the end. london; thomas harrild, printer, , salisbury square, fleet street. new juvenile publications. routledge's new two-shilling present or gift-books, _in fcap. vo, cloth gilt, with illustrations by gilbert, warren, corbould, &c.; or with gilt edges, price two shillings and sixpence._ list of the series, viz.: . tales for my children. guizot. . ten moral tales. guizot. . juvenile tales & stories. m'intosh. . conquest & self-conquest. m'intosh. . evening at donaldson manor. m'intosh. . praise and principle. m'intosh. . grace and isabel. m'intosh. . charms & counter-charms. m'intosh. . gertrude and eulalie. hulse. . robert and harold. anon. . story of an apple. campbell. . cabin by the wayside. campbell. . memoirs of a doll. besset. . the black princess. besset. . emigrant's lost son. g. h. wall. . robinson the younger. hick. . amy carlton; or, first days at school. anon. . laura and ellen. allen. . robinson crusoe. defoe. . laura temple. bowman. . little foundling. mrs. myrtle. . spirit of the holly. mrs. owen. . poetry of the best authors. bowman. . harry and his homes. anon. . violet. m'intosh. . the lamplighter. cummins. . the lofty and lowly. m'intosh. . our native land. wilson. routledge's two-and-sixpenny reward or gift-books. _or, with gilt edges, price three shillings. fcap. vo. illustrated by the best artists. cloth extra, and gilt._ . arbell. by jane w. hooper. illustrated by godwin. . eda morton and her cousins. by m. bell. illustrated by birket foster. . allen's life of nelson. with steel portrait. . macfarlane's life of wellington. illustrated by john gilbert. . macfarlane's life of marlborough. illustrated by john gilbert. . osler's life of lord exmouth. with steel portrait and maps. . gilbert the adventurer. by peter parley. with engravings. . kaloolah: or, african adventures. with coloured plates. routledge's eighteenpenny juveniles. _square mo, cloth gilt. illustrated by john gilbert, absolon, foster, etc._ . peasant and the prince, by harriet martineau. . crofton boys, by harriet martineau. . feats on the fiord, by harriet martineau. . settlers at home, by harriet martineau. . holiday ramblers, or the school vacation, by elizabeth grant. . little drummer, a tale of the russian war. . frank, by maria edgeworth. . rosamond, by maria edgeworth. . harry and lucy, little dog trusty, the cherry orchard, etc. by maria edgeworth. . a hero, or philip's book, by the author of olive. london: george routledge and co., farringdon street. transcriber's notes: no changes to the original spelling were made. the following duplicated words were corrected. page : who who corrected to who. page : near near corrected to near. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) twinkle and chubbins their astonishing adventures in nature-fairyland by laura bancroft illustrated by maginal wright enright publishers the reilly & britton co. chicago copyright, by the reilly & britton co. contents page i mr. woodchuck................. ii bandit jim crow.............. iii prarie-dog town............. iv prince mud-turtle........... v twinkle's enchantment....... vi sugar-loaf mountain......... list of chapters page i the trap............................ ii mr. woodchuck captures a girl....... iii mr. woodchuck scolds tinkle......... iv mrs. woodchuck and her family ...... v mr. woodchuck argues the question... vi twinkle is taken to the judge....... vii twinkle is condemned................ viii twinkle remembers................... chapter i the trap "there's a woodchuck over on the side hill that is eating my clover," said twinkle's father, who was a farmer. "why don't you set a trap for it?" asked twinkle's mother. "i believe i will," answered the man. so, when the midday dinner was over, the farmer went to the barn and got a steel trap, and carried it over to the clover-field on the hillside. twinkle wanted very much to go with him, but she had to help mamma wash the dishes and put them away, and then brush up the dining-room and put it in order. but when the work was done, and she had all the rest of the afternoon to herself, she decided to go over to the woodchuck's hole and see how papa had set the trap, and also discover if the woodchuck had yet been caught. so the little girl took her blue-and-white sun-bonnet, and climbed over the garden fence and ran across the corn-field and through the rye until she came to the red-clover patch on the hill. she knew perfectly well where the woodchuck's hole was, for she had looked at it curiously many times; so she approached it carefully and found the trap set just in front of the hole. if the woodchuck stepped on it, when he came out, it would grab his leg and hold him fast; and there was a chain fastened to the trap, and also to a stout post driven into the ground, so that when the woodchuck was caught he couldn't run away with the trap. but although the day was bright and sunshiny, and just the kind of day woodchucks like, the clover-eater had not yet walked out of his hole to get caught in the trap. so twinkle lay down in the clover-field, half hidden by a small bank in front of the woodchuck's hole, and began to watch for the little animal to come out. her eyes could see right into the hole, which seemed to slant upward into the hill instead of downward; but of course she couldn't see very far in, because the hole wasn't straight, and grew black a little way from the opening. it was somewhat wearisome, waiting and watching so long, and the warm sun and the soft chirp of the crickets that hopped through the clover made twinkle drowsy. she didn't intend to go to sleep, because then she might miss the woodchuck; but there was no harm in closing her eyes just one little minute; so she allowed the long lashes to droop over her pretty pink cheeks--just because they felt so heavy, and there was no way to prop them up. then, with a start, she opened her eyes again, and saw the trap and the woodchuck hole just as they were before. not quite, though, come to look carefully. the hole seemed to be bigger than at first; yes, strange as it might seem, the hole was growing bigger every minute! she watched it with much surprise, and then looked at the trap, which remained the same size it had always been. and when she turned her eyes upon the hole once more it had not only become very big and high, but a stone arch appeared over it, and a fine, polished front door now shut it off from the outside world. she could even read a name upon the silver door-plate, and the name was this: mister woodchuck chapter ii mister woodchuck captures a girl "well, i declare!" whispered twinkle to herself; "how could all that have happened?" on each side of the door was a little green bench, big enough for two to sit upon, and between the benches was a doorstep of white marble, with a mat lying on it. on one side twinkle saw an electric door-bell. while she gazed at this astonishing sight a sound of rapid footsteps was heard, and a large jack-rabbit, almost as big as herself, and dressed in a messenger-boy's uniform, ran up to the woodchuck's front door and rang the bell. almost at once the door opened inward, and a curious personage stepped out. twinkle saw at a glance that it was the woodchuck himself,--but what a big and queer woodchuck it was! he wore a swallow-tailed coat, with a waistcoat of white satin and fancy knee-breeches, and upon his feet were shoes with silver buckles. on his head was perched a tall silk hat that made him look just as high as twinkle's father, and in one paw he held a gold-headed cane. also he wore big spectacles over his eyes, which made him look more dignified than any other woodchuck twinkle had ever seen. when this person opened the door and saw the jack-rabbit messenger-boy, he cried out: "well, what do you mean by ringing my bell so violently? i suppose you're half an hour late, and trying to make me think you're in a hurry." the jack-rabbit took a telegram from its pocket and handed it to the woodchuck without a word in reply. at once the woodchuck tore open the envelope and read the telegram carefully. "thank you. there's no answer," he said; and in an instant the jack-rabbit had whisked away and was gone. "well, well," said the woodchuck, as if to himself, "the foolish farmer has set a trap for me, it seems, and my friends have sent a telegram to warn me. let's see--where is the thing?" he soon discovered the trap, and seizing hold of the chain he pulled the peg out of the ground and threw the whole thing far away into the field. "i must give that farmer a sound scolding," he muttered, "for he's becoming so impudent lately that soon he will think he owns the whole country." but now his eyes fell upon twinkle, who lay in the clover staring up at him; and the woodchuck gave a laugh and grabbed her fast by one arm. "oh ho!" he exclaimed; "you're spying upon me, are you?" "i'm just waiting to see you get caught in the trap," said the girl, standing up because the big creature pulled upon her arm. she wasn't much frightened, strange to say, because this woodchuck had a good-humored way about him that gave her confidence. "you would have to wait a long time for that," he said, with a laugh that was a sort of low chuckle. "instead of seeing me caught, you've got caught yourself. that's turning the tables, sure enough; isn't it?" "i suppose it is," said twinkle, regretfully. "am i a prisoner?" "you might call it that; and then, again, you mightn't," answered the woodchuck. "to tell you the truth, i hardly know what to do with you. but come inside, and we'll talk it over. we musn't be seen out here in the fields." still holding fast to her arm, the woodchuck led her through the door, which he carefully closed and locked. then they passed through a kind of hallway, into which opened several handsomely furnished rooms, and out again into a beautiful garden at the back, all filled with flowers and brightly colored plants, and with a pretty fountain playing in the middle. a high stone wall was built around the garden, shutting it off from all the rest of the world. the woodchuck led his prisoner to a bench beside the fountain, and told her to sit down and make herself comfortable. chapter iii mister woodchuck scolds twinkle twinkle was much pleased with her surroundings, and soon discovered several gold-fishes swimming in the water at the foot of the fountain. "well, how does it strike you?" asked the woodchuck, strutting up and down the gravel walk before her and swinging his gold-headed cane rather gracefully. "it seems like a dream," said twinkle. "to be sure," he answered, nodding. "you'd no business to fall asleep in the clover." "did i?" she asked, rather startled at the suggestion. "it stands to reason you did," he replied. "you don't for a moment think this is real, do you?" "it _seems_ real," she answered. "aren't you the woodchuck?" "_mister_ woodchuck, if you please. address me properly, young lady, or you'll make me angry." "well, then, aren't you mister woodchuck?" "at present i am; but when you wake up, i won't be," he said. "then you think i'm dreaming?" "you must figure that out for yourself," said mister woodchuck. "what do you suppose made me dream?" "i don't know." "do you think it's something i've eaten?" she asked anxiously. "i hardly think so. this isn't any nightmare, you know, because there's nothing at all horrible about it so far. you've probably been reading some of those creepy, sensational story-books." "i haven't read a book in a long time," said twinkle. "dreams," remarked mister woodchuck, thoughtfully, "are not always to be accounted for. but this conversation is all wrong. when one is dreaming one doesn't talk about it, or even know it's a dream. so let's speak of something else." "it's very pleasant in this garden," said twinkle. "i don't mind being here a bit." "but you can't stay here," replied mister woodchuck, "and you ought to be very uncomfortable in my presence. you see, you're one of the deadliest enemies of my race. all you human beings live for or think of is how to torture and destroy woodchucks." "oh, no!" she answered. "we have many more important things than that to think of. but when a woodchuck gets eating our clover and the vegetables, and spoils a lot, we just have to do something to stop it. that's why my papa set the trap." "you're selfish," said mister woodchuck, "and you're cruel to poor little animals that can't help themselves, and have to eat what they can find, or starve. there's enough for all of us growing in the broad fields." twinkle felt a little ashamed. "we have to sell the clover and the vegetables to earn our living," she explained; "and if the animals eat them up we can't sell them." "we don't eat enough to rob you," said the woodchuck, "and the land belonged to the wild creatures long before you people came here and began to farm. and really, there is no reason why you should be so cruel. it hurts dreadfully to be caught in a trap, and an animal captured in that way sometimes has to suffer for many hours before the man comes to kill it. we don't mind the killing so much. death doesn't last but an instant. but every minute of suffering seems to be an hour." "that's true," said twinkle, feeling sorry and repentant. "i'll ask papa never to set another trap." "that will be some help," returned mister woodchuck, more cheerfully, "and i hope you'll not forget the promise when you wake up. but that isn't enough to settle the account for all our past sufferings, i assure you; so i am trying to think of a suitable way to punish you for the past wickedness of your father, and of all other men that have set traps." "why, if you feel that way," said the little girl, "you're just as bad as we are!" "how's that?" asked mister woodchuck, pausing in his walk to look at her. "it's as naughty to want revenge as it is to be selfish and cruel," she said. "i believe you are right about that," answered the animal, taking off his silk hat and rubbing the fur smooth with his elbow. "but woodchucks are not perfect, any more than men are, so you'll have to take us as you find us. and now i'll call my family, and exhibit you to them. the children, especially, will enjoy seeing the wild human girl i've had the luck to capture." "wild!" she cried, indignantly. "if you're not wild now, you will be before you wake up," he said. chapter iv mrs. woodchuck and her family but mister woodchuck had no need to call his family, for just as he spoke a chatter of voices was heard and mrs. woodchuck came walking down a path of the garden with several young woodchucks following after her. the lady animal was very fussily dressed, with puffs and ruffles and laces all over her silk gown, and perched upon her head was a broad white hat with long ostrich plumes. she was exceedingly fat, even for a woodchuck, and her head fitted close to her body, without any neck whatever to separate them. although it was shady in the garden, she held a lace parasol over her head, and her walk was so mincing and airy that twinkle almost laughed in her face. the young woodchucks were of several sizes and kinds. one little woodchuck girl rolled before her a doll's baby-cab, in which lay a woodchuck doll made of cloth, in quite a perfect imitation of a real woodchuck. it was stuffed with something soft to make it round and fat, and its eyes were two glass beads sewn upon the face. a big boy woodchuck wore knickerbockers and a tam o' shanter cap and rolled a hoop; and there were several smaller boy and girl woodchucks, dressed quite as absurdly, who followed after their mother in a long train. "my dear," said mister woodchuck to his wife, "here is a human creature that i captured just outside our front door." "huh!" sneered the lady woodchuck, looking at twinkle in a very haughty way; "why will you bring such an animal into our garden, leander? it makes me shiver just to look at the horrid thing!" "oh, mommer!" yelled one of the children, "see how skinny the beast is!" "hasn't any hair on its face at all," said another, "or on its paws!" "and no sign of a tail!" cried the little woodchuck girl with the doll. "yes, it's a very strange and remarkable creature," said the mother. "don't touch it, my precious darlings. it might bite." "you needn't worry," said twinkle, rather provoked at these speeches. "i wouldn't bite a dirty, greasy woodchuck on any account!" "whoo! did you hear what she called us, mommer? she says we're greasy and dirty!" shouted the children, and some of them grabbed pebbles from the path in their paws, as if to throw them at twinkle. "tut, tut! don't be cruel," said mister woodchuck. "remember the poor creature is a prisoner, and isn't used to good society; and besides that, she's dreaming." "really?" exclaimed mrs. woodchuck, looking at the girl curiously. "to be sure," he answered. "otherwise she wouldn't see us dressed in such fancy clothes, nor would we be bigger than she is. the whole thing is unnatural, my dear, as you must admit." "but _we_'re not dreaming; are we, daddy?" anxiously asked the boy with the hoop. "certainly not," mister woodchuck answered; "so this is a fine opportunity for you to study one of those human animals who have always been our worst enemies. you will notice they are very curiously made. aside from their lack of hair in any place except the top of the head, their paws are formed in a strange manner. those long slits in them make what are called fingers, and their claws are flat and dull--not at all sharp and strong like ours." "i think the beast is ugly," said mrs. woodchuck. "it would give me the shivers to touch its skinny flesh." "i'm glad of that," said twinkle, indignantly. "you wouldn't have _all_ the shivers, i can tell you! and you're a disagreeable, ign'rant creature! if you had any manners at all, you'd treat strangers more politely." "just listen to the thing!" said mrs. woodchuck, in a horrified tone. "isn't it wild, though!" chapter v mr. woodchuck argues the question "really," mister woodchuck said to his wife, "you should be more considerate of the little human's feelings. she is quite intelligent and tame, for one of her kind, and has a tender heart, i am sure." "i don't see anything intelligent about her," said the girl woodchuck. "i guess i've been to school as much as you have," said twinkle. "school! why, what's that?" "don't you know what school is?" cried twinkle, much amused. "we don't have school here," said mister woodchuck, as if proud of the fact. "don't you know any geography?" asked the child. "we haven't any use for it," said mister woodchuck; "for we never get far from home, and don't care a rap what state bounds florida on the south. we don't travel much, and studying geography would be time wasted." "but don't you study arithmetic?" she asked; "don't you know how to do sums?" "why should we?" he returned. "the thing that bothers you humans most, and that's money, is not used by us woodchucks. so we don't need to figure and do sums." "i don't see how you get along without money," said twinkle, wonderingly. "you must have to buy all your fine clothes." "you know very well that woodchucks don't wear clothes, under ordinary circumstances," mister woodchuck replied. "it's only because you are dreaming that you see us dressed in this way." "perhaps that's true," said twinkle. "but don't talk to me about not being intelligent, or not knowing things. if you haven't any schools it's certain i know more than your whole family put together!" "about some things, perhaps," acknowledged mister woodchuck. "but tell me: do you know which kind of red clover is the best to eat?" "no," she said. "or how to dig a hole in the ground to live in, with different rooms and passages, so that it slants up hill and the rain won't come in and drown you?" "no," said twinkle. "and could you tell, on the second day of february (which is woodchuck day, you know), whether it's going to be warm weather, or cold, during the next six weeks?" "i don't believe i could," replied the girl. "then," said mister woodchuck, "there are some things that we know that you don't; and although a woodchuck might not be of much account in one of your schoolrooms, you must forgive me for saying that i think you'd make a mighty poor woodchuck." "i think so, too!" said twinkle, laughing. "and now, little human," he resumed, after looking at his watch, "it's nearly time for you to wake up; so if we intend to punish you for all the misery your people has inflicted on the woodchucks, we won't have a minute to spare." "don't be in a hurry," said twinkle. "i can wait." "she's trying to get out of it," exclaimed mrs. woodchuck, scornfully. "don't you let her, leander." "certainly not, my dear," he replied; "but i haven't decided how to punish her." "take her to judge stoneyheart," said mrs. woodchuck. "he will know what to do with her." chapter vi twinkle is taken to the judge at this the woodchuck children all hooted with joy, crying: "take her, daddy! take her to old stoneyheart! oh, my! won't he give it to her, though!" "who is judge stoneyheart?" asked twinkle, a little uneasily. "a highly respected and aged woodchuck who is cousin to my wife's grandfather," was the reply. "we consider him the wisest and most intelligent of our race; but, while he is very just in all things, the judge never shows any mercy to evil-doers." "i haven't done anything wrong," said the girl. "but your father has, and much wrong is done us by the other farmers around here. they fight my people without mercy, and kill every woodchuck they can possibly catch." twinkle was silent, for she knew this to be true. "for my part," continued mister woodchuck, "i'm very soft-hearted, and wouldn't even step on an ant if i could help it. also i am sure you have a kind disposition. but you are a human, and i am a woodchuck; so i think i will take you to old stoneyheart and let him decide your fate." "hooray!" yelled the young woodchucks, and away they ran through the paths of the garden, followed slowly by their fat mother, who held the lace parasol over her head as if she feared she would be sunstruck. twinkle was glad to see them go. she didn't care much for the woodchuck children, they were so wild and ill-mannered, and their mother was even more disagreeable than they were. as for mister woodchuck, she did not object to him so much; in fact, she rather liked to talk to him, for his words were polite and his eyes pleasant and kindly. "now, my dear," he said, "as we are about to leave this garden, where you have been quite secure, i must try to prevent your running away when we are outside the wall. i hope it won't hurt your feelings to become a real prisoner for a few minutes." then mister woodchuck drew from his pocket a leather collar, very much like a dog-collar, twinkle thought, and proceeded to buckle it around the girl's neck. to the collar was attached a fine chain about six feet long, and the other end of the chain mister woodchuck held in his hand. "now, then," said he, "please come along quietly, and don't make a fuss." he led her to the end of the garden and opened a wooden gate in the wall, through which they passed. outside the garden the ground was nothing but hard, baked earth, without any grass or other green thing growing upon it, or any tree or shrub to shade it from the hot sun. and not far away stood a round mound, also of baked earth, which twinkle at once decided to be a house, because it had a door and some windows in it. there was no living thing in sight--not even a woodchuck--and twinkle didn't care much for the baked-clay scenery. mister woodchuck, holding fast to the chain, led his prisoner across the barren space to the round mound, where he paused to rap softly upon the door. chapter vii twinkle is condemned "come in!" called a voice. mister woodchuck pushed open the door and entered, drawing tinkle after him by the chain. in the middle of the room sat a woodchuck whose hair was grizzled with old age. he wore big spectacles upon his nose, and a round knitted cap, with a tassel dangling from the top, upon his head. his only garment was an old and faded dressing-gown. when they entered, the old woodchuck was busy playing a game with a number of baked-clay dominoes, which he shuffled and arranged upon a baked-mud table; nor did he look up for a long time, but continued to match the dominoes and to study their arrangement with intense interest. finally, however, he finished the game, and then he raised his head and looked sharply at his visitors. "good afternoon, judge," said mister woodchuck, taking off his silk hat and bowing respectfully. the judge did not answer him, but continued to stare at twinkle. "i have called to ask your advice," continued mister woodchuck. "by good chance i have been able to capture one of those fierce humans that are the greatest enemies of peaceful woodchucks." the judge nodded his gray head wisely, but still answered nothing. "but now that i've captured the creature, i don't know what to do with her," went on mister woodchuck; "although i believe, of course, she should be punished in some way, and made to feel as unhappy as her people have made us feel. yet i realize that it's a dreadful thing to hurt any living creature, and as far as i'm concerned i'm quite willing to forgive her." with these words he wiped his face with a red silk handkerchief, as if really distressed. "she's dreaming," said the judge, in a sharp, quick voice. "am i?" asked twinkle. "of course. you were probably lying on the wrong side when you went to sleep." "oh!" she said. "i wondered what made it." "very disagreeable dream, isn't it?" continued the judge. "not so very," she answered. "it's interesting to see and hear woodchucks in their own homes, and mister woodchuck has shown me how cruel it is for us to set traps for you." "good!" said the judge. "but some dreams are easily forgotten, so i'll teach you a lesson you'll be likely to remember. you shall be caught in a trap yourself." "me!" cried twinkle, in dismay. "yes, you. when you find how dreadfully it hurts you'll bear the traps in mind forever afterward. people don't remember dreams unless the dreams are unusually horrible. but i guess you'll remember this one." he got up and opened a mud cupboard, from which he took a big steel trap. twinkle could see that it was just like the trap papa had set to catch the woodchucks, only it seemed much bigger and stronger. the judge got a mallet and with it pounded a stake into the mud floor. then he fastened the chain of the trap to the stake, and afterward opened the iron jaws of the cruel-looking thing and set them with a lever, so that the slightest touch would spring the trap and make the strong jaws snap together. "now, little girl," said he, "you must step in the trap and get caught." "why, it would break my leg!" cried twinkle. "did your father care whether a woodchuck got its leg broken or not?" asked the judge. "no," she answered, beginning to be greatly frightened. "step!" cried the judge, sternly. "it will hurt awfully," said mister woodchuck; "but that can't be helped. traps are cruel things, at the best." twinkle was now trembling with nervousness and fear. "step!" called the judge, again. "dear me!" said mister woodchuck, just then, as he looked earnestly into twinkle's face, "i believe she's going to wake up!" "that's too bad," said the judge. "no, i'm glad of it," replied mister woodchuck. and just then the girl gave a start and opened her eyes. she was lying in the clover, and before her was the opening of the woodchuck's hole, with the trap still set before it. chapter viii twinkle remembers "papa," said twinkle, when supper was over and she was nestled snugly in his lap, "i wish you wouldn't set any more traps for the woodchucks." "why not, my darling?" he asked in surprise. "they're cruel," she answered. "it must hurt the poor animals dreadfully to be caught in them." "i suppose it does," said her father, thoughtfully. "but if i don't trap the woodchucks they eat our clover and vegetables." "never mind that," said twinkle, earnestly. "let's divide with them. god made the woodchucks, you know, just as he made us, and they can't plant and grow things as we do; so they have to take what they can get, or starve to death. and surely, papa, there's enough to eat in this big and beautiful world, for all of god's creatures." papa whistled softly, although his face was grave; and then he bent down and kissed his little girl's forehead. "i won't set any more traps, dear," he said. and that evening, after twinkle had been tucked snugly away in bed, her father walked slowly through the sweet-smelling fields to the woodchuck's hole; there lay the trap, showing plainly in the bright moonlight. he picked it up and carried it back to the barn. it was never used again. the end bandit jim crow bandit jim crow list of chapters page i jim crow becomes a pet..................... ii jim crow runs away......................... iii jim crow finds a new home.................. iv jim crow becomes a robber.................. v jim crow meets policeman blue jay......... vi jim crow fools the policeman.............. vii jim crow is punished...................... viii jim crow has time to repent his sins...... chapter i jim crow becomes a pet one day, when twinkle's father was in the corn-field, he shot his gun at a flock of crows that were busy digging up, with their long bills, the kernels of corn he had planted. but twinkle's father didn't aim very straight, for the birds screamed at the bang of the gun and quickly flew away--all except one young crow that fluttered its wings, but couldn't rise into the air, and so began to run along the ground in an effort to escape. the man chased the young crow, and caught it; and then he found that one of the little lead bullets had broken the right wing, although the bird seemed not to be hurt in any other way. it struggled hard, and tried to peck the hands that held it; but it was too young to hurt any one, so twinkle's father decided he would carry it home to his little girl. "here's a pet for you, twinkle," he said, as he came into the house. "it can't fly, because its wing is broken; but don't let it get too near your eyes, or it may peck at them. it's very wild and fierce, you know." twinkle was delighted with her pet, and at once got her mother to bandage the broken wing, so that it would heal quickly. the crow had jet black feathers, but there was a pretty purplish and violet gloss, or sheen, on its back and wings, and its eyes were bright and had a knowing look in them. they were hazel-brown in color, and the bird had a queer way of turning his head on one side to look at twinkle with his right eye, and then twisting it the other side that he might see her with his left eye. she often wondered if she looked the same to both eyes, or if each one made her seem different. she named her pet "jim crow" because papa said that all crows were called jim, although he never could find out the reason. but the name seemed to fit her pet as well as any, so twinkle never bothered about the reason. having no cage to keep him in, and fearing he would run away, the girl tied a strong cord around one of jim crow's legs, and the other end of the cord she fastened to the round of a chair--or to the table-leg--when they were in the house. the crow would run all around, as far as the string would let him go; but he couldn't get away. and when they went out of doors twinkle held the end of the cord in her hand, as one leads a dog, and jim crow would run along in front of her, and then stop and wait. and when she came near he'd run on again, screaming "caw! caw!" at the top of his shrill little voice. he soon came to know he belonged to twinkle, and would often lie in her lap or perch upon her shoulder. and whenever she entered the room where he was he would say, "caw--caw!" to her, in pleading tones, until she picked him up or took some notice of him. it was wonderful how quickly a bird that had always lived wild and free seemed to become tame and gentle. twinkle's father said that was because he was so young, and because his broken wing kept him from flying in the air and rejoining his fellows. but jim crow wasn't as tame as he seemed, and he had a very wicked and ungrateful disposition, as you will presently learn. for a few weeks, however, he was as nice a pet as any little girl could wish for. he got into mischief occasionally, and caused mamma some annoyance when he waded into a pan of milk or jumped upon the dinner table and ate up papa's pumpkin pie before twinkle could stop him. but all pets are more or less trouble, at times, so jim crow escaped with a few severe scoldings from mamma, which never seemed to worry him in the least or make him a bit unhappy. chapter ii jim crow runs away at last jim got so tame that twinkle took the cord off his leg and let him go free, wherever he pleased. so he wandered all over the house and out into the yard, where he chased the ducks and bothered the pigs and made himself generally disliked. he had a way of perching upon the back of old tom, papa's favorite horse, and chattering away in tom's ear until the horse plunged and pranced in his stall to get rid of his unwelcome visitor. twinkle always kept the bandage on the wounded wing, for she didn't know whether it was well yet, or not, and she thought it was better to be on the safe side. but the truth was, that jim crow's wing had healed long ago, and was now as strong as ever; and, as the weeks passed by, and he grew big and fat, a great longing came into his wild heart to fly again-- far, far up into the air and away to the lands where there were forests of trees and brooks of running water. he didn't ever expect to rejoin his family again. they were far enough away by this time. and he didn't care much to associate with other crows. all he wanted was to be free, and do exactly as he pleased, and not have some one cuffing him a dozen times a day because he was doing wrong. so one morning, before twinkle was up, or even awake, jim crow pecked at the bandage on his wing until he got the end unfastened, and then it wasn't long before the entire strip of cloth was loosened and fell to the ground. now jim fluttered his feathers, and pruned them with his long bill where they had been pressed together, and presently he knew that the wing which had been injured was exactly as strong and well as the other one. he could fly away whenever he pleased. the crow had been well fed by twinkle and her mamma, and was in splendid health. but he was not at all grateful. with the knowledge of his freedom a fierce, cruel joy crept into his heart, and he resumed the wild nature that crows are born with and never lay aside as long as they live. having forgotten in an instant that he had ever been tame, and the pet of a gentle little girl, jim crow had no thought of saying good-bye to twinkle. instead, he decided he would do something that would make these foolish humans remember him for a long time. so he dashed into a group of young chickens that had only been hatched a day or two before, and killed seven of them with his strong, curved claws and his wicked black beak. when the mother hen flew at him he pecked at her eyes; and then, screaming a defiance to all the world, jim crow flew into the air and sailed away to a new life in another part of the world. chapter iii jim crow finds a new home i'll not try to tell you of all the awful things this bad crow did during the next few days, on his long journey toward the south. twinkle almost cried when she found her pet gone; and she really did cry when she saw the poor murdered chickens. but mamma said she was very glad to have jim crow run away, and papa scowled angrily and declared he was sorry he had not killed the cruel bird when he shot at it in the corn-field. in the mean time the runaway crow flew through the country, and when he was hungry he would stop at a farm-house and rob a hen's nest and eat the eggs. it was his knowledge of farm-houses that made him so bold; but the farmers shot at the thieving bird once or twice, and this frightened jim crow so badly that he decided to keep away from the farms and find a living in some less dangerous way. and one day he came to a fine forest, where there were big and little trees of all kinds, with several streams of water running through the woods. "here," said jim crow, "i will make my home; for surely this is the finest place i am ever likely to find." there were plenty of birds in this forest, for jim could hear them singing and twittering everywhere among the trees; and their nests hung suspended from branches, or nestled in a fork made by two limbs, in almost every direction he might look. and the birds were of many kinds, too: robins, thrushes, bullfinches, mocking-birds, wrens, yellowtails and skylarks. even tiny humming-birds fluttered around the wild flowers that grew in the glades; and in the waters of the brooks waded long-legged herons, while kingfishers sat upon overhanging branches and waited patiently to seize any careless fish that might swim too near them. jim crow decided this must be a real paradise for birds, because it was far away from the houses of men. so he made up his mind to get acquainted with the inhabitants of the forest as soon as possible, and let them know who he was, and that he must be treated with proper respect. in a big fir-tree, whose branches reached nearly to the ground, he saw a large gathering of the birds, who sat chattering and gossiping pleasantly together. so he flew down and joined them. "good morning, folks," he said; and his voice sounded to them like a harsh croak, because it had become much deeper in tone since he had grown to his full size. the birds looked at him curiously, and one or two fluttered their wings in a timid and nervous way; but none of them, little or big, thought best to make any reply. "well," said jim crow, gruffly, "what's the matter with you fellows? haven't you got tongues? you seemed to talk fast enough a minute ago." "excuse me," replied a bullfinch, in a dignified voice; "we haven't the honor of your acquaintance. you are a stranger." "my name's jim crow," he answered, "and i won't be a stranger long, because i'm going to live here." they all looked grave at this speech, and a little thrush hopped from one branch to another, and remarked: "we haven't any crows here at all. if you want to find your own folks you must go to some other place." "what do i care about my own folks?" asked jim, with a laugh that made the little thrush shudder. "i prefer to live alone." "haven't you a mate?" asked a robin, speaking in a very polite tone. "no; and i don't want any," said jim crow. "i'm going to live all by myself. there's plenty of room in this forest, i guess." "certainly," replied the bullfinch. "there is plenty of room for you here if you behave yourself and obey the laws." "who's going to make me?" he asked, angrily. "any decent person, even if he's a crow, is bound to respect the law," answered the bullfinch, calmly. jim crow was a little ashamed, for he didn't wish to acknowledge he wasn't decent. so he said: "what are your laws?" "the same as those in all other forests. you must respect the nests and the property of all other birds, and not interfere with them when they're hunting for food. and you must warn your fellow-birds whenever there is danger, and assist them to protect their young from prowling beasts. if you obey these laws, and do not steal from or interfere with your neighbors, you have a right to a nest in our forest." "to be quite frank with you, though," said the robin, "we prefer your room to your company." "i'm going to stay," said the crow. "i guess i'm as good as the rest of you; so you fellows just mind your own business and i'll mind mine." with these words he left them, and when he had mounted to a position above the trees he saw that one tall, slim pine was higher than all the rest, and that at its very top was a big deserted nest. chapter iv jim crow becomes a robber it looked like a crow's nest to jim, so he flew toward the pine tree and lit upon a branch close by. one glance told him that at some time it really must have been the home of birds of his kind, who for some reason had abandoned it long ago. the nest was large and bulky, being made of strong sticks woven together with fine roots and grasses. it was rough outside, but smooth inside, and when jim crow had kicked out the dead leaves and twigs that had fallen into it, he decided it was nearly as good as new, and plenty good enough for a solitary crow like him to live in. so with his bill he made a mark on the nest, that every bird might know it belonged to him, and felt that at last he had found a home. during the next few days he made several attempts to get acquainted with the other birds, but they were cold and distant, though very polite to him; and none of them seemed to care for his society. no bird ever came near his nest, but he often flew down to the lower trees and perched upon one or another of them, so gradually the birds of the forest got used to seeing him around, and paid very little attention to his actions. one day mrs. wren missed two brown eggs from her nest, and her little heart was nearly broken with grief. it took the mocking bird and the bullfinch a whole afternoon to comfort her, while mr. wren hopped around in nearly as much distress as his wife. no animals had been seen in the forest who would do this evil thing, so no one could imagine who the thief might be. such an outrage was almost unknown in this pleasant forest, and it made all the birds nervous and fearful. a few days later a still greater horror came upon them, for the helpless young children of mrs. linnet were seized one morning from their nest, while their parents were absent in search of food, and were carried away bodily. mr. linnet declared that on his way back to his nest he had seen a big black monster leaving it, but had been too frightened to notice just what the creature looked like. but the lark, who had been up very early that morning, stated that he had seen no one near that part of the forest except jim crow, who had flown swiftly to his nest in the tall pine-tree. this was enough to make all the birds look upon jim crow with grave suspicion, and robin redbreast called a secret meeting of all the birds to discuss the question and decide what must be done to preserve their nests from the robber. jim crow was so much bigger and fiercer than any of the others that none dared accuse him openly or venture to quarrel with him; but they had a good friend living not far away who was not afraid of jim crow or any one else, so they finally decided to send for him and ask his assistance. the starling undertook to be the messenger, and as soon as the meeting was over he flew away upon his errand. "what were all you folks talking about?" asked the crow, flying down and alighting upon a limb near to those who had not yet left the place of meeting. "we were talking about you," said the thrush, boldly; "and you wouldn't care at all to know what we said, mister jim crow." jim looked a trifle guilty and ashamed at hearing this, but knowing they were all afraid of him he burst out into a rude laugh. "caw! caw! caw!" he chuckled hoarsely; "what do i care what you say about me? but don't you get saucy, my pretty thrush, or your friends will miss you some fine morning, and never see you again." this awful threat made them all silent, for they remembered the fate of poor mrs. linnet's children, and very few of the birds now had any doubt but that jim crow knew more about the death of those helpless little ones than he cared to tell. finding they would not talk with him, the crow flew back to his tree, where he sat sullenly perched upon a branch near his nest. and they were very glad to get rid of him so easily. chapter v jim crow meets policeman blue jay next morning jim crow woke up hungry, and as he sat lazily in his big nest, he remembered that he had seen four pretty brown eggs, speckled with white, in the nest of the oriole that lived at the edge of the forest. "those eggs will taste very good for breakfast," he thought. "i'll go at once and get them; and if old mammy oriole makes a fuss, i'll eat her, too." he hopped out of his nest and on to a branch, and the first thing his sharp eye saw was a big and strange bird sitting upon the tree just opposite him and looking steadily in his direction. never having lived among other birds until now, the crow did not know what kind of bird this was, but as he faced the new-comer he had a sort of shiver in his heart that warned him to beware an enemy. indeed, it was none other than the blue jay that had appeared so suddenly, and he had arrived that morning because the starling had told him of the thefts that had taken place, and the blue jay is well known as the policeman of the forest and a terror to all evil-doers. in size he was nearly as big as jim crow himself, and he had a large crest of feathers on the top of his head that made him look even more fierce--especially when he ruffled them up. his body was purplish blue color on the back and purplish gray below, and there was a collar of black feathers running all around his neck. but his wings and tail were a beautiful rich blue, as delightful in color as the sky on a fine may morning; so in personal appearance policeman blue jay was much handsomer than jim crow. but it was the sharp, stout beak that most alarmed the crow, and had jim been wiser he would have known that before him was the most deadly foe of his race, and that the greatest pleasure a blue jay finds in life is to fight with and punish a crow. but jim was not very wise; and so he imagined, after his first terror had passed away, that he could bully this bird as he had the others, and make it fear him. "well, what are you doing here?" he called out, in his crossest voice, for he was anxious to get away and rob the oriole's nest. the blue jay gave a scornful, chattering laugh as he answered: "that's none of your business, jim crow." "take care!" warned the crow; "you'll be sorry if you don't treat me with proper respect." the blue jay winked solemnly, in a way that would have been very comical to any observer other than the angry crow. "don't hurt me--please don't!" he said, fluttering on the branch as if greatly frightened. "my mother would feel dreadful bad if anything happened to me." "well, then, behave yourself," returned the crow, strutting proudly along a limb and flopping his broad wings in an impressive manner. for he was foolish enough to think he had made the other afraid. but no sooner had he taken flight and soared into the air than the blue jay darted at him like an arrow from a bow, and before jim crow could turn to defend himself the bill of his enemy struck him full in the breast. then, with a shriek of shrill laughter, the policeman darted away and disappeared in the forest, leaving the crow to whirl around in the air once or twice and then sink slowly down, with some of his own torn feathers floating near him as witnesses to his defeat. the attack had dazed and astonished him beyond measure; but he found he was not much hurt, after all. crows are tougher than most birds. jim managed to reach one of the brooks, where he bathed his breast in the cool water, and soon he felt much refreshed and more like his old self again. but he decided not to go to the oriole's nest that morning, but to search for grabs and beetles amongst the mosses beneath the oak-trees. chapter vi jim crow fools the policeman from that time on policeman blue jay made his home in the forest, keeping a sharp eye upon the actions of jim crow. and one day he flew away to the southward and returned with mrs. blue jay, who was even more beautiful than her mate. together they built a fine nest in a tree that stood near to the crow's tall pine, and soon after they had settled down to housekeeping mrs. blue jay began to lay eggs of a pretty brown color mottled with darker brown specks. had jim crow known what was best for him he would have flown away from this forest and found himself a new home. within a short flight were many bits of woodland where a crow might get a good living and not be bothered by blue jays. but jim was obstinate and foolish, and had made up his mind that he never would again be happy until he had been revenged upon his enemy. he dared no longer rob the nests so boldly as he had before, so he became sly and cunning. he soon found out that the blue jay could not fly as high as he could, nor as fast; so, if he kept a sharp lookout for the approach of his foe, he had no trouble in escaping. but if he went near to the nests of the smaller birds, there was the blue policeman standing guard, and ready and anxious to fight at a moment's notice. it was really no place for a robber at all, unless the robber was clever. one day jim crow discovered a chalkpit among the rocks at the north of the forest, just beyond the edge of trees. the chalk was soft and in some places crumbled to a fine powder, so that when he had rolled himself for a few minutes in the dust all his feathers became as white as snow. this fact gave to jim crow a bright idea. no longer black, but white as a dove, he flew away to the forest and passed right by policeman blue jay, who only noticed that a big white bird had flown amongst the trees, and did not suspect it was the thieving crow in a clever disguise. jim found a robin's nest that was not protected, both the robin and his wife being away in search of food. so he ate up the eggs and kicked the nest to pieces and then flew away again, passing the blue jay a second time all unnoticed. when he reached a brook he washed all the chalk away from his feathers and then returned to his nest as black as ever. all the birds were angry and dismayed when they found what had happened, but none could imagine who had robbed the robins. mrs. robin, who was not easily discouraged, built another nest and laid more eggs in it; but the next day a second nest in the forest was robbed, and then another and another, until the birds complained that policeman blue jay did not protect them at all. "i can't understand it in the least," said the policeman, "for i have watched carefully, and i know jim crow has never dared to come near to your trees." "then some one else is the robber," declared the thrush fussily. "the only stranger i have noticed around here is a big white bird," replied the blue jay, "and white birds never rob nests or eat eggs, as you all know very well." so they were no nearer the truth than before, and the thefts continued; for each day jim crow would make himself white in the chalk-pit, fly into the forest and destroy the precious eggs of some innocent little bird, and afterward wash himself in some far-away brook, and return to his nest chuckling with glee to think he had fooled the blue jay so nicely. but the blue jay, although stupid and unsuspecting at first, presently began to get a little wisdom. he remembered that all this trouble had commenced when the strange white bird first arrived in the forest; and although it was doubtless true that white birds never eat eggs and have honest reputations, he decided to watch this stranger and make sure that it was innocent of the frightful crimes that had so aroused the dwellers in the forest. chapter vii jim crow is punished so one day policeman blue jay hid himself in some thick bushes until he saw the big white bird fly by, and then he followed quietly after it, flitting from tree to tree and keeping out of sight as much as possible, until at last he saw the white bird alight near a bullfinch's nest and eat up all the eggs it contained. then, ruffling his crest angrily, policeman blue jay flew to attack the big white robber, and was astonished to find he could not catch it. for the white bird flew higher into the air than he could, and also flew much faster, so that it soon escaped and passed out of sight. "it must be a white crow," thought the blue jay; "for only a crow can beat me at flying, and some of that race are said to be white, although i have never seen one." so he called together all the birds, and told them what he had seen, and they all agreed to hide themselves the next day and lie in wait for the thief. by this time jim crow thought himself perfectly safe, and success had made him as bold as he was wicked. therefore he suspected nothing when, after rolling himself in the chalk, he flew down the next day into the forest to feast upon birds' eggs. he soon came to a pretty nest, and was just about to rob it, when a chorus of shrill cries arose on every side of him and hundreds, of birds--so many that they quite filled the air-- flew straight at the white one, pecking him with their bills and striking him with their wings; for anger had made even the most timid of the little birds fierce, and there were so many of them that they gave each other courage. jim crow tried to escape, but whichever way he might fly his foes clustered all around him, getting in his way so that he could not use his big wings properly. and all the time they were pecking at him and fighting him as hard as they could. also, the chalk was brushed from his feathers, by degrees, and soon the birds were able to recognize their old enemy the crow, and then, indeed, they became more furious than ever. policeman blue jay was especially angry at the deception practiced upon him, and if he could have got at the crow just then he would have killed it instantly. but the little birds were all in his way, so he was forced to hold aloof. filled with terror and smarting with pain, jim crow had only one thought: to get to the shelter of his nest in the pine-tree. in some way he managed to do this, and to sink exhausted into the hollow of his nest. but many of his enemies followed him, and although the thick feathers of his back and wings protected his body, jim's head and eyes were at the mercy of the sharp bills of the vengeful birds. when at last they left him, thinking he had been sufficiently punished, jim crow was as nearly dead as a bird could be. but crows are tough, and this one was unlucky enough to remain alive. for when his wounds had healed he had become totally blind, and day after day he sat in his nest, helpless and alone, and dared not leave it. chapter viii jim crow has time to repent his sins "where are you going, my dear?" asked the blue jay of his wife. "i'm going to carry some grubs to jim crow," she answered. "i'll be back in a minute." "jim crow is a robber and a murderer!" said the policeman, harshly. "i know," she replied, in a sweet voice; "but he is blind." "well, fly along," said her husband; "but hurry back again." and the robin-redbreast and his wife filled a cup-shaped flower with water from the brook, and then carried it in their bills to the pine-tree, without spilling a drop. "where are you going?" asked the oriole, as they passed. "we're just taking some water to jim crow," replied mrs. robin. "he's a thief and a scoundrel!" cried the oriole, indignantly. "that is true." said mrs. robin, in a soft, pitiful voice; "but he is blind." "let me help you." exclaimed the oriole. "i'll carry this side of the cup, so it can't tip." so jim crow, blind and helpless, sat in his nest day after day and week after week, while the little birds he had so cruelly wronged brought him food and water and cared for him as generously as they could. and i wonder what his thoughts were--don't you? prairie-dog town prarie-dog town list of chapters page i the picnic........................... ii prairie-dog town..................... iii mr. bowko, the mayor................. iv presto digi, the magician............ v the home of the puff-pudgys.......... vi teenty and weenty.................... vii the mayor gives a luncheon........... viii on top of the earth again............ chapter i the picnic on the great western prairies of dakota is a little town called edgeley, because it is on the edge of civilization--a very big word which means some folks have found a better way to live than other folks. the edgeley people have a good way to live, for there are almost seventeen wooden houses there, and among them is a school-house, a church, a store and a blacksmith-shop. if people walked out their front doors they were upon the little street; if they walked out the back doors they were on the broad prairies. that was why twinkle, who was a farmer's little girl, lived so near the town that she could easily walk to school. she was a pretty, rosy-cheeked little thing, with long, fluffy hair, and big round eyes that everybody smiled into when they saw them. it was hard to keep that fluffy hair from getting tangled; so mamma used to tie it in the back with a big, broad ribbon. and twinkle wore calico slips for school days and gingham dresses when she wanted to "dress up" or look especially nice. and to keep the sun from spotting her face with freckles, she wore sunbonnets made of the same goods as her dresses. twinkle's best chum was a little boy called chubbins, who was the only child of the tired-faced school-teacher. chubbins was about as old as twinkle; but he wasn't so tall and slender for his age as she was, being short and rather fat. the hair on his little round head was cut close, and he usually wore a shirt-waist and "knickers," with a wide straw hat on the back of his head. chubbins's face was very solemn. he never said many words when grown folks were around, but he could talk fast enough when he and twinkle were playing together alone. well, one saturday the school had a picnic, and twinkle and chubbins both went. on the dakota prairies there are no shade-trees at all, and very little water except what they they get by boring deep holes in the ground; so you may wonder where the people could possibly have a picnic. but about three miles from the town a little stream of water (which they called a "river," but we would call only a brook) ran slow and muddy across the prairie; and where the road crossed it a flat bridge had been built. if you climbed down the banks of the river you would find a nice shady place under the wooden bridge; and so here it was that the picnics were held. all the village went to the picnic, and they started bright and early in the morning, with horses and farm-wagons, and baskets full of good things to eat, and soon arrived at the bridge. there was room enough in its shade for all to be comfortable; so they unhitched the horses and carried the baskets to the river bank, and began to laugh and be as merry as they could. twinkle and chubbins, however, didn't care much for the shade of the bridge. this was a strange place to them, so they decided to explore it and see if it was any different from any other part of the prairie. without telling anybody where they were going, they took hold of hands and trotted across the bridge and away into the plains on the other side. the ground here wasn't flat, but had long rolls to it, like big waves on the ocean, so that as soon as the little girl and boy had climbed over the top of the first wave, or hill, those by the river lost sight of them. they saw nothing but grass in the first hollow, but there was another hill just beyond, so they kept going, and climbed over that too. and now they found, lying in the second hollow, one of the most curious sights that the western prairies afford. "what is it?" asked chubbins, wonderingly. "why, it's a prairie-dog town," said twinkle. chapter ii prarie-dog town lying in every direction, and quite filling the little hollow, were round mounds of earth, each one having a hole in the center. the mounds were about two feet high and as big around as a wash-tub, and the edges of the holes were pounded hard and smooth by the pattering feet of the little creatures that lived within. "isn't it funny!" said chubbins, staring at the mounds. "awful," replied twinkle, staring too. "do you know, chub, there are an'mals living in every single one of those holes?" "what kind?" asked chubbins. "well, they're something like squirrels, only they _aren't_ squirrels," she explained. "they're prairie-dogs." "don't like dogs," said the boy, looking a bit uneasy. "oh, they're not dogs at all," said twinkle; "they're soft and fluffy, and gentle." "do they bark?" he asked. "yes; but they don't bite." "how d' you know, twink?" "papa has told me about them, lots of times. he says they're so shy that they run into their holes when anybody's around; but if you keep quiet and watch, they'll stick their heads out in a few minutes." "let's watch," said chubbins. "all right," she agreed. very near to some of the mounds was a raised bank, covered with soft grass; so the children stole softly up to this bank and lay down upon it in such a way that their heads just stuck over the top of it, while their bodies were hidden from the eyes of any of the folks of prairie-dog town. "are you comferble, chub?" asked the little girl. "yes." "then lie still and don't talk, and keep your eyes open, and perhaps the an'mals will stick their heads up." "all right," says chubbins. so they kept quiet and waited, and it seemed a long time to both the boy and the girl before a soft, furry head popped out of a near-by hole, and two big, gentle brown eyes looked at them curiously. chapter iii mr. bowko, the mayor "dear me!" said the prairie-dog, speaking almost in a whisper; "here are some of those queer humans from the village." "let me see! let me see!" cried two shrill little voices, and the wee heads of two small creatures popped out of the hole and fixed their bright eyes upon the heads of twinkle and chubbins. "go down at once!" said the mother prairie-dog. "do you want to get hurt, you naughty little things?" "oh, they won't get hurt," said another deeper voice, and the children turned their eyes toward a second mound, on top of which sat a plump prairie-dog whose reddish fur was tipped with white on the end of each hair. he seemed to be quite old, or at least well along in years, and he had a wise and thoughtful look on his face. "they're humans," said the mother. "true enough; but they're only human children, and wouldn't hurt your little ones for the world," the old one said. "that's so!" called twinkle. "all we want, is to get acquainted." "why, in that case," replied the old prairie-dog, "you are very welcome in our town, and we're glad to see you." "thank you," said twinkle, gratefully. it didn't occur to her just then that it was wonderful to be talking to the little prairie-dogs just as if they were people. it seemed very natural they should speak with each other and be friendly. as if attracted by the sound of voices, little heads began to pop out of the other mounds--one here and one there--until the town was alive with the pretty creatures, all squatting near the edges of their holes and eyeing chubbins and twinkle with grave and curious looks. "let me introduce myself," said the old one that had first proved friendly. "my name is bowko, and i'm the mayor and high chief of prairie-dog town." "don't you have a king?" asked twinkle. "not in this town," he answered. "there seems to be no place for kings in this free united states. and a mayor and high chief is just as good as a king, any day." "i think so, too," answered the girl. "better!" declared chubbins. the mayor smiled, as if pleased. "i see you've been properly brought up," he continued; "and now let me introduce to you some of my fellow-citizens. this," pointing with one little paw to the hole where the mother and her two children were sitting, "is mrs. puff-pudgy and her family--teenty and weenty. mr. puff-pudgy, i regret to say, was recently chased out of town for saying his prayers backwards." "how could he?" asked chubbins, much surprised. "he was always contrary," answered the mayor, with a sigh, "and wouldn't do things the same way that others did. his good wife, mrs. puff-pudgy, had to scold him all day long; so we finally made him leave the town, and i don't know where he's gone to." "won't he be sorry not to have his little children any more?" asked twinkle, regretfully. "i suppose so; but if people are contrary, and won't behave, they must take the consequences. this is mr. chuckledorf," continued the mayor, and a very fat prairie-dog bowed to them most politely; "and here is mrs. fuzcum; and mrs. chatterby; and mr. sneezeley, and doctor dosem." all these folks bowed gravely and politely, and chubbins and twinkle bobbed their heads in return until their necks ached, for it seemed as if the mayor would never get through introducing the hundreds of prairie-dogs that were squatting around. "i'll never be able to tell one from the other," whispered the girl; "'cause they all look exactly alike." "some of 'em's fatter," observed chubbins; "but i don't know which." chapter iv presto digi, the magician "and now, if you like, we will be pleased to have you visit some of our houses," said mr. bowko, the mayor, in a friendly tone. "but we can't!" exclaimed twinkle. "we're too big," and she got up and sat down upon the bank, to show him how big she really was when compared with the prairie-dogs. "oh, that doesn't matter in the least," the mayor replied. "i'll have presto digi, our magician, reduce you to our size." "can he?" asked twinkle, doubtfully. "our magician can do anything," declared the mayor. then he sat up and put both his front paws to his mouth and made a curious sound that was something like a bark and something like a whistle, but not exactly like either one. then everybody waited in silence until a queer old prairie-dog slowly put his head out of a big mound near the center of the village. "good morning, mr. presto digi," said the mayor. "morning!" answered the magician, blinking his eyes as if he had just awakened from sleep. twinkle nearly laughed at this scrawny, skinny personage; but by good fortune, for she didn't wish to offend him, she kept her face straight and did not even smile. "we have two guests here, this morning," continued the mayor, addressing the magician, "who are a little too large to get into our houses. so, as they are invited to stay to luncheon, it would please us all if you would kindly reduce them to fit our underground rooms." "is _that_ all you want?" asked mr. presto digi, bobbing his head at the children. "it seems to me a great deal," answered twinkle. "i'm afraid you never could do it." "wow!" said the magician, in a scornful voice that was almost a bark. "i can do that with one paw. come here to me, and don't step on any of our mounds while you're so big and clumsy." so twinkle and chubbins got up and walked slowly toward the magician, taking great care where they stepped. teenty and weenty were frightened, and ducked their heads with little squeals as the big children passed their mound; but they bobbed up again the next moment, being curious to see what would happen. when the boy and girl stopped before mr. presto digi's mound, he began waving one of his thin, scraggy paws and at the same time made a gurgling noise that was deep down in his throat. and his eyes rolled and twisted around in a very odd way. neither twinkle nor chubbins felt any effect from the magic, nor any different from ordinary; but they knew they were growing smaller, because their eyes were getting closer to the magician. "is that enough?" asked mr. presto, after a while. "just a little more, please," replied the mayor; "i don't want them to bump their heads against the doorways." so the magician again waved his paw and chuckled and gurgled and blinked, until twinkle suddenly found she had to look up at him as he squatted on his mound. "stop!" she screamed; "if you keep on, we won't be anything at all!" "you're just about the right size," said the mayor, looking them over with much pleasure, and when the girl turned around she found mr. bowko and mrs. puff-pudgy standing beside her, and she could easily see that chubbins was no bigger than they, and she was no bigger than chubbins. "kindly follow me," said mrs. puff-pudgy, "for my little darlings are anxious to make your acquaintance, and as i was the first to discover you, you are to be my guests first of all, and afterward go to the mayor's to luncheon." chapter v the home of the puff-pudgys so twinkle and chubbins, still holding hands, trotted along to the puff-pudgy mound, and it was strange how rough the ground now seemed to their tiny feet. they climbed up the slope of the mound rather clumsily, and when they came to the hole it seemed to them as big as a well. then they saw that it wasn't a deep hole, but a sort of tunnel leading down hill into the mound, and twinkle knew if they were careful they were not likely to slip or tumble down. mrs. puff-pudgy popped into the hole like a flash, for she was used to it, and waited just below the opening to guide them. so, twinkle slipped down to the floor of the tunnel and chubbins followed close after her, and then they began to go downward. "it's a little dark right here," said mrs. puff-pudgy; "but i've ordered the maid to light the candles for you, so you'll see well enough when you're in the rooms." "thank you," said twinkle, walking along the hall and feeling her way by keeping her hand upon the smooth sides of the passage. "i hope you won't go to any trouble, or put on airs, just because we've come to visit you." "if i do," replied mrs. puffy-pudgy, "it's because i know the right way to treat company. we've always belonged to the 'four hundred,' you know. some folks never know what to do, or how to do it, but that isn't the way with the puff-pudgys. hi! you, teenty and weenty--get out of here and behave yourselves! you'll soon have a good look at our visitors." and now they came into a room so comfortable and even splendid that twinkle's eyes opened wide with amazement. it was big, and of a round shape, and on the walls were painted very handsome portraits of different prairie-dogs of the puff-pudgy family. the furniture was made of white clay, baked hard in the sun and decorated with paints made from blue clay and red clay and yellow clay. this gave it a gorgeous appearance. there was a round table in the middle of the room, and several comfortable chairs and sofas. around the walls were little brackets with candles in them, lighting the place very pleasantly. "sit down, please," said mrs. puff-pudgy. "you'll want to rest a minute before i show you around." so twinkle and chubbins sat upon the pretty clay chairs, and teenty and weenty sat opposite them and stared with their mischievous round eyes as hard as they could. "what nice furniture," exclaimed the girl. "yes," replied mrs. puff-pudgy, looking up at the picture of a sad-faced prairie-dog; "mr. puff-pudgy made it all himself. he was very handy at such things. it's a shame he turned out so obstinate." "did he build the house too?" "why, he dug it out, if that's what you mean. but i advised him how to do it, so i deserve some credit for it myself. next to the mayor's, it's the best house in town, which accounts for our high social standing. weenty! take your paw out of your mouth. you're biting your claws again." "i'm not!" said weenty. "and now," continued mrs. puff-pudgy, "if you are rested, i'll show you through the rest of our house." so, they got up and followed her, and she led the children through an archway into the dining-room. here was a cupboard full of the cunningest little dishes twinkle had ever seen. they were all made of clay, baked hard in the sun, and were of graceful shapes, and nearly as smooth and perfect as our own dishes. chapter vi teenty and weenty all around the sides of the dining-room were pockets, or bins, in the wall; and these were full of those things the prairie-dogs are most fond of eating. clover-seeds filled one bin, and sweet roots another; dried mulberry leaves--that must have come from a long distance--were in another bin, and even kernels of yellow field corn were heaped in one place. the puff-pudgys were surely in no danger of starving for some time to come. "teenty! put back that grain of wheat," commanded the mother, in a severe voice. instead of obeying, teenty put the wheat in his mouth and ate it as quickly as possible. "the little dears are _so_ restless," mrs. puff-pudgy said to twinkle, "that it's hard to manage them." "they don't behave," remarked chubbins, staring hard at the children. "no, they have a share of their father's obstinate nature," replied mrs. puff-pudgy. "excuse me a minute and i'll cuff them; it'll do them good." but before their mother could reach them, the children found trouble of their own. teenty sprang at weenty and began to fight, because his brother had pinched him, and weenty fought back with all his might and main. they scratched with their claws and bit with their teeth, and rolled over and over upon the floor, bumping into the wall and upsetting the chairs, and snarling and growling all the while like two puppies. mrs. puff-pudgy sat down and watched them, but did not interfere. "won't they hurt themselves?" asked twinkle, anxiously. "perhaps so," said the mother; "but if they do, it will punish them for being so naughty. i always let them fight it out, because they are so sore for a day or two afterward that they have to keep quiet, and then i get a little rest." weenty set up a great howling, just then, and teenty drew away from his defeated brother and looked at him closely. the fur on both of them was badly mussed up, and weenty had a long scratch on his nose, that must have hurt him, or he wouldn't have howled so. teenty's left eye was closed tight, but if it hurt him he bore the pain in silence. mrs. puff-pudgy now pushed them both into a little room and shut them up, saying they must stay there until bedtime; and then she led twinkle and chubbins into the kitchen and showed them a pool of clear water, in a big clay basin, that had been caught during the last rain and saved for drinking purposes. the children drank of it, and found it cool and refreshing. then they saw the bedrooms, and learned that the beds of prairie-dogs were nothing more than round hollows made in heaps of clay. these animals always curl themselves up when they sleep, and the round hollows just fitted their bodies; so, no doubt, they found them very comfortable. there were several bedrooms, for the puff-pudgy house was really very large. it was also very cool and pleasant, being all underground and not a bit damp. after they had admired everything in a way that made mrs. puff-pudgy very proud and happy, their hostess took one of the lighted candles from a bracket and said she would now escort them to the house of the honorable mr. bowko, the mayor. chapter vii the mayor gives a luncheon "don't we have to go upstairs and out of doors?" asked twinkle. "oh, no," replied the prairie-dog, "we have halls connecting all the different houses of importance. just follow me, and you can't get lost." they might easily have been lost without their guide, the little girl thought, after they had gone through several winding passages. they turned this way and that, in quite a bewildering manner, and there were so many underground tunnels going in every direction that it was a wonder mrs. puff-pudgy knew which way to go. "you ought to have sign-posts," said chubbins, who had once been in a city. "why, as for that, every one in the town knows which way to go," answered their guide; "and it isn't often we have visitors. last week a gray owl stopped with us for a couple of days, and we had a fine ball in her honor. but you are the first humans that have ever been entertained in our town, so it's quite an event with us." a few minutes later she said: "here we are, at the mayor's house," and as they passed under a broad archway she blew out her candle, because the mayor's house was so brilliantly lighted. "welcome!" said mr. bowko, greeting the children with polite bows. "you are just in time, for luncheon is about ready and my guests are waiting for you." he led them at once into a big dining-room that was so magnificently painted with colored clays that the walls were as bright as a june rainbow. "how pretty!" cried twinkle, clapping her hands together in delight. "i'm glad you like it," said the mayor, much pleased. "some people, who are lacking in good taste, think it's a little overdone, but a mayor's house should be gorgeous, i think, so as to be a credit to the community. my grandfather, who designed and painted this house, was a very fine artist. but luncheon is ready, so pray be seated." they sat down on little clay chairs that were placed at the round table. the mayor sat on one side of twinkle and mrs. puff-pudgy on the other, and chubbins was between the skinny old magician and mr. sneezeley. also, in other chairs sat dr. dosem, and mrs. chatterby, and mrs. fuzcum, and several others. it was a large company, indeed, which showed that the mayor considered this a very important occasion. they were waited upon by several sleek prairie-dog maids in white aprons and white caps, who looked neat and respectable, and were very graceful in their motions. neither twinkle nor chubbins was very hungry, but they were curious to know what kind of food the prairie-dogs ate, so they watched carefully when the different dishes were passed around. only grains and vegetables were used, for prairie-dogs do not eat meat. there was a milk-weed soup at first; and then yellow corn, boiled and sliced thin. afterward they had a salad of thistle leaves, and some bread made of barley. the dessert was a dish of the sweet, dark honey made by prairie-bees, and some cakes flavored with sweet and spicy roots that only prairie-dogs know how to find. the children tasted of several dishes, just to show their politeness; but they couldn't eat much. chubbins spent most of his time watching mr. presto digi, who ate up everything that was near him and seemed to be as hungry after the luncheon as he had been before. mrs. puff-pudgy talked so much about the social standing and dignity of the puff-pudgys that she couldn't find time to eat much, although she asked for the recipe of the milk-weed soup. but most of the others present paid strict attention to the meal and ate with very good appetites. chapter viii on top of the earth again afterward they all went into the big drawing-room, where mrs. fuzcum sang a song for them in a very shrill voice, and mr. sneezeley and mrs. chatterby danced a graceful minuet that was much admired by all present. "we ought to be going home," said twinkle, after this entertainment was over. "i'm afraid our folks will worry about us." "we regret to part with you," replied the mayor; "but, if you really think you ought to go, we will not be so impolite as to urge you to stay." "you'll find we have excellent manners," added mrs. puff-pudgy. "i want to get big again," said chubbins. "very well; please step this way," said the mayor. so they all followed him through a long passage until they began to go upward, as if climbing a hill. and then a gleam of daylight showed just ahead of them, and a few more steps brought them to the hole in the middle of the mound. the mayor and mrs. puff-pudgy jumped up first, and then they helped twinkle and chubbins to scramble out. the strong sunlight made them blink their eyes for a time, but when they were able to look around they found one or more heads of prairie-dogs sticking from every mound. "now, mr. presto digi," said the mayor, when all the party were standing on the ground, "please enlarge our friends to their natural sizes again." "that is very easy," said the magician, with a sigh. "i really wish, mr. mayor, that you would find something for me to do that is difficult." "i will, some time," promised the mayor. "just now, this is all i can require of you." so the magician waved his paw and gurgled, much in the same way he had done before, and twinkle and chubbins began to grow, and swell out until they were as large as ever, and the prairie-dogs again seemed very small beside them. "good-bye," said the little girl, "and thank you all, very much, for your kindness to us." "good-bye!" answered a chorus of small voices, and then all the prairie-dogs popped into their holes and quickly disappeared. twinkle and chubbins found they were sitting on the green bank again, at the edge of prairie-dog town. "do you think we've been asleep, chub?" asked the girl. "'course not," replied chubbins, with a big yawn. "it's easy 'nough to know that, twink, 'cause i'm sleepy now!" the end prince mud-turtle prince mud-turtle list of chapters page i twinkle captures the turtle..................... ii twinkle discovers the turtle can talk........... iii the turtle tells of the corrugated giant........ iv prince turtle remembers his magic............... v twinkle promises to be brave.................... vi twinkle meets the corrugated giant.............. vii prince mud-turtle becomes prince melga.......... viii twinkle receives a medal........................ chapter i twinkle captures the turtle one hot summer day twinkle went down into the meadow to where the brook ran tinkling over its stones or rushed and whirled around the curves of the banks or floated lazily through the more wide and shallow parts. it wasn't much of a brook, to tell the facts, for there were many places where an active child could leap across it. but it was the only brook for miles around, and to twinkle it was a never-ending source of delight. nothing amused or refreshed the little girl more than to go wading on the pebbly bottom and let the little waves wash around her slim ankles. there was one place, just below the pasture lot, where it was deeper; and here there were real fishes swimming about, such as "horned aces" and "chubs" and "shiners"; and once in a while you could catch a mud-turtle under the edges of the flat stones or in hollows beneath the banks. the deep part was not very big, being merely a pool, but twinkle never waded in it, because the water would come quite up to her waist, and then she would be sure to get her skirts wet, which would mean a good scolding from mamma. to-day she climbed the fence in the lane, just where the rickety wooden bridge crossed the brook, and at once sat down upon the grassy bank and took off her shoes and stockings. then, wearing her sun-bonnet to shield her face from the sun, she stepped softly into the brook and stood watching the cool water rush by her legs. it was very nice and pleasant; but twinkle never could stand still for very long, so she began to wade slowly down the stream, keeping in the middle of the brook, and being able to see through the clear water all the best places to put her feet. pretty soon she had to duck her head to pass under the fence that separated the meadow from the pasture lot; but she got through all right, and then kept on down the stream, until she came close to the deep pool. she couldn't wade through this, as i have explained; so she got on dry land and crept on her hands and knees up to the edge of the bank, so as not to scare the fishes, if any were swimming in the pool. by good luck there were several fishes in the pool to-day, and they didn't seem to notice that twinkle was looking at them, so quiet had she been. one little fellow shone like silver when the sunshine caught his glossy sides, and the little girl watched him wiggling here and there with much delight. there was also a big, mud-colored fish that lay a long time upon the bottom without moving anything except his fins and the tip of his tail, and twinkle also discovered a group of several small fishes not over an inch long, that always swam together in a bunch, as if they belonged to one family. the girl watched these little creatures long and earnestly. the pool was all of the world these simple fishes would ever know. they were born here, and would die here, without ever getting away from the place, or even knowing there was a much bigger world outside of it. after a time the child noticed that the water had become a little muddy near the edge of the bank where she lay, and as it slowly grew clear again she saw a beautiful turtle lying just under her head and against the side of the bank. it was a little bigger around than a silver dollar, and instead of its shell being of a dull brown color, like that of all other mud-turtles she had seen, this one's back was streaked with brilliant patches of yellow and red. "i must get that lovely turtle!" thought twinkle; and as the water was shallow where it lay she suddenly plunged in her hand, grabbed the turtle, and flung it out of the water on to the bank, where it fell upon its back, wiggling its four fat legs desperately in an attempt to turn over. chapter ii twinkle discovers the turtle can talk at this sudden commotion in their water, the fishes darted away and disappeared in a flash. but twinkle didn't mind that, for all her interest was now centered in the struggling turtle. she knelt upon the grass and bent over to watch it, and just then she thought she heard a small voice say: "it's no use; i can't do it!" and then the turtle drew its head and legs between the shells and remained still. "good gracious!" said twinkle, much astonished. then, addressing the turtle, she asked: "did you say anything, a minute ago?" there was no reply. the turtle lay as quiet as if it were dead. twinkle thought she must have been mistaken; so she picked up the turtle and held it in the palm of her hand while she got into the water again and waded slowly back to where she had left her shoes and stockings. when she got home she put the mud-turtle in a tub which her papa had made by sawing a barrel in two. then she put a little water into the tub and blocked it up by putting a brick under one side, so that the turtle could either stay in the water or crawl up the inclined bottom of the tub to where it was dry, whichever he pleased. she did this because mamma said that turtles sometimes liked to stay in the water and sometimes on land, and twinkle's turtle could now take his choice. he couldn't climb up the steep sides of the tub and so get away, and the little girl thoughtfully placed crumbs of bread and fine bits of meat, where the turtle could get them whenever he felt hungry. after that, twinkle often sat for hours watching the turtle, which would crawl around the bottom of the tub, and swim in the little pool of water and eat the food placed before him in an eager and amusing way. at times she took him in her hand and examined him closely, and then the mud-turtle would put out its little head and look at her with its bright eyes as curiously as the girl looked at him. she had owned her turtle just a week, when she came to the tub one afternoon and held him in her hand, intending to feed her pet some scraps of meat she had brought with her. but as soon as the turtle put out its head it said to her, in a small but distinct voice: "good morning, twinkle." she was so surprised that the meat dropped from her hand, and she nearly dropped the turtle, too. but she managed to control her astonishment, and asked, in a voice that trembled a little: "can you talk?" "to be sure," replied the turtle; "but only on every seventh day--which of course is every saturday. on other days i cannot talk at all." "then i really must have heard you speak when i caught you; didn't i?" "i believe you did. i was so startled at being captured that i spoke before i thought, which is a bad habit to get into. but afterward i resolved not to answer when you questioned me, for i didn't know you then, and feared it would be unwise to trust you with my secret. even now i must ask you not to tell any one that you have a turtle that knows how to talk." chapter iii the turtle tells of the corrugated giant "why, it's wonderful!" said twinkle, who had listened eagerly to the turtle's speech. "it would be wonderful, indeed, if i were but a simple turtle," was the reply. "but aren't you a turtle?" "of course, so far as my outward appearance goes, i'm a common little mud-turtle," it answered; "and i think you will agree with me that it was rather clever in the corrugated giant to transform me into such a creature." "what's a corrulated giant?" asked twinkle, with breathless interest. "the corrugated giant is a monster that is full of deep wrinkles, because he has no bones inside him to hold his flesh up properly," said the turtle. "i hated this giant, who is both wicked and cruel, i assure you; and this giant hated me in return. so, when one day i tried to destroy him, the monster transformed me into the helpless little being you see before you." "but who were you before you were transformed?" asked the girl. "a fairy prince named melga, the seventh son of the fairy queen flutterlight, who rules all the fairies in the north part of this land." "and how long have you been a turtle?" "fourteen years," replied the creature, with a deep sigh. "at least, i think it is fourteen years; but of course when one is swimming around in brooks and grubbing in the mud for food, one is apt to lose all track of time." "i should think so, indeed," said twinkle. "but, according to that, you're older than i am." "much older," declared the turtle. "i had lived about four hundred years before the corrugated giant turned me into a turtle." "was your head gray?" she asked; "and did you have white whiskers?" "no, indeed!" said the turtle. "fairies are always young and beautiful in appearance, no matter how many years they have lived. and, as they never die, they're bound to get pretty old sometimes, as a matter of course." "of course!" agreed twinkle. "mama has told me about the fairies. but must you always be a mud-turtle?" "that will depend on whether you are willing to help me or not," was the answer. "why, it sounds just like a fairy tale in a book!" cried the little girl. "yes," replied the turtle, "these things have been happening ever since there were fairies, and you might expect some of our adventures would get into books. but are you willing to help me? that is the important thing just now." "i'll do anything i can," said twinkle. "then," said the turtle, "i may expect to get back to my own form again in a reasonably short time. but you must be brave, and not shrink from such a little thing as danger." that made twinkle look solemn. "of course i don't want to get hurt," she said. "my mama and papa would go di_struc_ted if anything happened to me." "something will happen, _sure,_" declared the turtle; "but nothing that happens will hurt you in the least if you do exactly as i tell you." "i won't have to fight that carbolated giant, will i?" twinkle asked doubtfully. "he isn't carbolated; he's corrugated. no, you won't have to fight at all. when the proper time comes i'll do the fighting myself. but you may have to come with me to the black mountains, in order to set me free." "is it far?" she asked. "yes; but it won't take us long to go there," answered the turtle. "now, i'll tell you what to do and, if you follow my advice no one will ever know you've been mixed up with fairies and strange adventures." "and collerated giants," she added. "corrugated," he corrected. "it is too late, this saturday, to start upon our journey, so we must wait another week. but next saturday morning do you come to me bright and early, as soon as you've had breakfast, and then i'll tell you what to do." "all right," said twinkle; "i won't forget." "in the mean time, do give me a little clean water now and then. i'm a mud-turtle, sure enough; but i'm also a fairy prince, and i must say i prefer clean water." "i'll attend to it," promised the girl. "now put me down and run away," continued the turtle. "it will take me all the week to think over my plans, and decide exactly what we are to do." chapter iv prince turtle remembers his magic twinkle was as nervous as she could be during all the week that followed this strange conversation with prince turtle. every day, as soon as school was out, she would run to the tub to see if the turtle was still safe--for she worried lest it should run away or disappear in some strange manner. and during school hours it was such hard work to keep her mind on her lessons that teacher scolded her more than once. the fairy imprisoned in the turtle's form had nothing to say to her during this week, because he would not be allowed to talk again until saturday; so the most that twinkle could do to show her interest in the prince was to give him the choicest food she could get and supply him with plenty of fresh, clean water. at last the day of her adventure arrived, and as soon as she could get away from the breakfast table twinkle ran out to the tub. there was her fairy turtle, safe as could be, and as she leaned over the tub he put out his head and called "good morning!" in his small, shrill voice. "good morning," she replied. "are you still willing and ready to assist me?" asked the turtle. "to be sure," said twinkle. "then take me in your hand," said he. so she picked him out of the tub and placed him upon her hand. and the turtle said: "now pay strict attention, and do exactly as i tell you, and all will be well. in the first place, we want to get to the black mountains; so you must repeat after me these words: '_uller; aller; iller; oller!_'" "uller; aller; iller; oller!" said twinkle. the next minute it seemed as though a gale of wind had struck her. it blew so strongly against her eyes that she could not see; so she covered her face with one arm while with the other hand she held fast to the turtle. her skirts fluttered so wildly that it seemed as if they would tear themselves from her body, and her sun-bonnet, not being properly fastened, was gone in a minute. but it didn't last long, fortunately. after a few moments the wind stopped, and she found she could breathe again. then she looked around her and drew another long breath, for instead of being in the back yard at home she stood on the side of a beautiful mountain, and spread before her were the loveliest green valleys she had ever beheld. "well, we're here," said the turtle, in a voice that sounded as if he were well pleased. "i thought i hadn't forgotten my fairy wisdom." "where are we?" asked the child. "in the black mountains, of course," was the reply. "we've come a good way, but it didn't take us long to arrive, did it?" "no, indeed," she answered, still gazing down the mountain side at the flower-strewn grass-land of the valleys. "this," said the turtle, sticking his little head out of the shell as far as it would go, "is the realm of the fairies, where i used to dwell. those beautiful palaces you see yonder are inhabited by queen flutterlight and my people, and that grim castle at your left, standing on the side of the mountain, is where the corrugated giant lives." "i don't see anything!" exclaimed twinkle; "that is, nothing but the valleys and the flowers and grass." "true; i had forgotten that these things are invisible to your mortal eyes. but it is necessary that you should see all clearly, if you are going to rescue me from this terrible form and restore me to my natural shape. now, put me down upon the ground, for i must search for a particular plant whose leaf has a magic virtue." so twinkle put him down, and the little turtle began running around here and there, looking carefully at the different plants that grew amongst the grass on the mountain side. but his legs were so short and his shell-covered body so heavy, that he couldn't move very fast; so presently he called for her to pick him up again, and hold him close to the ground while she walked among the plants. she did this, and after what seemed a long search the turtle suddenly cried out: "stop! here it is! this is the plant i want." "which--this?" asked the girl, touching a broad green leaf. "yes. pluck the leaf from the stem and rub your eyelids with it." she obeyed, and having rubbed her lids well with the leaf, she again opened her eyes and beheld the real fairyland. chapter v twinkle promises to be brave in the center of the valley was a great cluster of palaces that appeared to be built of crystal and silver and mother-of-pearl, and golden filigree-work. so dainty and beautiful were these fairy dwellings that twinkle had no doubt for an instant but that she gazed upon fairyland. she could almost see, from the far mountain upon which she stood, the airy, gauze-winged forms of the fairies themselves, floating gently amidst their pretty palaces and moving gracefully along the jeweled streets. but another sight now attracted her attention--a big, gray, ugly looking castle standing frowning on the mountain side at her left. it overlooked the lovely city of palaces like a dark cloud on the edge of a blue sky, and the girl could not help giving a shudder as she saw it. all around the castle was a high fence of iron spikes. "that fence is enchanted," said the turtle, as if he knew she was looking at it; "and no fairy can pass it, because the power to prevent it has been given to the giant. but a mortal has never been forbidden to pass the fence, for no one ever supposed that a mortal would come here or be able to see it. that is the reason i have brought you to this place, and the reason why you alone are able to help me." "gracious!" cried twinkle; "must i meet the carbonated giant?" "he's corrugated," said the turtle. "i know he's something dreadful," she wailed, "because he's so hard to pronounce." "you will surely have to meet him," declared the turtle; "but do not fear, i will protect you from all harm." "well, a corralated giant's a mighty big person," said the girl, doubtfully, "and a mud-turtle isn't much of a fighter. i guess i'll go home." "that is impossible," declared the turtle. "you are too far from home ever to get back without my help, so you may as well be good and obedient." "what must i do?" she asked. "we will wait until it is nearly noon, when the giant will put his pot on the fire to boil his dinner. we can tell the right time by watching the smoke come out of his chimney. then you must march straight up to the castle and into the kitchen where the giant is at work, and throw me quickly into the boiling kettle. that is all that you will be required to do." "i never could do it!" declared twinkle. "why not?" "you'd be scalded to death, and then i'd be a murderer!" "nonsense!" said the turtle, peevishly. "i know what i'm doing, and if you obey me i'll not be scalded but an instant; for then i'll resume my own form. remember that i'm a fairy, and fairies can't be killed so easily as you seem to think." "won't it hurt you?" she inquired. "only for a moment; but the reward will be so great that i won't mind an instant's pain. will you do this favor for me?" "i'll try," replied twinkle, gravely. "then i will be very grateful," said prince turtle, "and agree to afterward send you home safe and sound, and as quickly as you came." chapter vi twinkle meets the corrugated giant "and now, while we are waiting," continued the fairy turtle, "i want to find a certain flower that has wonderful powers to protect mortals from any injury. not that i fear i shall be unable to take care of you, but it's just as well to be on the safe side." "better," said twinkle, earnestly. "where's the flower?" "we'll hunt for it," replied the turtle. so holding him in her hand in such a way that he could see all the flowers that grew, the girl began wandering over the mountain side, and everything was so beautiful around her that she would have been quite contented and happy had not the gray castle been before her to remind her constantly that she must face the terrible giant who lived within it. they found the flower at last--a pretty pink blossom that looked like a double daisy, but must have been something else, because a daisy has no magic power that i ever heard of. and when it was found, the turtle told her to pick the flower and pin it fast to the front of her dress; which she did. by that time the smoke began to roll out of the giant's chimney in big black clouds; so the fairy turtle said the giant must be getting dinner, and the pot would surely be boiling by the time they got to the castle. twinkle couldn't help being a little afraid to approach the giant's stronghold, but she tried to be brave, and so stepped along briskly until she came to the fence of iron spikes. "you must squeeze through between two of the spikes," said the turtle. she didn't think it could possibly be done; but to her surprise it was quite easy, and she managed to squeeze through the fence without even tearing her dress. then she walked up a great driveway, which was lined with white skulls of many sheep which the giant had eaten, to the front door of the castle, which stood ajar. "go in," said the turtle; so she boldly entered and passed down a high arched hall toward a room in the rear. "this is the kitchen," said the turtle, "enter quickly, go straight to the kettle, and throw me into the boiling water." twinkle entered quickly enough, but then she stopped short with a cry of amazement; for there before her stood the ugly giant, blowing the fire with an immense pair of bellows. chapter vii prince mud-turtle becomes prince melga the giant was as big around as ten men, and as tall as two; but, having no bones, he seemed pushed together, so that his skin wrinkled up like the sides of an accordeon, or a photograph camera, even his face being so wrinkled that his nose stuck out between two folds of flesh and his eyes from between two more. in one end of the kitchen was the great fireplace, above which hung an iron kettle with a big iron spoon in it. and at the other end was a table set for dinner. as the giant was standing between the kettle and twinkle, she could not do as the turtle had commanded, and throw him into the pot. so she hesitated, wondering how to obey the fairy. just then the giant happened to turn around and see her. "by the whiskers of gammarog--who was one of my ancestors that was killed by jack the giant-killer!" he cried, but in a very mild voice for so big a person. "whom have we here?" "i'm twinkle," said the girl, drawing a long breath. "then, to pay you for your folly in entering my castle, i will make you my slave, and some day, if you're not good, i'll feed you to my seventeen-headed dog. i never eat little girls myself. i prefer mutton." twinkle's heart almost stopped beating when she heard these awful words. all she could do was to stand still and look imploringly at the giant. but she held the fairy mud-turtle clasped tight in her hand, so that the monster couldn't see it. "well, what are you staring at?" shouted the corrugated giant, angrily. "blow up that fire this instant, slave!" he stood aside for her to pass, and twinkle ran at once to the fireplace. the pot was now before her, and within easy reach, and it was bubbling hot. in an instant she reached out her hand and tossed the turtle into the boiling water; and then, with a cry of horror at her own action, she drew back to see what would happen. the turtle was a fairy, all right; and he had known very well the best way to break the enchantment his enemy had put upon him. for no sooner had twinkle tossed him into the boiling pot than a great hissing was heard, and a cloud of steam hid for an instant the fireplace. then, as it cleared away, a handsome young prince stepped forward, fully armed; for the turtle was again a fairy, and the kettle had changed into a strong shield which he bore upon his left arm, and the iron spoon was now a long and glittering sword. chapter viii twinkle receives a medal the giant gave a roar like that of a baby bull when he saw prince melga standing before him, and in a twinkling he had caught up a big club that stood near and began whirling it over his head. but before it could descend, the prince ran at him and stuck his sword as far as it would go into the corrugated body of the giant. again the monster roared and tried to fight; but the sword had hurt him badly, and the prince pushed it into the evil creature again and again, until the end came, and his corrugated enemy rolled over upon the floor quite dead. then the fairy turned to twinkle, and kneeling before her he kissed her hand. "thank you very much," he said, in a sweet voice, "for setting me free. you are a very brave little girl!" "i'm not so sure about that," she answered. "i was dreadfully scared!" now he took her hand and led her from the castle; and she didn't have to squeeze through the fence again, because the fairy had only to utter a magic word and the gate flew open. and when they turned to look back, the castle of the corrugated giant, with all that it had contained, had vanished from sight, never to be seen again by either mortal or fairy eyes. for that was sure to happen whenever the giant was dead. the prince led twinkle into the valley where the fairy palaces stood, and told all his people, when they crowded around to welcome him, how kind the little girl had been to him, and how her courage had enabled him to defeat the giant and to regain his proper form. and all the fairies praised twinkle with kind words, and the lovely queen flutterlight, who seemed altogether too young to be the mother of the handsome prince, gave to the child a golden medal with a tiny mud-turtle engraved upon one side of it. then, after a fine feast had been prepared, and the little girl had eaten all she could of the fairy sweetmeats, she told prince melga she would like to go home again. "very well," said he. "don't forget me, twinkle, although we probably shall never meet again. i'll send you home quite as safely as you came; but as your eyes have been rubbed with the magic maita-leaf, you will doubtless always see many strange sights that are hidden from other mortals." "i don't mind," said twinkle. then she bade good-bye to the fairies, and the prince spoke a magic word. there was another rush of wind, and when it had passed twinkle found herself once more in the back yard at home. as she sat upon the grass rubbing her eyes and wondering at the strange adventure that had befallen her, mamma came out upon the back porch and said: "your turtle has crawled out of the tub and run away." "yes," said twinkle, "i know; and i'm glad of it!" but she kept her secret to herself. the end twinkle's enchantment twinkle's enchantment list of chapters page i twinkle enters the big gulch............ ii the rolling stone....................... iii some queer acquaintances................ iv the dancing bear........................ v the cave of the waterfall............... vi prince nimble........................... vii the grasshoppers' hop................... chapter i twinkle enters the big gulch one afternoon twinkle decided to go into the big gulch and pick some blueberries for papa's supper. she had on her blue gingham dress and her blue sun-bonnet, and there were stout shoes upon her feet. so she took her tin pail and started out. "be back in time for supper," called mamma from the kitchen porch. "'course," said twinkle, as she trotted away. "i'm not hungry now, but i'll be hungry 'nough when supper-time comes. 'course i'll be back!" the side of the gulch was but a little way from the house. it was like a big ditch, only the sides were not too steep to crawl down; and in the middle of the gulch were rolling hills and deep gullies, all covered with wild bushes and vines and a few flowering plants--very rare in this part of the country. twinkle hadn't lived very long in this section of dakota, for her father had just bought the new farm that lay beside the gulch. so the big ditch was a great delight to her, and she loved to wander through it and pick the berries and flowers that never grew on the plains above. to-day she crept carefully down the path back of the house and soon reached the bottom of the gulch. then she began to search for the berries; but all were gone in the places where she had picked them before; so she found she must go further along. she sat down to rest for a time, and by and by she happened to look up at the other side and saw a big cluster of bushes hanging full of ripe blueberries--just about half way up the opposite bank. she had never gone so far before, but if she wanted the berries for papa's supper she knew she must climb up the slope and get them; so she rose to her feet and began to walk in that direction. it was all new to the little girl, and seemed to her like a beautiful fairyland; but she had no idea that the gulch was enchanted. soon a beetle crawled across her path, and as she stopped to let it go by, she heard it say: "look out for the line of enchantment! you'll soon cross it, if you don't watch out." "what line of enchantment?" asked twinkle. "it's almost under your nose," replied the little creature. "i don't see anything at all," she said, after looking closely. "of course you don't," said the beetle. "it isn't a mark, you know, that any one can see with their eyes; but it's a line of enchantment, just the same, and whoever steps over it is sure to see strange things and have strange adventures." "i don't mind that," said twinkle. "well, i don't mind if you don't," returned the beetle, and by that time he had crept across the path and disappeared underneath a big rock. twinkle went on, without being at all afraid. if the beetle spoke truly, and there really was an invisible line that divided the common, real world from an enchanted country, she was very eager to cross it, as any little girl might well be. and then it occurred to her that she must have crossed the enchanted line before she met the beetle, for otherwise she wouldn't have understood his language, or known what he was talking about. children don't talk with beetles in the real world, as twinkle knew very well, and she was walking along soberly, thinking this over, when suddenly a voice cried out to her: "be careful!" chapter ii the rolling stone of course twinkle stopped then, and looked around to see who had spoken. but no one was anywhere in sight. so she started on again. "look out, or you'll step on me!" cried the voice a second time. she looked at her feet very carefully. there was nothing near them but a big round stone that was about the size of her head, and a prickly thistle that she never would step on if she could possibly help it. "who's talking?" she asked. "why, _i'm_ talking," answered the voice. "who do you suppose it is?" "i don't know," said twinkle. "i just can't see anybody at all." "then you must be blind," said the voice. "i'm the rolling stone, and i'm about two inches from your left toes." "the rolling stone!" "that's it. that's me. i'm the rolling stone that gathers no moss." "you can't be," said twinkle, sitting down in the path and looking carefully at the stone. "why not?" "because you don't roll," she said. "you're a stone, of course; i can see that, all right. but you're not rolling." "how silly!" replied the stone. "i don't have to roll every minute to be a rolling stone, do i?" "of course you do," answered twinkle. "if you don't roll you're just a common, _still_ stone." "well, i declare!" exclaimed the stone; "you don't seem to understand anything. you're a talking girl, are you not?" "to be sure i am," said twinkle. "but you don't talk every minute, do you?" "mama says i do," she answered. "but you don't. you're sometimes quiet, aren't you?" "'course i am." "that's the way with me. sometimes i roll, and so i'm called the rolling stone. sometimes you talk, and so you're the talking girl." "no; i'm twinkle," she said. "that doesn't sound like a name," remarked the stone. "it's what papa calls me, anyway," explained the girl. then, thinking she had lingered long enough, she added: "i'm going up the hill to pick those berries. since you can roll, suppose you go with me." "what! up hill?" exclaimed the stone. "why not?" asked twinkle. "who ever heard of a stone rolling up hill? it's unnatural!" "any stone can roll down hill," said the child. "if you can't roll up hill, you're no better than a common cobble-stone." "oh, i can roll up hill if i have to," declared the stone, peevishly. "but it's hard work, and nearly breaks my back." "i can't see that you have any back," said twinkle. "why, i'm all back," replied the stone. "when _your_ back aches, it's only a part of you. but when _my_ back aches, it's all of me except the middle." "the middle ache is the worst of all," said twinkle, solemnly. "well, if you don't want to go," she added, jumping up, "i'll say good-bye." "anything to be sociable," said the stone, sighing deeply. "i'll go along and keep you company. but it's lots easier to roll down than it is to roll up, i assure you!" "why, you're a reg'lar grumbler!" exclaimed twinkle. "that's because i lead a hard life," returned the stone, dismally. "but don't let us quarrel; it is so seldom i get a chance to talk with one of my own standing in society." "you can't have any standing, without feet," declared twinkle, shaking her head at the stone. "one can have _under_standing, at least," was the answer; "and understanding is the best standing any person can have." "perhaps that is true," said the child, thoughtfully; "but i'm glad i have legs, just the same." chapter iii some queer acquaintances "wait a minute!" implored a small voice, and the girl noticed a yellow butterfly that had just settled down upon the stone. "aren't you the child from the farm?" "to be sure," she answered, much amused to hear the butterfly speak. "then can you tell me if your mother expects to churn to-day," said the pretty creature, slowly folding and unfolding its dainty wings. "why do you want to know?" "if she churns to-day, i'll fly over to the house and try to steal some butter. but if your mother isn't going to churn, i'll fly down into the gulch and rob a bees' nest i know of." "why do you rob and steal?" inquired twinkle. "it's the only way i can get my living," said the butterfly. "nobody ever gives me anything, and so i have to take what i want." "do you like butter?" "of course i do! that's why we are called butterflies, you know. i prefer butter to anything else, and i have heard that in some countries the children always leave a little dish of butter on the window-sill, so that we may help ourselves whenever we are hungry. i wish i had been born in such a country." "mother won't churn until saturday," said twinkle. "i know, 'cause i've got to help her, and i just hate butter-making!" "then i won't go to the farm to-day," replied the butterfly. "good-bye, little girl. if you think of it, leave a dish of butter around where i can get at it." "all right," said twinkle, and the butterfly waved its wings and fluttered through the air into the gulch below. then the girl started up the hill and the stone rolled slowly beside her, groaning and grumbling because the ground was so rough. presently she noticed running across the path a tiny book, not much bigger than a postage-stamp. it had two slender legs, like those of a bumble-bee, and upon these it ran so fast that all the leaves fluttered wildly, the covers being half open. "what's that?" asked twinkle, looking after the book in surprise. "that is a little learning," answered the stone. "look out for it, for they say it's a dangerous thing." "it's gone already," said twinkle. "let it go. nobody wants it, that i know of. just help me over this bump, will you?" so she rolled the stone over the little hillock, and just as she did so her attention was attracted by a curious noise that sounded like "pop! pop! pop!" "what's that?" she inquired, hesitating to advance. "only a weasel," answered the stone. "stand still a minute, and you'll see him. whenever he thinks he's alone, and there's no one to hear, 'pop' goes the weasel." sure enough, a little animal soon crossed their path, making the funny noise at every step. but as soon as he saw that twinkle was staring at him he stopped popping and rushed into a bunch of tall grass and hid himself. and now they were almost at the berry-bushes, and twinkle trotted so fast that the rolling stone had hard work to keep up with her. but when she got to the bushes she found a flock of strange birds sitting upon them and eating up the berries as fast as they could. the birds were not much bigger than robins, and were covered with a soft, velvety skin instead of with feathers, and they had merry black eyes and long, slender beaks curving downward from their noses, which gave to their faces a saucy expression. the lack of usual feathers might not have surprised twinkle so much had she not noticed upon the tail of each bird one single, solitary feather of great length, which was certainly a remarkable thing. "i know what they are," she said, nodding her head wisely; "they're birds of a feather." at this the birds burst into a chorus of laughter, and one of them said: "perhaps you think that's why we flock together." "well, isn't that the reason?" she asked. "not a bit of it," declared the bird. "the reason we flock together is because we're too proud to mix with common birds, who have feathers all over them." "i should think you'd be ashamed, 'cause you're so naked," she returned. "the fact is, twinkle," said another bird, as he pecked at a blueberry and swallowed it, "the common things in this world don't amount to much. there are millions of birds on earth, but only a few of us that have but one feather. in my opinion, if you had but one hair upon your head you'd be much prettier." "i'd be more 'strord'nary, i'm sure," said twinkle, using the biggest word she could think of. "there's no accounting for tastes," remarked the rolling stone, which had just arrived at twinkle's side after a hard roll up the path. "for my part, i haven't either hair or feathers, and i'm glad of it." the birds laughed again, at this, and as they had eaten all the berries they cared for, they now flew into the air and disappeared. chapter iv the dancing bear "really," said twinkle, as she began picking the berries and putting them into her pail, "i didn't know so many things could talk." "it's because you are in the part of the gulch that's enchanted," answered the rolling stone. "when you get home again, you'll think this is all a dream." "i wonder if it isn't!" she suddenly cried, stopping to look around, and then feeling of herself carefully. "it's usually the way in all the fairy stories that papa reads to me. i don't remember going to sleep any time; but perhaps i did, after all." "don't let it worry you," said the stone, making a queer noise that twinkle thought was meant for a laugh. "if you wake up, you'll be sorry you didn't dream longer; and if you find you haven't been asleep, this will be a wonderful adventure." "that's true enough," the girl answered, and again began filling her pail with the berries. "when i tell mama all this, she won't believe a word of it. and papa will laugh and pinch my cheek, and say i'm like alice in wonderland, or dorothy in the land of oz." just then she noticed something big and black coming around the bushes from the other side, and her heart beat a good deal faster when she saw before her a great bear standing upon his rear legs beside her. he had a little red cap on his head that was kept in place by a band of rubber elastic. his eyes were small, but round and sparkling, and there seemed to be a smile upon his face, for his white teeth showed in two long rows. "don't be afraid," called out the rolling stone; "it's only the dancing bear." "why should the child be afraid?" asked the bear, speaking in a low, soft tone that reminded her of the purring of a kitten. "no one ever heard of a dancing bear hurting anybody. we're about the most harmless things in the world." "are you really a dancing bear?" asked twinkle, curiously. "i am, my dear," he replied, bowing low and then folding his arms proudly as he leaned against a big rock that was near. "i wish there was some one here who could tell you what a fine dancer i am. it wouldn't be modest for me to praise myself, you know." "i s'pose not," said twinkle. "but if you're a dancing bear, why don't you dance?" "there it is again!" cried the rolling stone. "this girl twinkle wants to keep everybody moving. she wouldn't believe, at first, that i was a rolling stone, because i was lying quiet just then. and now she won't believe you're a dancing bear, because you don't eternally keep dancing." "well, there's some sense in that, after all," declared the bear. "i'm only a dancing bear while i'm dancing, to speak the exact truth; and you're only a rolling stone while you're rolling." "i beg to disagree with you," returned the stone, in a cold voice. "well, don't let us quarrel, on any account," said the bear. "i invite you both to come to my cave and see me dance. then twinkle will be sure i'm a dancing bear." "i haven't filled my pail yet," said the little girl, "and i've got to get enough berries for papa's supper." "i'll help you," replied the bear, politely; and at once he began to pick berries and to put them into twinkle's pail. his big paws looked very clumsy and awkward, but it was astonishing how many blueberries the bear could pick with them. twinkle had hard work to keep up with him, and almost before she realized how fast they had worked, the little pail was full and overflowing with fine, plump berries. "and now," said the bear, "i will show you the way to my cave." he took her hand in his soft paw and began leading her along the side of the steep hill, while the stone rolled busily along just behind them. but they had not gone far before twinkle's foot slipped, and in trying to save herself from falling she pushed hard against the stone and tumbled it from the pathway. "now you've done it!" growled the stone, excitedly, as it whirled around. "here i go, for i've lost my balance and i can't help myself!" even as he spoke the big round stone was flying down the side of the gulch, bumping against the hillocks and bits of rock--sometimes leaping into the air and then clinging close to the ground, but going faster and faster every minute. "dear me," said twinkle, looking after it; "i'm afraid the rolling stone will get hurt." "no danger of that," replied the bear. "it's as hard as a rock, and not a thing in the gulch could hurt it a bit. but our friend would have to roll a long time to get back here again, so we won't wait. come along, my dear." he held out his paw again, and twinkle took it with one of her hands while she carried the pail with the other, and so managed to get over the rough ground very easily. chapter v the cave of the waterfall before long they came to the entrance to the cave, and as it looked dark and gloomy from without twinkle drew back and said she guessed she wouldn't go in. "but it's quite light inside," said the bear, "and there's a pretty waterfall there, too. don't be afraid, twinkle; i'll take good care of you." so the girl plucked up courage and permitted him to lead her into the cave; and then she was glad she had come, instead of being a 'fraid-cat. for the place was big and roomy, and there were many cracks in the roof, that admitted plenty of light and air. around the side walls were several pairs of big ears, which seemed to have been carved out of the rock. these astonished the little girl. "what are the ears for?" she asked. "don't walls have ears where you live?" returned the bear, as if surprised. "i've heard they do," she answered, "but i've never seen any before." at the back of the cave was a little, tinkling waterfall, that splashed into a pool beneath with a sound that was very like music. near this was a square slab of rock, a little raised above the level of the floor. "kindly take a seat, my dear," said the bear, "and i'll try to amuse you, and at the same time prove that i can dance." so to the music of the waterfall the bear began dancing. he climbed upon the flat stone, made a graceful bow to twinkle, and then balanced himself first upon one foot and then upon the other, and swung slowly around in a circle, and then back again. "how do you like it?" he asked. "i don't care much for it," said twinkle. "i believe i could do better myself." "but you are not a bear," he answered. "girls ought to dance better than bears, you know. but not every bear can dance. if i had a hand-organ to make the music, instead of this waterfall, i might do better." "then i wish you had one," said the girl. the bear began dancing again, and this time he moved more rapidly and shuffled his feet in quite a funny manner. he almost fell off the slab once or twice, so anxious was he to prove he could dance. and once he tripped over his own foot, which made twinkle laugh. just as he was finishing his dance a strange voice cried out: "for bear!" and a green monkey sprang into the cave and threw a big rock at the performer. it knocked the bear off the slab, and he fell into the pool of water at the foot of the waterfall, and was dripping wet when he scrambled out again. the dancing bear gave a big growl and ran as fast as he could after the monkey, finally chasing him out of the cave. twinkle picked up her pail of berries and followed, and when she got into the sunshine again on the side of the hill she saw the monkey and the bear hugging each other tight, and growling and chattering in a way that showed they were angry with each other and not on pleasant terms. "you _will_ throw rocks at me, will you?" shouted the bear. "i will if i get the chance," replied the monkey. "wasn't that a fine, straight shot? and didn't you go plump into the water, though?" and he shrieked with laughter. just then they fell over in a heap, and began rolling down the hill. "let go!" yelled the bear. "let go, yourself!" screamed the monkey. but neither of them did let go, so they rolled faster and faster down the hill, and the last that twinkle saw of them they were bounding among the bushes at the very bottom of the big gulch. chapter vi prince nimble "good gracious!" said the little girl, looking around her; "i'm as good as lost in this strange place, and i don't know in what direction to go to get home again." so she sat down on the grass and tried to think which way she had come, and which way she ought to return in order to get across the gulch to the farm-house. "if the rolling stone was here, he might tell me," she said aloud. "but i'm all alone." "oh, no, you're not," piped a small, sweet voice. "i'm here, and i know much more than the rolling stone does." twinkle looked this way and then that, very carefully, in order to see who had spoken, and at last she discovered a pretty grasshopper perched upon a long blade of grass nearby. "did i hear you speak?" she inquired. "yes," replied the grasshopper. "i'm prince nimble, the hoppiest hopper in hoptown." "where is that?" asked the child. "why, hoptown is near the bottom of the gulch, in that thick patch of grass you see yonder. it's on your way home, so i'd be pleased to have you visit it." "won't i step on some of you?" she asked. "not if you are careful," replied prince nimble. "grasshoppers don't often get stepped on. we're pretty active, you know." "all right," said twinkle. "i'd like to see a grasshopper village." "then follow me, and i'll guide you," said nimble, and at once he leaped from the blade of grass and landed at least six feet away. twinkle got up and followed, keeping her eye on the pretty prince, who leaped so fast that she had to trot to keep up with him. nimble would wait on some clump of grass or bit of rock until the girl came up, and then away he'd go again. "how far is it?" twinkle once asked him. "about a mile and a half," was the answer; "we'll soon be there, for you are as good as a mile, and i'm good for the half-mile." "how do you figure that out?" asked twinkle. "why, i've always heard that a miss is as good as a mile, and you're a miss, are you not?" "not yet," she answered; "i'm only a little girl. but papa will be sure to miss me if i don't get home to supper." chapter vii the grasshoppers' hop twinkle now began to fear she wouldn't get home to supper, for the sun started to sink into the big prairie, and in the golden glow it left behind, the girl beheld most beautiful palaces and castles suspended in the air just above the hollow in which she stood. splendid banners floated from the peaks and spires of these magnificent buildings, and all the windows seemed of silver and all the roofs of gold. "what city is that?" she asked, standing still, in amazement. "that isn't any city," replied the grasshopper. "they are only castles in the air--very pretty to look at, but out of everybody's reach. come along, my little friend; we're almost at hoptown." so twinkle walked on, and before long prince nimble paused on the stem of a hollyhock and said: "now, sit down carefully, right where you are, and you will be able to watch my people. it is the night of our regular hop--if you listen you can hear the orchestra tuning up." she sat down, as he bade her, and tried to listen, but only heard a low whirr and rattle like the noise of a beetle's wings. "that's the drummer," said prince nimble. "he is very clever, indeed." "good gracious! it's night," said twinkle, with a start. "i ought to be at home and in bed this very minute!" "never mind," said the grasshopper; "you can sleep any time, but this is our annual ball, and it's a great privilege to witness it." suddenly the grass all around them became brilliantly lighted, as if from a thousand tiny electric lamps. twinkle looked closely, and saw that a vast number of fireflies had formed a circle around them, and were illuminating the scene of the ball. in the center of the circle were assembled hundreds of grasshoppers, of all sizes. the small ones were of a delicate green color, and the middle-sized ones of a deeper green, while the biggest ones were a yellowish brown. but the members of the orchestra interested twinkle more than anything else. they were seated upon the broad top of a big toadstool at one side, and the musicians were all beetles and big-bugs. a fat water-beetle played a bass fiddle as big and fat as himself, and two pretty ladybugs played the violins. a scarab, brightly colored with scarlet and black, tooted upon a long horn, and a sand-beetle made the sound of a drum with its wings. then there was a coleopto, making shrill sounds like a flute--only of course twinkle didn't know the names of these beetles, and thought they were all just "bugs." when the orchestra began to play, the music was more pleasing than you might suppose; anyway, the grasshoppers liked it, for they commenced at once to dance. the antics of the grasshoppers made twinkle laugh more than once, for the way they danced was to hop around in a circle, and jump over each other, and then a lady grasshopper and a gentleman grasshopper would take hold of hands and stand on their long rear legs and swing partners until it made the girl dizzy just to watch them. sometimes two of them would leap at once, and knock against each other in the air, and then go tumbling to the ground, where the other dancers tripped over them. she saw prince nimble dancing away with the others, and his partner was a lovely green grasshopper with sparkling black eyes and wings that were like velvet. they didn't bump into as many of the others as some did, and twinkle thought they danced very gracefully indeed. and now, while the merriment was at its height, and waiter-grasshoppers were passing around refreshments that looked like grass seeds covered with thick molasses, a big cat suddenly jumped into the circle. at once all the lights went out, for the fire-flies fled in every direction; but in the darkness twinkle thought she could still hear the drone of the big bass fiddle and the flute-like trill of the ladybugs. the next thing twinkle knew, some one was shaking her shoulder. * * * "wake up, dear," said her mother's voice. "it's nearly supper-time, and papa's waiting for you. and i see you haven't picked a single blueberry." "why, i picked 'em, all right," replied twinkle, sitting up and first rubbing her eyes and then looking gravely at her empty tin pail. "they were all in the pail a few minutes ago. i wonder whatever became of them!" the end sugar-loaf mountain sugar-loaf mountain list of chapters i the golden key........................ ii through the tunnel.................... iii sugar-loaf city....................... iv to the king's palace.................. v princess sakareen..................... vi the royal chariot..................... vii twinkle gets thirsty.................. viii after the runaway..................... chapter i the golden key twinkle had come to visit her old friend chubbins, whose mother was now teaching school in a little town at the foot of the ozark mountains, in arkansas. twinkle's own home was in dakota, so the mountains that now towered around her made her open her eyes in wonder. near by--so near, in fact, that she thought she might almost reach out her arm and touch it--was sugar-loaf mountain, round and high and big. and a little to the south was backbone mountain, and still farther along a peak called crystal mountain. the very next day after her arrival twinkle asked chubbins to take her to see the mountain; and so the boy, who was about her own age, got his mother to fill for them a basket of good things to eat, and away they started, hand in hand, to explore the mountain-side. it was farther to sugar-loaf mountain than twinkle had thought, and by the time they reached the foot of the great mound, the rocky sides of which were covered with bushes and small trees, they were both rather tired by the walk. "let's eat something," suggested chubbins. "i'm willing," said twinkle. so they climbed up a little way, to where some big rocks lay flat upon the mountain, and sat themselves down upon a slab of rock while they rested and ate some of the sandwiches and cake. "why do they call it 'sugar-loaf'?" asked the girl, looking far up to the top of the mountain. "i don't know," replied chubbins. "it's a queer name," said twinkle, thoughtfully. "that's so," agreed the boy. "they might as well have called it 'gingerbread' or 'rock-salt,' or 'tea-biscuit.' they call mountains funny names, don't they?" "seems as if they do," said twinkle. they had been sitting upon the edge of one big flat rock, with their feet resting against another that was almost as large. these rocks appeared to have been there for ages,--as if some big giants in olden days had tossed them carelessly down and then gone away and left them. yet as the children pushed their feet against this one, the heavy mass suddenly began to tremble and then slide downward. "look out!" cried the girl, frightened to see the slab of rock move. "we'll fall and get hurt!" but they clung to the rock upon which they sat and met with no harm whatever. nor did the big slab of stone below them move very far from its original position. it merely slid downward a few feet, and when they looked at the place where it had been they discovered what seemed to be a small iron door, built into the solid stone underneath, and now shown to their view by the moving of the upper rock. "why, it's a door!" exclaimed twinkle. chubbins got down upon his knees and examined the door carefully. there was a ring in it that seemed to be a handle, and he caught hold of it and pulled as hard as he could. but it wouldn't move. "it's locked, twink," he said. "what do you'spose is under it?" she asked. "maybe it's a treasure!" answered chubbins, his eyes big with interest. "well, chub, we can't get it, anyway," said the practical twinkle; "so let's climb the mountain." she got down from her seat and approached the door, and as she did so she struck a small bit of rock with her foot and sent it tumbling down the hill. then she stopped short with a cry of wonder, for under the stone she had kicked away was a little hole in the rock, and within this they saw a small golden key. "perhaps," she said, eagerly, as she stooped to pick up the key, "this will unlock the iron door." "let's try it!" cried the boy. chapter ii through the tunnel they examined the door carefully, and at last found near the center of it a small hole. twinkle put the golden key into this and found that it fitted exactly. but it took all of chubbins's strength to turn the key in the rusty lock. yet finally it did turn, and they heard the noise of bolts shooting back, so they both took hold of the ring, and pulling hard together, managed to raise the iron door on its hinges. all they saw was a dark tunnel, with stone steps leading down into the mountain. "no treasure here," said the little girl. "p'raps it's farther in," replied chubbins. "shall we go down?" "won't it be dangerous?" she asked. "don't know," said chubbins, honestly. "it's been years and years since this door was opened. you can see for yourself. that rock must have covered it up a long time." "there must be _something_ inside," she declared, "or there wouldn't be any door, or any steps." "that's so," answered chubbins. "i'll go down and see. you wait." "no; i'll go too," said twinkle. "i'd be just as scared waiting outside as i would be in. and i 'in bigger than you are, chub." "you're taller, but you're only a month older, twink; so don't you put on airs. and i'm the strongest." "we'll both go," she decided; "and then if we find the treasure we'll divide." "all right; come on!" forgetting their basket, which they left upon the rocks, they crept through the little doorway and down the steps. there were only seven steps in all, and then came a narrow but level tunnel that led straight into the mountain-side. it was dark a few feet from the door, but the children resolved to go on. taking hold of hands, so as not to get separated, and feeling the sides of the passage to guide them, they walked a long way into the black tunnel. twinkle was just about to say they'd better go back, when the passage suddenly turned, and far ahead of them shone a faint light. this encouraged them, and they went on faster, hoping they would soon come to the treasure. "keep it up, twink," said the boy. "it's no use going home yet." "we must be almost in the middle of sugar-loaf mountain," she answered. "oh, no; it's an awful big mountain," said he. "but we've come quite a way, haven't we?" "i guess mama'd scold, if she knew where we are." "mamas," said chubbins, "shouldn't know everything, 'cause they'd only worry. and if we don't get hurt i can't see as there's any harm done." "but we mustn't be naughty, chub." "the only thing that's naughty," he replied, "is doing what you're told not to do. and no one told us not to go into the middle of sugar-loaf mountain." just then they came to another curve in their path, and saw a bright light ahead. it looked to the children just like daylight; so they ran along and soon passed through a low arch and came out into-- well! the scene before them was so strange that it nearly took away their breath, and they stood perfectly still and stared as hard as their big eyes could possibly stare. chapter iii sugaf-loaf city sugar-loaf mountain was hollow inside, for the children stood facing a great dome that rose so far above their heads that it seemed almost as high as the sky. and underneath this dome lay spread out the loveliest city imaginable. there were streets of houses, and buildings with round domes, and slender, delicate spires reaching far up into the air, and turrets beautifully ornamented with carvings. and all these were white as the driven snow and sparkling in every part like millions of diamonds--for all were built of pure loaf-sugar! the pavements of the streets were also loaf-sugar, and the trees and bushes and flowers were likewise sugar; but these last were not all white, because all sugar is not white, and they showed many bright colors of red sugar and blue sugar and yellow, purple and green sugar, all contrasting most prettily with the sparkling white buildings and the great white dome overhead. this alone might well astonish the eyes of children from the outside world, but it was by no means all that twinkle and chubbins beheld in that first curious look at sugar-loaf city. for the city was inhabited by many people--men, women and children--who walked along the streets just as briskly as we do; only all were made of sugar. there were several different kinds of these sugar people. some, who strutted proudly along, were evidently of pure loaf-sugar, and these were of a most respectable appearance. others seemed to be made of a light brown sugar, and were more humble in their manners and seemed to hurry along as if they had business to attend to. then there were some of sugar so dark in color that twinkle suspected it was maple-sugar, and these folks seemed of less account than any of the others, being servants, drivers of carriages, and beggars and idlers. carts and carriages moved along the streets, and were mostly made of brown sugar. the horses that drew them were either pressed sugar or maple-sugar. in fact, everything that existed in this wonderful city was made of some kind of sugar. where the light, which made all this place so bright and beautiful, came from, twinkle could not imagine. there was no sun, nor were there any electric lights that could be seen; but it was fully as bright as day and everything showed with great plainness. while the children, who stood just inside the archway through which they had entered, were looking at the wonders of sugar-loaf city, a file of sugar soldiers suddenly came around a corner at a swift trot. "halt!" cried the captain. he wore a red sugar jacket and a red sugar cap, and the soldiers were dressed in the same manner as their captain, but without the officer's yellow sugar shoulder-straps. at the command, the sugar soldiers came to a stop, and all pointed their sugar muskets at twinkle and chubbins. "surrender!" said the captain to them. "surrender, or i'll--i'll--" he hesitated. "what will you do?" said twinkle. "i don't know what, but something very dreadful," replied the captain. "but of course you'll surrender." "i suppose we'll have to," answered the girl. "that's right. i'll just take you to the king, and let him decide what to do," he added pleasantly. so the soldiers surrounded the two children, shouldered arms, and marched away down the street, twinkle and chubbins walking slowly, so the candy folks would not have to run; for the tallest soldiers were only as high as their shoulders. "this is a great event," remarked the captain, as he walked beside them with as much dignity as he could muster. "it was really good of you to come and be arrested, for i haven't had any excitement in a long time. the people here are such good sugar that they seldom do anything wrong." chapter iv to the king's palace "what, allow me to ask, is your grade of sugar?" inquired the captain, with much politeness. "you do not seem to be the best loaf, but i suppose that of course you are solid." "solid what?" asked chubbins. "solid sugar," replied the captain. "we're not sugar at all," explained twinkle. "we're just meat." "meat! and what is that?" "haven't you any meat in your city?" "no," he replied, shaking his head. "well, i can't explain exactly what meat is," she said; "but it isn't sugar, anyway." at this the captain looked solemn. "it isn't any of my business, after all," he told them. "the king must decide about you, for that's _his_ business. but since you are not made of sugar you must excuse me if i decline to converse with you any longer. it is beneath my dignity." "oh, that's all right," said twinkle. "where we came from," said chubbins, "meat costs more a pound than sugar does; so i guess we're just as good as you are." but the captain made no reply to this statement, and before long they stopped in front of a big sugar building, while a crowd of sugar people quickly gathered. "stand back!" cried the captain, and the sugar soldiers formed a row between the children and the sugar citizens, and kept the crowd from getting too near. then the captain led twinkle and chubbins through a high sugar gateway and up a broad sugar walk to the entrance of the building. "must be the king's castle," said chubbins. "the king's palace," corrected the captain, stiffly. "what's the difference?" asked twinkle. but the sugar officer did not care to explain. brown sugar servants in plum-colored sugar coats stood at the entrance to the palace, and their eyes stuck out like lozenges from their sugar faces when they saw the strangers the captain was escorting. but every one bowed low, and stood aside for them to pass, and they walked through beautiful halls and reception rooms where the sugar was cut into panels and scrolls and carved to represent all kinds of fruit and flowers. "isn't it sweet!" said twinkle. "sure it is," answered chubbins. and now they were ushered into a magnificent room, where a stout little sugar man was sitting near the window playing upon a fiddle, while a group of sugar men and women stood before him in respectful attitudes and listened to the music. twinkle knew at once that the fiddler was the king, because he had a sugar crown upon his head. his majesty was made of very white and sparkling cut loaf-sugar, and his clothing was formed of the same pure material. the only color about him was the pink sugar in his cheeks and the brown sugar in his eyes. his fiddle was also of white sugar, and the strings were of spun sugar and had an excellent tone. when the king saw the strange children enter the room he jumped up and exclaimed: "bless my beets! what have we here?" "mortals, most granular and solidified majesty," answered the captain, bowing so low that his forehead touched the floor. "they came in by the ancient tunnel." "well, i declare," said the king. "i thought that tunnel had been stopped up for good and all." "the stone above the door slipped," said twinkle, "so we came down to see what we could find." "you must never do it again," said his majesty, sternly. "this is our own kingdom, a peaceful and retired nation of extra refined and substantial citizens, and we don't wish to mix with mortals, or any other folks." "we'll go back, pretty soon," said twinkle. "now, that's very nice of you," declared the king, "and i appreciate your kindness. are you extra refined, my dear?" "i hope so," said the girl, a little doubtfully. "then there's no harm in our being friendly while you're here. and as you've promised to go back to your own world soon, i have no objection to showing you around the town. you'd like to see how we live, wouldn't you?" "very much," said twinkle. "order my chariot, captain brittle," said his majesty; and the captain again made one of his lowly bows and strutted from the room to execute the command. the king now introduced chubbins and twinkle to the sugar ladies and gentlemen who were present, and all of them treated the children very respectfully. chapter v princess sakareen "say, play us a tune," said chubbins to the king. his majesty didn't seem to like being addressed so bluntly, but he was very fond of playing the fiddle, so he graciously obeyed the request and played a pretty and pathetic ballad upon the spun sugar strings. then, begging to be excused for a few minutes while the chariot was being made ready, the king left them and went into another room. this gave the children a chance to talk freely with the sugar people, and chubbins said to one man, who looked very smooth on the outside: "i s'pose you're one of the big men of this place, aren't you?" the man looked frightened for a moment, and then took the boy's arm and led him into a corner of the room. "you ask me an embarrassing question," he whispered, looking around to make sure that no one overheard. "although i pose as one of the nobility, i am, as a matter of fact, a great fraud!" "how's that?" asked chubbins. "have you noticed how smooth i am?" inquired the sugar man. "yes," replied the boy. "why is it?" "why, i'm frosted, that's the reason. no one here suspects it, and i'm considered very respectable; but the truth is, i'm just coated over with frosting, and not solid sugar at all." "what's inside you?" asked chubbins. "that," answered the man, "i do not know. i've never dared to find out. for if i broke my frosting to see what i'm stuffed with, every one else would see too, and i would be disgraced and ruined." "perhaps you're cake," suggested the boy. "perhaps so," answered the man, sadly. "please keep my secret, for only those who are solid loaf-sugar are of any account in this country, and at present i am received in the best society, as you see." "oh, i won't tell," said chubbins. during this time twinkle had been talking with a sugar lady, in another part of the room. this lady seemed to be of the purest loaf-sugar, for she sparkled most beautifully, and twinkle thought she was quite the prettiest person to look at that she had yet seen. "are you related to the king?" she asked. "no, indeed," answered the sugar lady, "although i'm considered one of the very highest quality. but i'll tell you a secret, my dear." she took twinkle's hand and led her across to a sugar sofa, where they both sat down. "no one," resumed the sugar lady, "has ever suspected the truth; but i'm only a sham, and it worries me dreadfully." "i don't understand what you mean," said twinkle. "your sugar seems as pure and sparkling as that of the king." "things are not always what they seem," sighed the sugar lady. "what you see of me, on the outside, is all right; but the fact is, _i'm hollow!_" "dear me!" exclaimed twinkle, in surprise. "how do you know it?" "i can feel it," answered the lady, impressively. "if you weighed me you'd find i'm not as heavy as the solid ones, and tor a long time i ve realized the bitter truth that i'm hollow. it makes me very unhappy, but i don't dare confide my secret to anyone here, because it would disgrace me forever." "i wouldn't worry," said the child. "they'll never know the difference." "not unless i should break," replied the sugar lady. "but if that happened, all the world could see that i'm hollow, and instead of being welcomed in good society i'd become an outcast. it's even more respectable to be made of brown sugar, than to be hollow; don't you think so?" "i'm a stranger here," said twinkle; "so i can't judge. but if i were you, i wouldn't worry unless i got broke; and you may be wrong, after all, and as sound as a brick!" chapter vi the royal chariot just then the king came back to the room and said: "the chariot is at the door; and, as there are three seats, i'll take lord cloy and princess sakareen with us." so the children followed the king to the door of the palace, where stood a beautiful white and yellow sugar chariot, drawn by six handsome sugar horses with spun sugar tails and manes, and driven by a brown sugar coachman in a blue sugar livery. the king got in first, and the others followed. then the children discovered that lord cloy was the frosted man and princess sakareen was the sugar lady who had told twinkle that she was hollow. there was quite a crowd of sugar people at the gates to watch the departure of the royal party, and a few soldiers and policemen were also present to keep order. twinkle sat beside the king, and chubbins sat on the same seat with the princess sakareen, while lord cloy was obliged to sit with the coachman. when all were ready the driver cracked a sugar whip (but didn't break it), and away the chariot dashed over a road paved with blocks of cut loaf-sugar. the air was cool and pleasant, but there was a sweet smell to the breeze that was peculiar to this strange country. sugar birds flew here and there, singing sweet songs, and a few sugar dogs ran out to bark at the king's chariot as it whirled along. "haven't you any automobiles in your country?" asked the girl. "no," answered the king. "anything that requires heat to make it go is avoided here, because heat would melt us and ruin our bodies in a few minutes. automobiles would be dangerous in sugar-loaf city." "they're dangerous enough anywhere," she said. "what do you feed to your horses?" "they eat a fine quality of barley-sugar that grows in our fields," answered the king. "you'll see it presently, for we will drive out to my country villa, which is near the edge of the dome, opposite to where you came in." first, however, they rode all about the city, and the king pointed out the public buildings, and the theaters, and the churches, and a number of small but pretty public parks. and there was a high tower near the center that rose half-way to the dome, it was so tall. "aren't you afraid the roof will cave in some time, and ruin your city?" twinkle asked the king. "oh, no," he answered. "we never think of such a thing. isn't there a dome over the place where you live?" "yes," said twinkle; "but it's the sky." "do you ever fear it will cave in?" inquired the king. "no, indeed!" she replied, with a laugh at the idea. "well, it's the same way with us," returned his majesty. "domes are the strongest things in all the world." chapter vii twinkle gets thirsty after they had seen the sights of the city the carriage turned into a broad highway that led into the country, and soon they began to pass fields of sugar corn and gardens of sugar cabbages and sugar beets and sugar potatoes. there were also orchards of sugar plums and sugar apples and vineyards of sugar grapes. all the trees were sugar, and even the grass was sugar, while sugar grasshoppers hopped about in it. indeed, chubbins decided that not a speck of anything beneath the dome of sugar-loaf mountain was anything but pure sugar--unless the inside of the frosted man proved to be of a different material. by and by they reached a pretty villa, where they all left the carriage and followed the sugar king into the sugar house. refreshments had been ordered in advance, over the sugar telephone, so that the dining table was already laid and all they had to do was to sit in the pretty sugar chairs and be waited upon by maple-sugar attendants. there were sandwiches and salads and fruits and many other sugar things to eat, served on sugar plates; and the children found that some were flavored with winter-green and raspberry and lemon, so that they were almost as good as candies. at each plate was a glass made of crystal sugar and filled with thick sugar syrup, and this seemed to be the only thing to drink. after eating so much sugar the children naturally became thirsty, and when the king asked twinkle if she would like anything else she answered promptly: "yes, i'd like a drink of water." at once a murmur of horror arose from the sugar people present, and the king pushed back his chair as if greatly disturbed. "water!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "sure," replied chubbins. "i want some, too. we're thirsty." the king shuddered. "nothing in the world," said he gravely, "is so dangerous as water. it melts sugar in no time, and to drink it would destroy you instantly." "we're not made of sugar," said twinkle. "in our country we drink all the water we want." "it may be true," returned the king; "but i am thankful to say there is no drop of water in all this favored country. but we have syrup, which is much better for your health. it fills up the spaces inside you, and hardens and makes you solid." "it makes me thirstier than ever," said the girl. "but if you have no water we must try to get along until we get home again." when the luncheon was over, they entered the carriage again and were driven back towards the city. on the way the six sugar horses became restless, and pranced around in so lively a manner that the sugar coachman could scarcely hold them in. and when they had nearly reached the palace a part of the harness broke, and without warning all six horses dashed madly away. the chariot smashed against a high wall of sugar and broke into many pieces, the sugar people, as well as twinkle and chubbins, being thrown out and scattered in all directions. the little girl was not at all hurt, nor was chubbins, who landed on top the wall and had to climb down again. but the king had broken one of the points off his crown, and sat upon the ground gazing sorrowfully at his wrecked chariot. and lord cloy, the frosted man, had smashed one of his feet, and everybody could now see that underneath the frosting was a material very like marshmallow--a discovery that was sure to condemn him as unfit for the society of the solid sugar-loaf aristocracy of the country. but perhaps the most serious accident of all had befallen princess sakareen, whose left leg had broken short off at the knee. twinkle ran up to her as soon as she could, and found the princess smiling happily and gazing at the part of the broken leg which she had picked up. "see here, twinkle," she cried; "it's as solid as the king himself! i'm not hollow at all. it was only my imagination." "i'm glad of that," answered twinkle; "but what will you do with a broken leg?" "oh, that's easily mended," said the princess, "all i must do is to put a little syrup on the broken parts, and stick them together, and then sit in the breeze until it hardens. i'll be all right in an hour from now." it pleased twinkle to hear this, for she liked the pretty sugar princess. chapter viii after the runaway now the king came up to them, saying: "i hope you are not injured." "we are all right," said twinkle; "but i'm getting dreadful thirsty, so if your majesty has no objection i guess we'll go home." "no objection at all," answered the king. chubbins had been calmly filling his pockets with broken spokes and other bits of the wrecked chariot; but feeling nearly as thirsty as twinkle, he was glad to learn they were about to start for home. they exchanged good-byes with all their sugar friends, and thanked the sugar king for his royal entertainment. then captain brittle and his soldiers escorted the children to the archway through which they had entered sugar-loaf city. they had little trouble in going back, although the tunnel was so dark in places that they had to feel their way. but finally daylight could be seen ahead, and a few minutes later they scrambled up the stone steps and squeezed through the little doorway. there was their basket, just as they had left it, and the afternoon sun was shining softly over the familiar worldly landscape, which they were both rejoiced to see again. chubbins closed the iron door, and as soon as he did so the bolts shot into place, locking it securely. "where's the key?" asked twinkle. "i put it into my pocket," said chubbins, "but it must have dropped out when i tumbled from the king's chariot." "that's too bad," said twinkle; "for now no one can ever get to the sugar city again. the door is locked, and the key is on the other side." "never mind," said the boy. "we've seen the inside of sugar-loaf mountain once, and that'll do us all our lives. come on, twink. let's go home and get a drink!" the brownies and other tales. by juliana horatia ewing. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, w.c. new york: e. & j.b. young & co. [published under the direction of the general literature committee.] dedicated to my very dear and honoured mother. j.h.e. . contents. the brownies the land of lost toys three christmas trees an idyll of the wood christmas crackers amelia and the dwarfs the brownies. a little girl sat sewing and crying on a garden seat. she had fair floating hair, which the breeze blew into her eyes, and between the cloud of hair, and the mist of tears, she could not see her work very clearly. she neither tied up her locks, nor dried her eyes, however; for when one is miserable, one may as well be completely so. "what is the matter?" said the doctor, who was a friend of the rector's, and came into the garden whenever he pleased. the doctor was a tall stout man, with hair as black as crow's feathers on the top, and grey underneath, and a bushy beard. when young, he had been slim and handsome, with wonderful eyes, which were wonderful still; but that was many years past. he had a great love for children, and this one was a particular friend of his. "what is the matter?" said he. "i'm in a row," murmured the young lady through her veil; and the needle went in damp, and came out with a jerk, which is apt to result in what ladies called "puckering." "you are like london in a yellow fog," said the doctor, throwing himself on to the grass, "and it is very depressing to my feelings. what is the row about, and how came you to get into it?" "we're all in it," was the reply; and apparently the fog was thickening, for the voice grew less and less distinct--"the boys and everybody. it's all about forgetting, and not putting away, and leaving about, and borrowing, and breaking, and that sort of thing. i've had father's new pocket-handkerchiefs to hem, and i've been out climbing with the boys, and kept forgetting and forgetting, and mother says i always forget; and i can't help it. i forget to tidy his newspapers for him, and i forget to feed puss, and i forgot these; besides, they're a great bore, and mother gave them to nurse to do, and this one was lost, and we found it this morning tossing about in the toy-cupboard." "it looks as if it had been taking violent exercise," said the doctor. "but what have the boys to do with it?" "why, then there was a regular turn out of the toys," she explained, "and they're all in a regular mess. you know, we always go on till the last minute, and then things get crammed in anyhow. mary and i did tidy them once or twice; but the boys never put anything away, you know, so what's the good?" "what, indeed!" said the doctor. "and so you have complained of them?" "oh! no!" answered she. "we don't get them into rows, unless they are very provoking; but some of the things were theirs, so everybody was sent for, and i was sent out to finish this, and they are all tidying. i don't know when it will be done, for i have all this side to hem; and the soldiers' box is broken, and noah is lost out of the noah's ark, and so is one of the elephants and a guinea-pig, and so is the rocking-horse's nose; and nobody knows what has become of rutlandshire and the wash, but they're so small, i don't wonder; only north america and europe are gone too." the doctor started up in affected horror. "europe gone, did you say? bless me! what will become of us!" "don't!" said the young lady, kicking petulantly with her dangling feet, and trying not to laugh. "you know i mean the puzzles; and if they were yours, you wouldn't like it." "i don't half like it as it is," said the doctor. "i am seriously alarmed. an earthquake is one thing; you have a good shaking, and settle down again. but europe gone--lost--why, here comes deordie, i declare, looking much more cheerful than we do; let us humbly hope that europe has been found. at present i feel like aladdin when his palace had been transported by the magician; i don't know where i am." "you're here, doctor; aren't you?" asked the slow curly-wigged brother, squatting himself on the grass. "_is_ europe found?" said the doctor tragically. "yes," laughed deordie. "i found it." "you will be a great man," said the doctor. "and--it is only common charity to ask--how about north america?" "found too," said deordie. "but the wash is completely lost." "and my six shirts in it!" said the doctor. "i sent them last saturday as ever was. what a world we live in! any more news? poor tiny here has been crying her eyes out." "i'm so sorry, tiny," said the brother. "but don't bother about it. it's all square now, and we're going to have a new shelf put up." "have you found everything?" asked tiny. "well, not the wash, you know. and the elephant and the guinea-pig are gone for good; so the other elephant and the other guinea-pig must walk together as a pair now. noah was among the soldiers, and we have put the cavalry into a night-light box. europe and north america were behind the book-case; and, would you believe it? the rocking-horse's nose has turned up in the nursery oven." "i can't believe it," said the doctor. "the rocking-horse's nose couldn't turn up, it was the purest grecian, modelled from the elgin marbles. perhaps it was the heat that did it, though. however, you seem to have got through your troubles very well, master deordie. i wish poor tiny were at the end of her task." "so do i," said deordie ruefully. "but i tell you what i've been thinking, doctor. nurse is always nagging at us, and we're always in rows of one sort or another, for doing this, and not doing that, and leaving our things about. but, you know, it's a horrid shame, for there are plenty of servants, and i don't see why we should be always bothering to do little things, and--" "oh! come to the point, please," said the doctor; "you do go round the square so, in telling your stories, deordie. what have you been thinking of?" "well," said deordie, who was as good-tempered as he was slow, "the other day nurse shut me up in the back nursery for borrowing her scissors and losing them; but i'd got 'grimm' inside one of my knickerbockers, so when she locked the door, i sat down to read. and i read the story of the shoemaker and the little elves who came and did his work for him before he got up; and i thought it would be so jolly if we had some little elves to do things instead of us." "that's what tommy trout said," observed the doctor. "who's tommy trout?" asked deordie. "don't you know, deor?" said tiny. "it's the good boy who pulled the cat out of the what's-his-name. 'who pulled her out? little tommy trout.' is it the same tommy trout, doctor? i never heard anything else about him except his pulling the cat out; and i can't think how he did that." "let down the bucket for her, of course," said the doctor. "but listen to me. if you will get that handkerchief done, and take it to your mother with a kiss, and not keep me waiting, i'll have you all to tea, and tell you the story of tommy trout." "this very night?" shouted deordie. "this very night." "every one of us?" inquired the young gentleman with rapturous incredulity. "every one of you.--now, tiny, how about that work?" "it's just done," said tiny.--"oh! deordie, climb up behind, and hold back my hair, there's a darling, while i fasten off. oh! deor, you're pulling my hair out. don't." "i want to make a pig-tail," said deor. "you can't," said tiny, with feminine contempt. "you can't plait. what's the good of asking boys to do anything? there! it's done at last. now go and ask mother if we may go.--will you let me come, doctor," she inquired, "if i do as you said?" "to be sure i will," he answered. "let me look at you. your eyes are swollen with crying. how can you be such a silly little goose?" "did you never cry?" asked tiny. "when i was your age? well, perhaps so." "you've never cried since, surely," said tiny. the doctor absolutely blushed. "what do you think?" said he. "oh, of course not," she answered. "you've nothing to cry about. you're grown up, and you live all alone in a beautiful house, and you do as you like, and never get into rows, or have anybody but yourself to think about; and no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem." "very nice; eh, deordie?" said the doctor. "awfully jolly," said deordie. "nothing else to wish for, eh?" "_i_ should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if i were a man," said deordie; "but i suppose you could, if you wanted to." "nothing to cry about, at any rate?" "i should think not!" said deordie.--"there's mother, though; let's go and ask her about the tea;" and off they ran. the doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped his grey head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into the sky. "awfully jolly--no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem," said he, laughing to himself. "nothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about." nevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile died away, and tears came into his eyes. fortunately, no one was there to see. what could this "awfully jolly" doctor be thinking of to make him cry? he was thinking of a grave-stone in the churchyard close by, and of a story connected with this grave-stone which was known to everybody in the place who was old enough to remember it. this story has nothing to do with the present story, so it ought not to be told. and yet it has to do with the doctor, and is very short, so it shall be put in, after all. the story of a grave-stone. one early spring morning, about twenty years before, a man going to his work at sunrise through the churchyard, stopped by a flat stone which he had lately helped to lay down. the day before, a name had been cut on it, which he stayed to read; and below the name some one had scrawled a few words in pencil, which he read also--_pitifully behold the sorrows of our hearts_. on the stone lay a pencil, and a few feet from it lay the doctor, face downwards, as he had lain all night, with the hoar frost on his black hair. ah! these grave-stones (they were ugly things in those days; not the light, hopeful, pretty crosses we set up now), how they seem remorselessly to imprison and keep our dear dead friends away from us! and yet they do not lie with a feather's weight upon the souls that are gone, while god only knows how heavily they press upon the souls that are left behind. did the spirit whose body was with the dead, stand that morning by the body whose spirit was with the dead, and pity him? let us only talk about what we know. after this it was said that the doctor had got a fever, and was dying, but he got better of it; and then that he was out of his mind, but he got better of that, and came out looking much as usual, except that his hair never seemed quite so black again, as if a little of that night's hoar frost still remained. and no further misfortune happened to him that i ever heard of; and as time went on he grew a beard, and got stout, and kept a german poodle, and gave tea-parties to other people's children. as to the grave-stone story, whatever it was to him at the end of twenty years, it was a great convenience to his friends; for when he said anything they didn't agree with, or did anything they couldn't understand, or didn't say or do what was expected of him, what could be easier or more conclusive than to shake one's head and say, "the fact is, our doctor has been a little odd, _ever since_--!" the doctor's tea-party. there is one great advantage attendant upon invitations to tea with a doctor. no objections can be raised on the score of health. it is obvious that it must be fine enough to go out when the doctor asks you, and that his tea-cakes may be eaten with perfect impunity. those tea-cakes were always good; to-night they were utterly delicious; there was a perfect _abandon_ of currants, and the amount of citron peel was enervating to behold. then the housekeeper waited in awful splendour, and yet the doctor's authority over her seemed as absolute as if he were an eastern despot. deordie must be excused for believing in the charms of living alone. it certainly has its advantages. the limited sphere of duty conduces to discipline in the household, demand does not exceed supply in the article of waiting, and there is not that general scrimmage of conflicting interests which besets a large family in the most favoured circumstances. the housekeeper waits in black silk, and looks as if she had no meaner occupation than to sit in a rocking-chair, and dream of damson cheese. rustling, hospitable, and subservient, this one retired at last, and-- "now," said the doctor, "for the verandah; and to look at the moon." the company adjourned with a rush, the rear being brought up by the poodle, who seemed quite used to the proceedings; and there under the verandah, framed with passion-flowers and geraniums, the doctor had gathered mats, rugs, cushions, and arm-chairs, for the party; while far up in the sky, a yellow-faced harvest moon looked down in awful benignity. "now!" said the doctor. "take your seats. ladies first, and gentlemen afterwards. mary and tiny, race for the american rocking-chair. well done! of course it will hold both. now, boys, shake down. no one is to sit on the stone, or put his feet on the grass: and when you're ready, i'll begin." "we're ready," said the girls. the boys shook down in a few minutes more, and the doctor began the story of "the brownies." "bairns are a burden," said the tailor to himself as he sat at work. he lived in a village on some of the glorious moors of the north of england; and by bairns he meant children, as every northman knows. "bairns are a burden," and he sighed. "bairns are a blessing," said the old lady in the window. "it is the family motto. the trouts have had large families and good luck for generations; that is, till your grandfather's time. he had one only son. i married him. he was a good husband, but he had been a spoilt child. he had always been used to be waited upon, and he couldn't fash to look after the farm when it was his own. we had six children. they are all dead but you, who were the youngest. you were bound to a tailor. when the farm came into your hands, your wife died, and you have never looked up since. the land is sold now, but not the house. no! no! you're right enough there; but you've had your troubles, son thomas, and the lads _are_ idle!" it was the tailor's mother who spoke. she was a very old woman, and helpless. she was not quite so bright in her intellect as she had been, and got muddled over things that had lately happened; but she had a clear memory for what was long past, and was very pertinacious in her opinions. she knew the private history of almost every family in the place, and who of the trouts were buried under which old stones in the churchyard; and had more tales of ghosts, doubles, warnings, fairies, witches, hobgoblins, and such like, than even her grandchildren had ever come to the end of. her hands trembled with age, and she regretted this for nothing more than for the danger it brought her into of spilling the salt. she was past housework, but all day she sat knitting hearth-rugs out of the bits and scraps of cloth that were shred in the tailoring. how far she believed in the wonderful tales she told, and the odd little charms she practised, no one exactly knew; but the older she grew, the stranger were the things she remembered, and the more testy she was if any one doubted their truth. "bairns are a blessing!" said she. "it is the family motto." "_are they_?" said the tailor emphatically. he had a high respect for his mother, and did not like to contradict her, but he held his own opinion, based upon personal experience; and not being a metaphysician, did not understand that it is safer to found opinions on principles than on experience, since experience may alter, but principles cannot. "look at tommy," he broke out suddenly. "that boy does nothing but whittle sticks from morning till night. i have almost to lug him out of bed o' mornings. if i send him an errand, he loiters; i'd better have gone myself. if i set him to do anything, i have to tell him everything; i could sooner do it myself. and if he does work, it's done so unwillingly, with such a poor grace; better, far better, to do it myself. what housework do the boys ever do but looking after the baby? and this afternoon she was asleep in the cradle, and off they went, and when she awoke, _i_ must leave my work to take her. _i_ gave her her supper, and put her to bed. and what with what they want and i have to get, and what they take out to play with and lose, and what they bring in to play with and leave about, bairns give some trouble, mother, and i've not an easy life of it. the pay is poor enough when one can get the work, and the work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do it in; but housekeeping and bairn-minding don't leave a man much time for his trade. no! no! ma'am, the luck of the trouts is gone, and 'bairns are a burden,' is the motto now. though they are one's own," he muttered to himself, "and not bad ones, and i did hope once would have been a blessing." "there's johnnie," murmured the old lady, dreamily. "he has a face like an apple." "and is about as useful," said the tailor. "he might have been different, but his brother leads him by the nose." his brother led him in as the tailor spoke, not literally by his snub, though, but by the hand. they were a handsome pair, this lazy couple. johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the reddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most twitchy of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta-percha cherub in a chronic state of longitudinal squeeze. they were locked together by two grubby paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on the floor as they came in. "i've swept this floor once to-day," said the father, "and i'm not going to do it again. put that rubbish outside." "move it, johnnie!" said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and taking out his knife and a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced; while the apple-cheeked johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and scraped it out on the doorstep, leaving long trails of earth behind him, and then sat down also. "and those chips the same," added the tailor; "i will _not_ clear up the litter you lads make." "pick 'em up, johnnie," said thomas trout, junior, with an exasperated sigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and tumbled down again. "is there any supper, father?" asked tommy. "no, there is not, sir, unless you know how to get it," said the tailor; and taking his pipe, he went out of the house. "is there really nothing to eat, granny?" asked the boy. "no, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow." "what makes father so cross, granny?" "he's wearied, and you don't help him, my dear." "what could i do, grandmother?" "many little things, if you tried," said the old lady. "he spent half-an-hour to-day, while you were on the moor, getting turf for the fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work." "he never told me," said tommy. "you might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie," said the old lady coaxingly; "these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and if you get 'em ready, i can go on knitting. there'll be some food when this mat is done and sold." "i'll try," said tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "hold my knife, johnnie. father's been cross, and everything has been miserable, ever since the farm was sold. i wish i were a big man, and could make a fortune.--will that do, granny?" the old lady put down her knitting and looked. "my dear, that's too short. bless me! i gave the lad a piece to measure by." "i thought it was the same length. oh, dear! i am so tired;" and he propped himself against the old lady's chair. "my dear! don't lean so; you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked. "i beg your pardon, grandmother. will _that_ do?" "it's that much too long." "tear that bit off. now it's all right." "but, my dear, that wastes it. now that bit is of no use. there goes my knitting, you awkward lad!" "johnnie, pick it up!--oh! grandmother, i _am_ so hungry." the boy's eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an instant. "what can i do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "there, never mind the scraps, tommy." "tell us a tale, granny. if you told us a new one, i shouldn't keep thinking of that bread in the cupboard.--come, johnnie, and sit against me. now then!" "i doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks i haven't told you," said the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me years ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows." "oh! not ghosts!" tommy broke in; "we've had so many. i know it was a rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, i hate it." "it was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the old lady with dignity. "it's a good half-mile from the churchyard. and as to white petticoats, there wasn't a female in the house; he wouldn't have one; and his victuals came in by the pantry window. but never mind! though it's as true as a sermon." johnnie lifted his head from his brother's knee. "let granny tell what she likes, tommy. it's a new ghost, and i should like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window." "i don't like a story about victuals," sulked tommy. "it makes me think of the bread. o granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. you never will tell us about the fairies, and i know you know." "hush! hush!" said the old lady. "there's miss surbiton's love-letter, and her dreadful end." "i know miss surbiton, granny. i think she was a goose. why don't you tell us about the fairies?" "hush! hush! my dear. there's the clerk and the corpse-candles." "i know the corpse-candles, granny. besides, they make johnnie dream, and he wakes me to keep him company. _why_ won't you tell us about the fairies?" "my dear, they don't like it," said the old lady. "o granny dear, why don't they? do tell! i shouldn't think of the bread a bit, if you told us about the fairies. i know nothing about them." "he lived in this house long enough," said the old lady. "but it's not lucky to name him." "o granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?" "well, that's true enough," she sighed. "trout's luck is gone; it went with the brownie, i believe." "was that _he_, granny?" "yes, my dear, he lived with the trouts for several generations." "what was he like, granny?" "like a little man, they say, my dear." "what did he do?" "he came in before the family were up, and swept up the hearth, and lighted the fire, and set out the breakfast, and tidied the room, and did all sorts of house-work. but he never would be seen, and was off before they could catch him. but they could hear him laughing and playing about the house sometimes." "what a darling! did they give him any wages, granny?" "no! my dear. he did it for love. they set a pancheon of clear water for him over night, and now and then a bowl of bread-and-milk, or cream. he liked that, for he was very dainty. sometimes he left a bit of money in the water. sometimes he weeded the garden, or threshed the corn. he saved endless trouble, both to men and maids." "o granny! why did he go?" "the maids caught sight of him one night, my dear, and his coat was so ragged, that they got a new suit, and a linen shirt for him, and laid them by the bread-and-milk bowl. but when brownie saw the things, he put them on, and dancing round the kitchen, sang, 'what have we here? hemten hamten! here will i never more tread nor stampen,' and so danced through the door, and never came back again." "o grandmother! but why not? didn't he like the new clothes?" "the old owl knows, my dear; i don't." "who's the old owl, granny?" "i don't exactly know, my dear. it's what my mother used to say when we asked anything that puzzled her. it was said that the old owl was nanny besom (a witch, my dear!), who took the shape of a bird, but couldn't change her voice, and that's why the owl sits silent all day for fear she should betray herself by speaking, and has no singing voice like other birds. many people used to go and consult the old owl at moon-rise, in my young days." "did you ever go, granny?" "once, very nearly, my dear." "oh! tell us, granny dear.--there are no corpse-candles, johnnie; it's only moonlight," he added consolingly, as johnnie crept closer to his knee, and pricked his little red ears. "it was when your grandfather was courting me, my dears," said the old lady, "and i couldn't quite make up my mind. so i went to my mother, and said, 'he's this on the one side, but then he's that on the other, and so on. shall i say yes or no?' and my mother said, 'the old owl knows;' for she was fairly puzzled. so says i, 'i'll go and ask her to-night, as sure as the moon rises.' "so at moon-rise i went, and there in the white light by the gate stood your grandfather. 'what are you doing here at this time o' night?' says i. 'watching your window,' says he. 'what are _you_ doing here at this time o' night?' 'the old owl knows,' said i, and burst out crying." "what for?" said johnnie. "i can't rightly tell you, my dear," said the old lady, "but it gave me such a turn to see him. and without more ado your grandfather kissed me. 'how dare you?' said i. 'what do you mean?' 'the old owl knows,' said he. so we never went." "how stupid!" said tommy. "tell us more about brownie, please," said johnnie, "did he ever live with anybody else?" "there are plenty of brownies," said the old lady, "or used to be in my mother's young days. some houses had several." "oh! i wish ours would come back!" cried both the boys in chorus. "he'd-- "tidy the room," said johnnie; "fetch the turf," said tommy; "pick up the chips," said johnnie; "sort your scraps," said tommy; "and do everything. oh! i wish he hadn't gone away." "what's that?" said the tailor, coming in at this moment. "it's the brownie, father," said tommy. "we are so sorry he went, and do so wish we had one." "what nonsense have you been telling them, mother?" asked the tailor. "heighty teighty," said the old lady, bristling. "nonsense, indeed! as good men as you, son thomas, would as soon have jumped off the crags, as spoken lightly of _them_, in my mother's young days." "well, well," said the tailor, "i beg their pardon. they never did aught for me, whatever they did for my forbears; but they're as welcome to the old place as ever, if they choose to come. there's plenty to do." "would you mind our setting a pan of water, father?" asked tommy very gently. "there's no bread-and-milk." "you may set what you like, my lad," said the tailor; "and i wish there were bread-and-milk for your sakes, bairns. you should have it, had i got it. but go to bed now." they lugged out a pancheon, and filled it with more dexterity than usual, and then went off to bed, leaving the knife in one corner, the wood in another, and a few splashes of water in their track. there was more room than comfort in the ruined old farm-house, and the two boys slept on a bed of cut heather, in what had been the old malt-loft. johnnie was soon in the land of dreams, growing rosier and rosier as he slept, a tumbled apple among the grey heather. but not so lazy tommy. the idea of a domesticated brownie had taken full possession of his mind; and whither brownie had gone, where he might be found, and what would induce him to return, were mysteries he longed to solve. "there's an owl living in the old shed by the mere," he thought. "it may be the old owl herself, and she knows, granny says. when father's gone to bed, and the moon rises, i'll go." meanwhile he lay down. * * * * * the moon rose like gold, and went up into the heavens like silver, flooding the moors with a pale ghostly light, taking the colour out of the heather, and painting black shadows under the stone walls. tommy opened his eyes, and ran to the window. "the moon has risen," said he, and crept softly down the ladder, through the kitchen, where was the pan of water, but no brownie, and so out on to the moor. the air was fresh, not to say chilly; but it was a glorious night, though everything but the wind and tommy seemed asleep. the stones, the walls, the gleaming lanes, were so intensely still; the church tower in the valley seemed awake and watching, but silent; the houses in the village round it had all their eyes shut, that is, their window-blinds down; and it seemed to tommy as if the very moors had drawn white sheets over them, and lay sleeping also. "hoot! hoot!" said a voice from the fir plantation behind him. somebody else was awake, then. "it's the old owl," said tommy; and there she came, swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight, and sailed into the shed by the mere. the old lady moved faster than she seemed to do, and though tommy ran hard she was in the shed some time before him. when he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard a crunching sound from above, and looking up, there sat the old owl, pecking and tearing and munching at some shapeless black object, and blinking at him--tommy--with yellow eyes. "oh dear!" said tommy, for he didn't much like it. the old owl dropped the black mass on to the floor; and tommy did not care somehow to examine it. "come up! come up!" said she hoarsely. she could speak, then! beyond all doubt it was _the_ old owl, and none other. tommy shuddered. "come up here! come up here!" said the old owl. the old owl sat on a beam that ran across the shed. tommy had often climbed up for fun; and he climbed up now, and sat face to face with her, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame. "kiss my fluffy face," said the owl. her eyes were going round like flaming catherine wheels, but there are certain requests which one has not the option of refusing. tommy crept nearer, and put his lips to the round face out of which the eyes shone. oh! it was so downy and warm, so soft, so indescribably soft. tommy's lips sank into it, and couldn't get to the bottom. it was unfathomable feathers and fluffiness. "now, what do you want?" said the owl. "please," said tommy, who felt rather re-assured, "can you tell me where to find the brownies, and how to get one to come and live with us?" "oohoo!" said the owl, "that's it, is it? i know of three brownies." "hurrah!" said tommy. "where do they live?" "in your house," said the owl. tommy was aghast. "in our house!" he exclaimed. "whereabouts? let me rummage them out. why do they do nothing?" "one of them is too young," said the owl. "but why don't the others work?" asked tommy. "they are idle, they are idle," said the old owl, and she gave herself such a shake as she said it, that the fluff went flying through the shed, and tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in his fright. "then we don't want them," said he. "what is the use of having brownies if they do nothing to help us?" "perhaps they don't know how, as no one has told them," said the owl. "i wish you would tell me where to find them," said tommy; "i could tell them." "could you?" said the owl. "oohoo! oohoo!" and tommy couldn't tell whether she were hooting or laughing. "of course i could," he said. "they might be up and sweep the house, and light the fire, and spread the table, and that sort of thing, before father came down. besides, they could _see_ what was wanted. the brownies did all that in granny's mother's young days. and then they could tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips, and sort granny's scraps. oh! there's lots to do." "so there is," said the owl. "oohoo! well, i can tell you where to find one of the brownies; and if you find him, he will tell you where his brother is. but all this depends upon whether you feel equal to undertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions." "i am quite ready to go," said tommy, "and i will do as you shall tell me. i feel sure i could persuade them. if they only knew how every one would love them if they made themselves useful!" "oohoo! oohoo!" said the owl. "now pay attention. you must go to the north side of the mere when the moon is shining--('i know brownies like water,' muttered tommy)--and turn yourself round three times, saying this charm: 'twist me, and turn me, and show me the elf-- i looked in the water, and saw--' when you have got so far, look into the water, and at the same moment you will see the brownie, and think of a word that will fill up the couplet, and rhyme with the first line. if either you do not see the brownie, or fail to think of the word, it will be of no use." "is the brownie a merman," said tommy, wriggling himself along the beam, "that he lives under water?" "that depends on whether he has a fish's tail," said the owl, "and this you can discover for yourself." "well, the moon is shining, so i shall go," said tommy. "good-bye, and thank you, ma'am;" and he jumped down and went, saying to himself as he ran, "i believe he is a merman all the same, or else how could he live in the mere? i know more about brownies than granny does, and i shall tell her so;" for tommy was somewhat opinionated, like other young people. the moon shone very brightly on the centre of the mere. tommy knew the place well, for there was a fine echo there. round the edge grew rushes and water plants, which cast a border of shadow. tommy went to the north side, and turning himself three times, as the old owl had told him, he repeated the charm-- "twist me, and turn me, and show me the elf-- i looked in the water, and saw--" now for it! he looked in, and saw--the reflection of his own face. "why, there's no one but myself!" said tommy. "and what can the word be? i must have done it wrong." "wrong!" said the echo. tommy was almost surprised to find the echo awake at this time of night. "hold your tongue!" said he. "matters are provoking enough of themselves. belf! celf! delf! felf! gelf! helf! jelf! what rubbish! there can't be a word to fit it. and then to look for a brownie, and see nothing but myself!" "myself," said the echo. "will you be quiet?" said tommy. "if you would tell one the word there would be some sense in your interference; but to roar 'myself!' at one, which neither rhymes nor runs--it does rhyme though, as it happens," he added; "and how very odd! it runs too-- 'twist me, and turn me, and show me the elf-- i looked in the water, and saw myself,' which i certainly did. what can it mean? the old owl knows, as granny would say; so i shall go back and ask her." "ask her!" said the echo. "didn't i say i should?" said tommy. "how exasperating you are! it is very strange. _myself_ certainly does rhyme, and i wonder i did not think of it long ago." "go," said the echo. "will you mind your own business, and go to sleep?" said tommy. "i am going; i said i should." and back he went. there sat the old owl as before. "oohoo!" said she, as tommy climbed up. "what did you see in the mere?" "i saw nothing but myself," said tommy indignantly. "and what did you expect to see?" asked the owl. "i expected to see a brownie," said tommy; "you told me so." "and what are brownies like, pray?" inquired the owl. "the one granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like a little man," said tommy. "ah!" said the owl, "but you know at present this one is an idle little fellow, something like a little man. oohoo! oohoo! are you quite sure you didn't see him?" "quite," answered tommy sharply. "i saw no one but myself." "hoot! toot! how touchy we are! and who are you, pray?" "i'm not a brownie," said tommy. "don't be too sure," said the owl. "did you find out the word?" "no," said tommy. "i could find no word with any meaning that would rhyme but 'myself.'" "well, that runs and rhymes," said the owl. "what do you want? where's your brother now?" "in bed in the malt-loft," said tommy. "then now all your questions are answered," said the owl, "and you know what wants doing, so go and do it. good-night, or rather good-morning, for it is long past midnight;" and the old lady began to shake her feathers for a start. "don't go yet, please," said tommy humbly. "i don't understand it. you know i'm not a brownie, am i?" "yes, you are," said the owl, "and a very idle one too. all children are brownies." "but i couldn't do work like a brownie," said tommy. "why not?" inquired the owl. "couldn't you sweep the floor, light the fire, spread the table, tidy the room, fetch the turf, pick up your own chips, and sort your grandmother's scraps? you know 'there's lots to do.'" "but i don't think i should like it," said tommy. "i'd much rather have a brownie to do it for me." "and what would you do meanwhile?" asked the owl. "be idle, i suppose; and what do you suppose is the use of a man's having children if they do nothing to help him? ah! if they only knew how every one would love them if they made themselves useful!" "but is it really and truly so?" asked tommy, in a dismal voice. "are there no brownies but children?" "no, there are not," said the owl. "and pray do you think that the brownies, whoever they may be, come into the house to save trouble for the idle healthy little boys who live in it? listen to me, tommy," said the old lady, her eyes shooting rays of fire in the dark corner where she sat. "listen to me, you are a clever boy, and can understand when one speaks; so i will tell you the whole history of the brownies, as it has been handed down in our family from my grandmother's great-grandmother, who lived in the druid's oak, and was intimate with the fairies. and when i have done you shall tell me what you think they are, if they are not children. it's the opinion i have come to at any rate, and i don't think that wisdom died with our great-grandmothers." "i should like to hear if you please," said tommy. the old owl shook out a tuft or two of fluff, and set her eyes a-going and began: "the brownies, or, as they are sometimes called, the small folk, the little people, or the good people, are a race of tiny beings who domesticate themselves in a house of which some grown-up human being pays the rent and taxes. they are like small editions of men and women, they are too small and fragile for heavy work; they have not the strength of a man, but are a thousand times more fresh and nimble. they can run and jump, and roll and tumble, with marvellous agility and endurance, and of many of the aches and pains which men and women groan under, they do not even know the names. they have no trade or profession, and as they live entirely upon other people, they know nothing of domestic cares; in fact, they know very little upon any subject, though they are often intelligent and highly inquisitive. they love dainties, play, and mischief. they are apt to be greatly beloved, and are themselves capriciously affectionate. they are little people, and can only do little things. when they are idle and mischievous, they are called boggarts, and are a curse to the house they live in. when they are useful and considerate, they are brownies, and are a much-coveted blessing. sometimes the blessed brownies will take up their abode with some worthy couple, cheer them with their romps and merry laughter, tidy the house, find things that have been lost, and take little troubles out of hands full of great anxieties. then in time these little people are brownies no longer. they grow up into men and women. they do not care so much for dainties, play, or mischief. they cease to jump and tumble, and roll about the house. they know more, and laugh less. then, when their heads begin to ache with anxiety, and they have to labour for their own living, and the great cares of life come on, other brownies come and live with them, and take up their little cares, and supply their little comforts, and make the house merry once more." "how nice!" said tommy. "very nice," said the old owl. "but what"--and she shook herself more fiercely than ever, and glared so that tommy expected nothing less than that her eyes would set fire to her feathers and she would be burnt alive. "but what must i say of the boggarts? those idle urchins who eat the bread-and-milk, and don't do the work, who lie in bed without an ache or pain to excuse them, who untidy instead of tidying, cause work instead of doing it, and leave little cares to heap on big cares, till the old people who support them are worn out altogether." "don't!" said tommy. "i can't bear it." "i hope when boggarts grow into men," said the old owl, "that their children will be boggarts too, and then they'll know what it is!" "don't!" roared tommy. "i won't be a boggart. i'll be a brownie." "that's right," nodded the old owl. "i said you were a boy who could understand when one spoke. and remember that the brownies never are seen at their work. they get up before the household, and get away before any one can see them. i can't tell you why. i don't think my grandmother's great-grandmother knew. perhaps because all good deeds are better done in secret." "please," said tommy, "i should like to go home now, and tell johnnie. it's getting cold, and i am so tired!" "very true," said the old owl, "and then you will have to be up early to-morrow. i think i had better take you home." "i know the way, thank you," said tommy. "i didn't say _show_ you the way, i said _take_ you--carry you," said the owl. "lean against me." "i'd rather not, thank you," said tommy. "lean against me," screamed the owl. "oohoo! how obstinate boys are to be sure!" tommy crept up very unwillingly. "lean your full weight, and shut your eyes," said the owl. tommy laid his head against the old owl's feathers, had a vague idea that she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on the moor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he and the owl would certainly fall off the beam together. down--feathers--fluff--he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid, jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that he was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with johnnie sleeping by his side. "how quickly we came!" said he; "that is certainly a very clever old owl. i couldn't have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut. how very odd!" but what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight, but early dawn. "get up, johnnie," said his brother, "i've got a story to tell you." and while johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related his adventures on the moor. "is all that true?" said johnnie. "i mean, did it really happen?" "of course it did," said his brother; "don't you believe it?" "oh yes," said johnnie. "but i thought it was perhaps only a true story, like granny's true stories. i believe all those, you know. but if you were there, you know, it is different--" "i was there," said tommy, "and it's all just as i tell you: and i tell you what, if we mean to do anything we must get up: though, oh dear! i should like to stay in bed. i say," he added, after a pause, "suppose we do. it can't matter being boggarts for one night more. i mean to be a brownie before i grow up, though. i couldn't stand boggarty children." "i won't be a boggart at all," said johnnie, "it's horrid. but i don't see how we can be brownies, for i'm afraid we can't do the things. i wish i were bigger!" "i can do it well enough," said tommy, following his brother's example and getting up. "don't you suppose i can light a fire? think of all the bonfires we have made! and i don't think i should mind having a regular good tidy-up either. it's that stupid putting-away-things-when-you've-done-with-them that i hate so!" the brownies crept softly down the ladder and into the kitchen. there was the blank hearth, the dirty floor, and all the odds and ends lying about, looking cheerless enough in the dim light. tommy felt quite important as he looked round. there is no such cure for untidiness as clearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the fault lies. "look at that door-step, johnnie," said the brownie-elect, "what a mess you made of it! if you had lifted the moss carefully, instead of stamping and struggling with it, it would have saved us ten minutes' work this morning." this wisdom could not be gainsaid, and johnnie only looked meek and rueful. "i am going to light the fire," pursued his brother;--"the next turfs, you know, _we_ must get--you can tidy a bit. look at that knife i gave you to hold last night, and that wood--that's my fault though, and so are those scraps by granny's chair. what are you grubbing at that rat-hole for?" johnnie raised his head somewhat flushed and tumbled. "what do you think i have found?" said he triumphantly. "father's measure that has been lost for a week!" "hurrah!" said tommy, "put it by his things. that's just a sort of thing for a brownie to have done. what will he say? and i say, johnnie, when you've tidied, just go and grub up a potato or two in the garden, and i'll put them to roast for breakfast. i'm lighting such a bonfire!" the fire was very successful. johnnie went after the potatoes, and tommy cleaned the door-step, swept the room, dusted the chairs and the old chest, and set out the table. there was no doubt he could be handy when he chose. "i'll tell you what i've thought of, if we have time," said johnnie, as he washed the potatoes in the water that had been set for brownie. "we might run down to the south pasture for some mushrooms. father said the reason we found so few was that people go by sunrise for them to take to market. the sun's only just rising, we should be sure to find some, and they would do for breakfast." "there's plenty of time," said tommy; so they went. the dew lay heavy and thick upon the grass by the road-side, and over the miles of network that the spiders had woven from blossom to blossom of the heather. the dew is the sun's breakfast; but he was barely up yet, and had not eaten it, and the world felt anything but warm. nevertheless, it was so sweet and fresh as it is at no later hour of the day, and every sound was like the returning voice of a long-absent friend. down to the pastures, where was more network and more dew, but when one has nothing to speak of in the way of boots, the state of the ground is of the less consequence. the tailor had been right, there was no lack of mushrooms at this time of the morning. all over the pasture they stood, of all sizes, some like buttons, some like tables; and in the distance one or two ragged women, stooping over them with baskets, looked like huge fungi also. "this is where the fairies feast," said tommy. "they had a large party last night. when they go, they take away the dishes and cups, for they are made of gold; but they leave their tables, and we eat them." "i wonder whether giants would like to eat our tables," said johnnie. this was beyond tommy's capabilities of surmise; so they filled a handkerchief, and hurried back again, for fear the tailor should have come down-stairs. they were depositing the last mushroom in a dish on the table, when his footsteps were heard descending. "there he is!" exclaimed tommy. "remember, we mustn't be caught. run back to bed." johnnie caught up the handkerchief, and smothering their laughter, the two scrambled back up the ladder, and dashed straight into the heather. meanwhile the poor tailor came wearily down-stairs. day after day, since his wife's death, he had come down every morning to the same desolate sight--yesterday's refuse and an empty hearth. this morning task of tidying was always a sad and ungrateful one to the widowed father. his awkward struggles with the house-work in which _she_ had been so notable, chafed him. the dirty kitchen was dreary, the labour lonely, and it was an hour's time lost to his trade. but life does not stand still while one is wishing, and so the tailor did that for which there was neither remedy nor substitute; and came down this morning as other mornings to the pail and broom. when he came in he looked round, and started, and rubbed his eyes; looked round again, and rubbed them harder: then went up to the fire and held out his hand, (warm certainly)--then up to the table and smelt the mushrooms, (esculent fungi beyond a doubt)--handled the loaf, stared at the open door and window, the swept floor, and the sunshine pouring in, and finally sat down in stunned admiration. then he jumped up and ran to the foot of the stairs, shouting, "mother! mother! trout's luck has come again." "and yet, no!" he thought, "the old lady's asleep, it's a shame to wake her, i'll tell those idle rascally lads, they'll be more pleased than they deserve. it was tommy after all that set the water and caught him." "boys! boys!" he shouted at the foot of the ladder, "the brownie has come!--and if he hasn't found my measure!" he added on returning to the kitchen; "this is as good as a day's work to me." there was great excitement in the small household that day. the boys kept their own counsel. the old grandmother was triumphant, and tried not to seem surprised. the tailor made no such vain effort, and remained till bed-time in a state of fresh and unconcealed amazement. "i've often heard of the good people," he broke out towards the end of the evening. "and i've heard folk say they've known those that have seen them capering round the grey rocks on the moor at midnight: but this is wonderful! to come and do the work for a pan of cold water! who could have believed it?" "you might have believed it if you'd believed me, son thomas," said the old lady tossily. "i told you so. but young people always know better than their elders!" "i didn't see him," said the tailor, beginning his story afresh; "but i thought as i came in i heard a sort of laughing and rustling." "my mother said they often heard him playing and laughing about the house," said the old lady. "i told you so." "well, he sha'n't want for a bowl of bread-and-milk to-morrow, anyhow," said the tailor, "if i have to stick to farmer swede's waistcoat till midnight." but the waistcoat was finished by bed-time, and the tailor set the bread-and-milk-himself, and went to rest. "i say," said tommy, when both the boys were in bed, "the old owl was right, and we must stick to it. but i'll tell you what i don't like, and that is father thinking we're idle still. i wish he knew we were the brownies." "so do i," said johnnie; and he sighed. "i tell you what," said tommy, with the decisiveness of elder brotherhood, "we'll keep quiet for a bit for fear we should leave off; but when we've gone on a good while, i shall tell him. it was only the old owl's grandmother's great-grandmother who said it was to be kept secret, and the old owl herself said grandmothers were not always in the right." "no more they are," said johnnie; "look at granny about this." "i know," said tommy. "she's in a regular muddle." "so she is," said johnnie. "but that's rather fun, i think." and they went to sleep. day after day went by, and still the brownies "stuck to it," and did their work. it is no such very hard matter after all to get up early when one is young and light-hearted, and sleeps upon heather in a loft without window-blinds, and with so many broken window-panes that the air comes freely in. in old times the boys used to play at tents among the heather, while the tailor did the house-work; now they came down and did it for him. size is not everything, even in this material existence. one has heard of dwarfs who were quite as clever (not to say as powerful) as giants, and i do not fancy that fairy godmothers are ever very large. it is wonderful what a comfort brownies may be in the house that is fortunate enough to hold them! the tailor's brownies were the joy of his life; and day after day they seemed to grow more and more ingenious in finding little things to do for his good. now-a-days granny never picked a scrap for herself. one day's shearings were all neatly arranged the next morning, and laid by her knitting-pins; and the tailor's tape and shears were no more absent without leave. one day a message came to him to offer him two or three days' tailoring in a farm-house some miles up the valley. this was pleasant and advantageous sort of work; good food, sure pay, and a cheerful change; but he did not know how he could leave his family, unless, indeed, the brownie might be relied upon to "keep the house together," as they say. the boys were sure that he would, and they promised to set his water, and to give as little trouble as possible; so, finally, the tailor took up his shears and went up the valley, where the green banks sloped up into purple moor, or broke into sandy rocks, crowned with nodding oak fern. on to the prosperous old farm, where he spent a very pleasant time, sitting level with the window geraniums on a table set apart for him, stitching and gossiping, gossiping and stitching, and feeling secure of honest payment when his work was done. the mistress of the house was a kind good creature, and loved a chat; and though the tailor kept his own secret as to the brownies, he felt rather curious to know if the good people had any hand in the comfort of this flourishing household, and watched his opportunity to make a few careless inquiries on the subject. "brownies?" laughed the dame. "ay, master, i have heard of them. when i was a girl, in service at the old hall, on cowberry edge, i heard a good deal of one they said had lived there in former times. he did house-work as well as a woman, and a good deal quicker, they said. one night one of the young ladies (that were then, they're all dead now) hid herself in a cupboard, to see what he was like." "and what was he like?" inquired the tailor, as composedly as he was able. "a little fellow, they said," answered the farmer's wife, knitting calmly on. "like a dwarf, you know, with a largish head for his body. not taller than--why, my bill, or your eldest boy, perhaps. and he was dressed in rags, with an old cloak on, and stamping with passion at a cobweb he couldn't get at with his broom. they've very uncertain tempers, they say. tears one minute, and laughing the next." "you never had one here, i suppose?" said the tailor. "not we," she answered; "and i think i'd rather not. they're not canny after all; and my master and me have always been used to work, and we've sons and daughters to help us, and that's better than meddling with the fairies, to my mind. no! no!" she added, laughing, "if we had had one you'd have heard of it, whoever didn't, for i should have had some decent clothes made for him. i couldn't stand rags and old cloaks, messing and moth-catching, in my house." "they say it's not lucky to give them clothes, though," said the tailor; "they don't like it." "tell me!" said the dame, "as if any one that liked a tidy room wouldn't like tidy clothes, if they could get them. no! no! when we have one, you shall take his measure, i promise you." and this was all the tailor got out of her on the subject. when his work was finished, the farmer paid him at once; and the good dame added half a cheese, and a bottle-green coat. "that has been laid by for being too small for the master now he's so stout," she said; "but except for a stain or two it's good enough, and will cut up like new for one of the lads." the tailor thanked them, and said farewell, and went home. down the valley, where the river, wandering between the green banks and the sandy rocks, was caught by giant mosses, and bands of fairy fern, and there choked and struggled, and at last barely escaped with an existence, and ran away in a diminished stream. on up the purple hills to the old ruined house. as he came in at the gate he was struck by some idea of change, and looking again, he saw that the garden had been weeded, and was comparatively tidy. the truth is, that tommy and johnnie had taken advantage of the tailor's absence to do some brownie's work in the daytime. "it's that blessed brownie!" said the tailor. "has he been as usual?" he asked, when he was in the house. "to be sure," said the old lady; "all has been well, son thomas." "i'll tell you what it is," said the tailor, after a pause. "i'm a needy man, but i hope i'm not ungrateful. i can never repay the brownie for what he has done for me and mine; but the mistress up yonder has given me a bottle-green coat that will cut up as good as new; and as sure as there's a brownie in this house, i'll make him a suit of it." "you'll _what_?" shrieked the old lady. "son thomas, son thomas, you're mad! do what you please for the brownies, but never make them clothes." "there's nothing they want more," said the tailor, "by all accounts. they're all in rags, as well they may be, doing so much work." "if you make clothes for this brownie, he'll go for good," said the grandmother, in a voice of awful warning. "well, i don't know," said her son. "the mistress up at the farm is clever enough, i can tell you; and as she said to me, fancy any one that likes a tidy room not liking a tidy coat!" for the tailor, like most men, was apt to think well of the wisdom of womankind in other houses. "well, well," said the old lady, "go your own way. i'm an old woman, and my time is not long. it doesn't matter much to me. but it was new clothes that drove the brownie out before, and trout's luck went with him." "i know, mother," said the tailor, "and i've been thinking of it all the way home; and i can tell you why it was. depend upon it, _the clothes didn't fit_. but i'll tell you what i mean to do. i shall measure them by tommy--they say the brownies are about his size--and if ever i turned out a well-made coat and waistcoat, they shall be his." "please yourself," said the old lady, and she would say no more. "i think you're quite right, father," said tommy, "and if i can, i'll help you to make them." next day the father and son set to work, and tommy contrived to make himself so useful, that the tailor hardly knew how he got through so much work. "it's not like the same thing," he broke out at last, "to have some one a bit helpful about you; both for the tailoring and for company's sake. i've not done such a pleasant morning's work since your poor mother died. i'll tell you what it is, tommy," he added, "if you were always like this, i shouldn't much care whether brownie stayed or went. i'd give up his help to have yours." "i'll be back directly," said tommy, who burst out of the room in search of his brother. "i've come away," he said, squatting down, "because i can't bear it. i very nearly let it all out, and i shall soon. i wish the things weren't going to come to me," he added, kicking a stone in front of him. "i wish he'd measured you, johnnie." "i'm very glad he didn't," said johnnie. "i wish he'd kept them himself." "bottle-green, with brass buttons," murmured tommy, and therewith fell into a reverie. the next night the suit was finished, and laid by the bread-and-milk. "we shall see," said the old lady, in a withering tone. there is not much real prophetic wisdom in this truism, but it sounds very awful, and the tailor went to bed somewhat depressed. next morning the brownies came down as usual. "don't they look splendid?" said tommy, feeling the cloth. "when we've tidied the place i shall put them on." but long before the place was tidy, he could wait no longer, and dressed up. "look at me!" he shouted; "bottle-green and brass buttons! oh, johnnie, i wish you had some." "it's a good thing there are two brownies," said johnnie, laughing, "and one of them in rags still. i shall do the work this morning." and he went flourishing round with a broom, while tommy jumped madly about in his new suit. "hurrah!" he shouted, "i feel just like the brownie. what was it granny said he sang when he got his clothes? oh, i know-- 'what have we here? hemten hamten! here will i never more tread nor stampen.'" and on he danced, regardless of the clouds of dust raised by johnnie, as he drove the broom indiscriminately over the floor, to the tune of his own laughter. it was laughter which roused the tailor that morning, laughter coming through the floor from the kitchen below. he scrambled on his things and stole down-stairs. "it's the brownie," he thought; "i must look, if it's for the last time." at the door he paused and listened. the laughter was mixed with singing, and he heard the words-- "what have we here? hemten hamten! here will i never more tread nor stampen." he pushed in, and this was the sight that met his eyes. the kitchen in its primeval condition of chaos, the untidy particulars of which were the less apparent, as everything was more or less obscured by the clouds of dust, where johnnie reigned triumphant, like a witch with her broomstick; and, to crown all, tommy capering and singing in the brownie's bottle-green suit, brass buttons and all. "what's this?" shouted the astonished tailor, when he could find breath to speak. "it's the brownies," sang the boys; and on they danced, for they had worked themselves up into a state of excitement from which it was not easy to settle down. "where _is_ brownie?" shouted the father. "he's here," said tommy; "we are the brownies." "can't you stop that fooling?" cried the tailor, angrily. "this is past a joke. where is the real brownie, i say?" "we are the only brownies, really, father," said tommy, coming to a full stop, and feeling strongly tempted to run down from laughing to crying. "ask the old owl. it's true, really." the tailor saw the boy was in earnest, and passed his hand over his forehead. "i suppose i'm getting old," he said; "i can't see daylight through this. if you are the brownie, who has been tidying the kitchen lately?" "we have," said they. "but who found my measure?" "i did," said johnnie. "and who sorts your grandmother's scraps?" "we do," said they. "and who sets breakfast, and puts my things in order?" "we do," said they. "but when do you do it?" asked the tailor. "before you come down," said they. "but i always have to call you," said the tailor. "we get back to bed again," said the boys. "but how was it you never did it before?" asked the tailor doubtfully. "we were idle, we were idle," said tommy. the tailor's voice rose to a pitch of desperation-- "but if you did the work," he shouted, "_where is the brownie?_" "here!" cried the boys, "and we are very sorry that we were boggarts so long." with which the father and sons fell into each other's arms and fairly wept. * * * * * it will be believed that to explain all this to the grandmother was not the work of a moment. she understood it all at last, however, and the tailor could not restrain a little good-humoured triumph on the subject. before he went to work he settled her down in the window with her knitting, and kissed her. "what do you think of it all, mother?" he inquired. "bairns are a blessing," said the old lady tartly, "_i told you so._" * * * * * "that's not the end, is it?" asked one of the boys in a tone of dismay, for the doctor had paused here. "yes, it is," said he. "but couldn't you make a little more end?" asked deordie, "to tell us what became of them all?" "i don't see what there is to tell," said the doctor. "why, there's whether they ever saw the old owl again, and whether tommy and johnnie went on being brownies," said the children. the doctor laughed. "well, be quiet for five minutes," he said. "we'll be as quiet as mice," said the children. and as quiet as mice they were. very like mice, indeed. very like mice behind a wainscot at night, when you have just thrown something to frighten them away. death-like stillness for a few seconds, and then all the rustling and scuffling you please. so the children sat holding their breath for a moment or two, and then shuffling feet and smothered bursts of laughter testified to their impatience, and to the difficulty of understanding the process of story-making as displayed by the doctor, who sat pulling his beard, and staring at his boots, as he made up "a little more end." "well," he said, sitting up suddenly, "the brownies went on with their work in spite of the bottle-green suit, and trout's luck returned to the old house once more. before long tommy began to work for the farmers, and baby grew up into a brownie, and made (as girls are apt to make) the best house-sprite of all. for, in the brownie's habits of self-denial, thoughtfulness, consideration, and the art of little kindnesses, boys are, i am afraid, as a general rule, somewhat behindhand with their sisters. whether this altogether proceeds from constitutional deficiency on these points in the masculine character, or is one result among many of the code of bye-laws which obtains in men's moral education from the cradle, is a question on which everybody has their own opinion. for the present the young gentlemen may appropriate whichever theory they prefer, and we will go back to the story. the tailor lived to see his boy-brownies become men, with all the cares of a prosperous farm on their hands, and his girl-brownie carry her fairy talents into another home. for these brownies--young ladies!--are much desired as wives, whereas a man might as well marry an old witch as a young boggartess." "and about the owl?" clamoured the children, rather resentful of the doctor's pausing to take breath. "of course," he continued, "the tailor heard the whole story, and being both anxious to thank the old owl for her friendly offices, and also rather curious to see and hear her, he went with the boys one night at moon-rise to the shed by the mere. it was earlier in the evening than when tommy went, for before daylight had vanished, and at the first appearance of the moon, the impatient tailor was at the place. there they found the owl looking very solemn and stately on the beam. she was sitting among the shadows with her shoulders up, and she fixed her eyes so steadily on the tailor, that he felt quite overpowered. he made her a civil bow, however, and said, "i'm much obliged to you, ma'am, for your good advice to my tommy." the owl blinked sharply, as if she grudged shutting her eyes for an instant, and then stared on, but not a word spoke she. "i don't mean to intrude, ma'am," said the tailor, "but i was wishful to pay my respects and gratitude." still the owl gazed in determined silence. "don't you remember me?" said tommy pitifully. "i did everything you told me. won't you even say good-bye?" and he went up towards her. the owl's eyes contracted, she shuddered a few tufts of fluff into the shed, shook her wings, and shouting "oohoo!" at the top of her voice, flew out upon the moor. the tailor and his sons rushed out to watch her. they could see her clearly against the green twilight sky, flapping rapidly away with her round face to the pale moon. "good-bye!" they shouted as she disappeared; first the departing owl, then a shadowy body with flapping sails, then two wings beating the same measured time, then two moving lines still to the old tune, then a stroke, a fancy, and then--the green sky and the pale moon, but the old owl was gone. "did she never come back?" asked tiny in subdued tones, for the doctor had paused again. "no," said he; "at least not to the shed by the mere. tommy saw many owls after this in the course of his life; but as none of them would speak, and as most of them were addicted to the unconventional customs of staring and winking, he could not distinguish his friend, if she were among them. and now i think that is all." "is that the very very end?" asked tiny. "the very very end," said the doctor. "i suppose there might be more and more ends," speculated deordie--"about whether the brownies had any children when they grew into farmers, and whether the children were brownies, and whether _they_ had other brownies, and so on and on." and deordie rocked himself among the geraniums, in the luxurious imagining of an endless fairy tale. "you insatiable rascal!" said the doctor. "not another word. jump up, for i am going to see you home. i have to be off early to-morrow." "where?" said deordie. "never mind. i shall be away all day, and i want to be at home in good time in the evening, for i mean to attack that crop of groundsel between the sweet-pea hedges. you know, no brownies come to my homestead!" and the doctor's mouth twitched a little till he fixed it into a stiff smile. the children tried hard to extract some more ends out of him on the way to the rectory; but he declined to pursue the history of the trout family through indefinite generations. it was decided on all hands, however, that tommy trout was evidently one and the same with the tommy trout who pulled the cat out of the well, because "it was just a sort of thing for a brownie to do, you know!" and that johnnie green (who, of course, was not johnnie trout) was some unworthy village acquaintance, and "a thorough boggart." "doctor!" said tiny, as they stood by the garden-gate, "how long do you think gentlemen's pocket-handkerchiefs take to wear out?" "that, my dear madam," said the doctor, "must depend, like other terrestrial matters, upon circumstances; whether the gentleman bought fine cambric, or coarse cotton with pink portraits of the reigning sovereign, to commence with; whether he catches many colds, has his pockets picked, takes snuff, or allows his washerwoman to use washing powders. but why do you want to know?" "i sha'n't tell you that," said tiny, who was spoilt by the doctor, and consequently tyrannized in proportion; "but i will tell you what i mean to do. i mean to tell mother that when father wants any more pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, she had better put them by the bath in the nursery, and perhaps some brownie will come and do them." "kiss my fluffy face!" said the doctor in sepulchral tones. "the owl is too high up," said tiny, tossing her head. the doctor lifted her four feet or so, obtained his kiss, and set her down again. "you're not fluffy at all," said she in a tone of the utmost contempt; "you're tickly and bristly. puss is more fluffy, and father is scrubby and scratchy, because he shaves." "and which of the three styles do you prefer?" said the doctor. "not tickly and bristly," said tiny with firmness; and she strutted up the walk for a space or two, and then turned round to laugh over her shoulder. "good-night!" shouted her victim, shaking his fist after her. the other children took a noisy farewell, and they all raced into the house to give joint versions of the fairy tale, first to the parents in the drawing-room, and then to nurse in the nursery. the doctor went home also, with his poodle at his heels, but not by the way he came. he went out of his way, which was odd; but then the doctor was "a little odd," and moreover this was always the end of his evening walk. through the church-yard, where spreading cedars and stiff yews rose from the velvet grass, and where among tombstones and crosses of various devices lay one of older and uglier date, by which he stayed. it was framed by a border of the most brilliant flowers, and it would seem as if the doctor must have been the gardener, for he picked off some dead ones, and put them absently in his pocket. then he looked round as if to see that he was alone. not a soul was to be seen, and the moonlight and shadow lay quietly side by side, as the dead do in their graves. the doctor stooped down and took off his hat. "good-night, marcia," he said in a low quiet voice. "good-night, my darling!" the dog licked his hand, but there was no voice to answer, nor any that regarded. poor foolish doctor! most foolish to speak to the departed with his face earthwards. but we are weak mortals, the best of us; and this man (one of the very best) raised his head at last, and went home like a lonely owl with his face to the moon and the sky. a borrowed brownie. "i can't imagine," said the rector, walking into the drawing-room the following afternoon; "i can't imagine where tiny is. i want her to drive to the other end of the parish with me." "there she comes," said his wife, looking out of the window, "by the garden-gate, with a great basket; what has she been after?" the rector went out to discover, and met his daughter looking decidedly earthy, and seemingly much exhausted by the weight of a basketful of groundsel plants. "where have you been?" said he. "in the doctor's garden," said tiny triumphantly; "and look what i have done! i've weeded his sweet-peas, and brought away the groundsel; so when he gets home to-night he'll think a brownie has been in the garden, for mrs. pickles has promised not to tell him." "but look here!" said the rector, affecting a great appearance of severity, "you're my brownie, not his. supposing tommy trout had gone and weeded farmer swede's garden, and brought back his weeds to go to seed on the tailor's flower-beds, how do you think he would have liked it?" tiny looked rather crestfallen. when one has fairly carried through a splendid benevolence of this kind, it is trying to find oneself in the wrong. she crept up to the rector, however, and put her golden head upon his arm. "but, father dear," she pleaded, "i didn't mean not to be your brownie; only, you know, you had got five left at home, and it was only for a short time, and the doctor hasn't any brownie at all. don't you pity him?" and the rector, who was old enough to remember that grave-stone story we wot of, hugged his brownie in his arms, and answered, "my darling, i do pity him!" the land of lost toys. an earthquake in the nursery. it was certainly an aggravated offence. it is generally understood in families that "boys will be boys," but there is a limit to the forbearance implied in the extenuating axiom. master sam was condemned to the back nursery for the rest of the day. he always had had the knack of breaking his own toys,--he not unfrequently broke other people's; but accidents will happen, and his twin-sister and factotum, dot, was long-suffering. dot was fat, resolute, hasty, and devotedly unselfish. when sam scalped her new doll, and fastened the glossy black curls to a wigwam improvised with the curtains of the four-post bed in the best bedroom, dot was sorely tried. as her eyes passed from the crown-less doll on the floor to the floss-silk ringlets hanging from the bed-furniture, her round rosy face grew rounder and rosier, and tears burst from her eyes. but in a moment more she clenched her little fists, forced back the tears, and gave vent to her favourite saying, "i don't care." that sentence was dot's bane and antidote; it was her vice and her virtue. it was her standing consolation, and it brought her into all her scrapes. it was her one panacea for all the ups and downs of her life (and in the nursery where sam developed his organ of destructiveness there were ups and downs not a few); and it was the form her naughtiness took when she was naughty. "don't care fell into a goose-pond, miss dot," said nurse, on one occasion of the kind. "i don't care if he did," said miss dot; and as nurse knew no further feature of the goose-pond adventure which met this view of it, she closed the subject by putting dot into the corner. in the strength of _don't care_, and her love for sam, dot bore much and long. her dolls perished by ingenious but untimely deaths. her toys were put to purposes for which they were never intended, and suffered accordingly. but sam was penitent and dot was heroic. florinda's scalp was mended with a hot knitting-needle and a perpetual bonnet, and dot rescued her paint-brushes from the glue-pot, and smelt her india-rubber as it boiled down in sam's waterproof manufactory, with long-suffering forbearance. there are, however, as we have said, limits to everything. an earthquake celebrated with the whole contents of the toy cupboard is not to be borne. the matter was this. early one morning sam announced that he had a glorious project on hand. he was going to give a grand show and entertainment, far surpassing all the nursery imitations of circuses, conjurors, lectures on chemistry, and so forth, with which they had ever amused themselves. he refused to confide his plans to the faithful dot; but he begged her to lend him all the toys she possessed, in return for which she was to be the sole spectator of the fun. he let out that the idea had suggested itself to him after the sight of a diorama to which they had been taken, but he would not allow that it was anything of the same kind; in proof of which she was at liberty to keep back her paint-box. dot tried hard to penetrate the secret, and to reserve some of her things from the general conscription. but sam was obstinate. he would tell nothing, and he wanted everything. the dolls, the bricks (especially the bricks), the tea-things, the german farm, the swiss cottages, the animals, and all the dolls' furniture. dot gave them with a doubtful mind, and consoled herself as she watched sam carrying pieces of board and a green table cover into the back nursery, with the prospect of the show. at last, sam threw open the door and ushered her into the nursery rocking-chair. the boy had certainly some constructive as well as destructive talent. upon a sort of impromptu table covered with green cloth he had arranged all the toys in rough imitation of a town, with its streets and buildings. the relative proportion of the parts was certainly not good; but it was not sam's fault that the doll's house and the german farm, his own brick buildings, and the swiss cottages, were all on totally different scales of size. he had ingeniously put the larger things in the foreground, keeping the small farm-buildings from the german box at the far end of the streets, yet after all the perspective was extreme. the effect of three large horses from the toy stables in front, with the cows from the small noah's ark in the distance, was admirable; but the big dolls seated in an unroofed building, made with the wooden bricks on no architectural principle but that of a pound, and taking tea out of the new china tea-things, looked simply ridiculous. dot's eyes, however, saw no defects, and she clapped vehemently. "here, ladies and gentlemen," said sam, waving his hand politely towards the rocking-chair, "you see the great city of lisbon, the capital of portugal--" at this display of geographical accuracy dot fairly cheered, and rocked herself to and fro in unmitigated enjoyment. "--as it appeared," continued the showman, "on the morning of november st, ." never having had occasion to apply mangnall's questions to the exigencies of every-day life, this date in no way disturbed dot's comfort. "in this house," sam proceeded, "a party of portuguese ladies of rank may be seen taking tea together." "_breakfast_, you mean," said dot, "you said it was in the morning, you know." "well, they took tea to their breakfast," said sam. "don't interrupt me, dot. you are the audience, and you mustn't speak. here you see the horses of the english ambassador out airing with his groom. there you see two peasants--no! they are _not_ noah and his wife, dot, and if you go on talking i shall shut up. i say they are peasants peacefully driving cattle. at this moment a rumbling sound startles everyone in the city"--here sam rolled some croquet balls up and down in a box, but the dolls sat as quiet as before, and dot alone was startled,--"this was succeeded by a slight shock"--here he shook the table, which upset some of the buildings belonging to the german farm.--"some houses fell."--dot began to look anxious.--"this shock was followed by several others"---"take care," she begged--"of increasing magnitude."--"oh, sam!" dot shrieked, jumping up, "you're breaking the china!"--"the largest buildings shook to their foundations."--"sam! sam! the doll's house is falling," dot cried, making wild efforts to save it: but sam held her back with one arm, while with the other he began to pull at the boards which formed his table.--"suddenly the ground split and opened with a fearful yawn"--dot's shrieks shamed the impassive dolls, as sam jerked out the boards by a dexterous movement, and doll's house, brick buildings, the farm, the swiss cottages, and the whole toy-stock of the nursery sank together in ruins. quite unabashed by the evident damage, sam continued--"and in a moment the whole magnificent city of lisbon was swallowed up. dot! dot! don't be a muff! what is the matter? it's splendid fun. things must be broken some time, and i'm sure it was exactly like the real thing. dot! why don't you speak? dot! my dear dot! you don't care, do you? i didn't think you'd mind it so. it was such a splendid earthquake. oh! try not to go on like that!" but dot's feelings were far beyond her own control, much more that of master sam, at this moment. she was gasping and choking, and when at last she found breath it was only to throw herself on her face upon the floor with bitter and uncontrollable sobbing. it was certainly a mild punishment that condemned master sam to the back nursery for the rest of the day. it had, however, this additional severity, that during the afternoon aunt penelope was expected to arrive. aunt penelope. aunt penelope was one of those dear, good souls who, single themselves, have, as real or adopted relatives, the interests of a dozen families, instead of one, at heart. there are few people whose youth has not owned the influence of at least one such friend. it may be a good habit, the first interest in some life-loved pursuit or favourite author, some pretty feminine art, or delicate womanly counsel enforced by those narratives of real life that are more interesting than any fiction: it may be only the periodical return of gifts and kindness, and the store of family histories that no one else can tell; but we all owe something to such an aunt or uncle--the fairy godmothers of real life. the benefits which sam and dot reaped from aunt penelope's visits may be summed up under the heads of presents and stories, with a general leaning to indulgence in the matters of punishment, lessons, and going to bed, which perhaps is natural to aunts and uncles who have no positive responsibilities in the young people's education, and are not the daily sufferers by the lack of due discipline. aunt penelope's presents were lovely. aunt penelope's stories were charming. there was generally a moral wrapped up in them, like the motto in a cracker-bonbon; but it was quite in the inside, so to speak, and there was abundance of smart paper and sugar-plums. all things considered, it was certainly most proper that the much-injured dot should be dressed out in her best, and have access to dessert, the dining-room, and aunt penelope, whilst sam was kept up-stairs. and yet it was dot who (her first burst of grief being over) fought stoutly for his pardon all the time she was being dressed, and was afterwards detected in the act of endeavouring to push fragments of raspberry tart through the nursery keyhole. "you good thing!" sam emphatically exclaimed, as he heard her in fierce conflict on the other side of the door with the nurse who found her--"you good thing! leave me alone, for i deserve it." he really was very penitent he was too fond of dot not to regret the unexpected degree of distress he had caused her; and dot made much of his penitence in her intercessions in the drawing-room. "sam is so very sorry," she said; "he says he knows he deserves it. i think he ought to come down. he is so _very_ sorry!" aunt penelope, as usual, took the lenient side, joining her entreaties to dot's, and it ended in master sam's being hurriedly scrubbed and brushed, and shoved into his black velvet suit, and sent down-stairs, rather red about the eyelids, and looking very sheepish. "oh, dot!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could get her into a corner, "i am so very, very sorry! particularly about the tea-things." "never mind," said dot, "i don't care; and i've asked for a story, and we're going into the library." as dot said this, she jerked her head expressively in the direction of the sofa, where aunt penelope was just casting on stitches preparatory to beginning a pair of her famous ribbed socks for papa, whilst she gave to mamma's conversation that sympathy which (like her knitting-needles) was always at the service of her large circle of friends. dot anxiously watched the bow on the top of her cap as it danced and nodded with the force of mamma's observations. at last it gave a little chorus of jerks, as one should say, "certainly, undoubtedly." and then the story came to an end, and dot, who had been slowly creeping nearer, fairly took aunt penelope by the hand, and carried her off, knitting and all, to the library. "now, please," said dot, when she had struggled into a chair that was too tall for her. "stop a minute!" cried sam, who was perched in the opposite one, "the horse-hair tickles my legs." "put your pocket-handkerchief under them, as i do," said dot. "_now_, aunt penelope." "no, wait," groaned sam; "it isn't big enough; it only covers one leg." dot slid down again, and ran to sam. "take my handkerchief for the other." "but what will you do?" said sam. "oh, i don't care," said dot, scrambling back into her place. "now, aunty, please." and aunt penelope began. "the land of lost toys. "i suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies and fancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up. perhaps it is because i am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whims stick to me, and i find myself liking things, and wanting things, quite out of keeping with my cap and time of life. for instance. anything in the shape of a toy-shop (from a london bazaar to a village window, with dutch dolls, leather balls, and wooden battledores) quite unnerves me, so to speak. when i see one of those boxes containing a jar, a churn, a kettle, a pan, a coffee-pot, a cauldron on three legs, and sundry dishes, all of the smoothest wood, and with the immemorial red flower on one side of each vessel, i fairly long for an excuse for playing with them, and for trying (positively for the last time) if the lids _do_ come off, and whether the kettle will (literally, as well as metaphorically) hold water. then if, by good or ill luck, there is a child flattening its little nose against the window with longing eyes, my purse is soon empty; and as it toddles off with a square parcel under one arm, and a lovely being in black ringlets and white tissue paper in the other, i wish that i were worthy of being asked to join the ensuing play. don't suppose there is any generosity in this. i have only done what we are all glad to do. i have found an excuse for indulging a pet weakness. as i said, it is not merely the new and expensive toys that attract me; i think my weakest corner is where the penny boxes lie, the wooden tea-things (with the above-named flower in miniature), the soldiers on their lazy tongs, the nine-pins, and the tiny farm. "i need hardly say that the toy booth in a village fair tries me very hard. it tried me in childhood, when i was often short of pence, and when 'the feast' came once a year. it never tried me more than on one occasion, lately, when i was re-visiting my old home. "it was deep midsummer, and the feast. i had children with me of course (i find children, somehow, wherever i go), and when we got into the fair, there were children of people whom i had known as children, with just the same love for a monkey going up one side of a yellow stick and coming down the other, and just as strong heads for a giddy-go-round on a hot day and a diet of peppermint lozenges, as their fathers and mothers before them. there were the very same names--and here and there it seemed the very same faces--i knew so long ago. a few shillings were indeed well expended in brightening those familiar eyes: and then there were the children with me.... besides, there really did seem to be an unusually nice assortment of things, and the man was very intelligent (in reference to his wares):.... well, well! it was two o'clock p.m. when we went in at one end of that glittering avenue of drums, dolls, trumpets, accordions, workboxes, and what not; but what o'clock it was when i came out at the other end, with a shilling and some coppers in my pocket, and was cheered, i can't say, though i should like to have been able to be accurate about the time, because of what followed. "i thought the best thing i could do was to get out of the fair at once, so i went up the village and struck off across some fields into a little wood that lay near. (a favourite walk in old times.) as i turned out of the booth, my foot struck against one of the yellow sticks of the climbing monkeys. the monkey was gone, and the stick broken. it set me thinking as i walked along. "what an untold number of pretty and ingenious things one does (not wear out in honourable wear and tear, but) utterly lose, and wilfully destroy, in one's young days--things that would have given pleasure to so many more young eyes, if they had been kept a little longer--things that one would so value in later years, if some of them had survived the dissipating and destructive days of nurserydom. i recalled a young lady i knew, whose room was adorned with knick-knacks of a kind i had often envied. they were not plaster figures, old china, wax-work flowers under glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind. they were her old toys. perhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the more careful of those she had. she had certainly been very fond of them, and had kept more of them than any one i ever knew. a faded doll slept in its cradle at the foot of her bed. a wooden elephant stood on the dressing-table, and a poodle that had lost his bark put out a red-flannel tongue with quixotic violence at a windmill on the opposite corner of the mantelpiece. everything had a story of its own. indeed the whole room must have been redolent with the sweet story of childhood, of which the toys were the illustrations, or like a poem of which the toys were the verses. she used to have children to play with them sometimes, and this was a high honour. she is married now, and has children of her own, who on birthdays and holidays will forsake the newest of their own possessions to play with 'mamma's toys.' "i was roused from these recollections by the pleasure of getting into the wood. "if i have a stronger predilection than my love for toys, it is my love for woods, and, like the other, it dates from childhood. it was born and bred with me, and i fancy will stay with me till i die. the soothing scents of leaf-mould, moss, and fern (not to speak of flowers)--the pale green veil in spring, the rich shade in summer, the rustle of the dry leaves in autumn, i suppose an old woman may enjoy all these, my dears, as well as you. but i think i could make 'fairy jam' of hips and haws in acorn cups now, if any child would be condescending enough to play with me. "_this_ wood, too, had associations. "i strolled on in leisurely enjoyment, and at last seated myself at the foot of a tree to rest. i was hot and tired; partly with the mid-day heat and the atmosphere of the fair, partly with the exertion of calculating change in the purchase of articles ranging in price from three farthings upwards. the tree under which i sat was an old friend. there was a hole at its base that i knew well. two roots covered with exquisite moss ran out from each side, like the arms of a chair, and between them there accumulated year after year a rich, though tiny store of dark leaf-mould. we always used to say that fairies lived within, though i never saw anything go in myself but wood-beetles. there was one going in at that moment. "how little the wood was changed! i bent my head for a few seconds, and, closing my eyes, drank in the delicious and suggestive scents of earth and moss about the dear old tree. i had been so long parted from the place that i could hardly believe that i was in the old familiar spot. surely it was only one of the many dreams in which i had played again beneath those trees! but when i re-opened my eyes there was the same hole, and, oddly enough, the same beetle or one just like it. i had not noticed till that moment how much larger the hole was than it used to be in my young days. "'i suppose the rain and so forth wears them away in time,' i said vaguely. "'i suppose it does,' said the beetle politely; 'will you walk in?' "i don't know why i was not so overpoweringly astonished as you would imagine. i think i was a good deal absorbed in considering the size of the hole, and the very foolish wish that seized me to do what i had often longed to do in childhood, and creep in. i _had_ so much regard for propriety as to see that there was no one to witness the escapade. then i tucked my skirts round me, put my spectacles into my pocket for fear they should get broken, and in i went. "i must say one thing. a wood is charming enough (no one appreciates it more than myself), but, if you have never been there, you have no idea how much nicer it is inside than on the surface. oh, the mosses--the gorgeous mosses! the fretted lichens! the fungi like flowers for beauty, and the flowers like nothing you have ever seen! "where the beetle went to i don't know. i could stand up now quite well, and i wandered on till dusk in unwearied admiration. i was among some large beeches as it grew dark, and was beginning to wonder how i should find my way (not that i had lost it, having none to lose), when suddenly lights burst from every tree, and the whole place was illuminated. the nearest approach to this scene that i ever witnessed above ground was in a wood near the hague in holland. there, what look like tiny glass tumblers holding floating wicks, are fastened to the trunks of the fine old trees, at intervals of sufficient distance to make the light and shade mysterious, and to give effect to the full blaze when you reach the spot where hanging chains of lamps illuminate the 'pavilion' and the open space where the band plays, and where the townsfolk assemble by hundreds to drink coffee and enjoy the music. i was the more reminded of the dutch 'bosch' because, after wandering some time among the lighted trees, i heard distant sounds of music, and came at last upon a glade lit up in a similar manner, except that the whole effect was incomparably more brilliant. "as i stood for a moment doubting whether i should proceed, and a good deal puzzled about the whole affair, i caught sight of a large spider crouched up in a corner with his stomach on the ground and his knees above his head, as some spiders do sit, and looking at me, as i fancied, through a pair of spectacles. (about the spectacles i do not feel sure. it may have been two of his bent legs in apparent connection with his prominent eyes.) i thought of the beetle, and said civilly, 'can you tell me, sir, if this is fairyland?' the spider took off his spectacles (or untucked his legs), and took a sideways run out of his corner. "'well,' he said, 'it's a province. the fact is, it's the land of lost toys. you haven't such a thing as a fly anywhere about you, have you?' "'no,' i said, 'i'm sorry to say i have not.' this was not strictly true, for i was not at all sorry; but i wished to be civil to the old gentleman, for he projected his eyes at me with such an intense (i had almost said greedy) gaze, that i felt quite frightened. "'how did you pass the sentries?' he inquired. "'i never saw any,' i answered. "'you couldn't have seen anything if you didn't see them,' he said; 'but perhaps you don't know. they're the glow-worms. six to each tree, so they light the road, and challenge the passers-by. why didn't they challenge you?' "'i don't know,' i began, 'unless the beetle--' "'i don't like beetles,' interrupted the spider, stretching each leg in turn by sticking it up above him, 'all shell, and no flavour. you never tried walking on anything of that sort, did you?' and he pointed with one leg to a long thread that fastened a web above his head. "'certainly not,' said i. "'i'm afraid it wouldn't bear you,' he observed slowly. "'i'm quite sure it wouldn't,' i hastened to reply. i wouldn't try for worlds. it would spoil your pretty work in a moment. good-evening.' "and i hurried forward. once i looked back, but the spider was not following me. he was in his hole again, on his stomach, with his knees above his head, and looking (apparently through his spectacles) down the road up which i came. "i soon forgot him in the sight before me. i had reached the open place with the lights and the music; but how shall i describe the spectacle that i beheld? "i have spoken of the effect of a toy-shop on my feelings. now imagine a toy-fair, brighter and gayer than the brightest bazaar ever seen, held in an open glade, where forest-trees stood majestically behind the glittering stalls, and stretched their gigantic arms above our heads, brilliant with a thousand hanging lamps. at the moment of my entrance all was silent and quiet. the toys lay in their places looking so incredibly attractive that i reflected with disgust that all my ready cash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid the tawdry fascinations of a village booth. i was counting the coppers (sevenpence halfpenny), when all in a moment a dozen sixpenny fiddles leaped from their places and began to play, accordions of all sizes joined them, the drumsticks beat upon the drums, the penny trumpets sounded, and the yellow flutes took up the melody on high notes, and bore it away through the trees. it was weird fairy-music, but quite delightful. the nearest approach to it that i know of above ground is to hear a wild dreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforte accompaniment. "when the music began, all the toys rose. the dolls jumped down and began to dance. the poodles barked, the pannier donkeys wagged their ears, the wind-mills turned, the puzzles put themselves together, the bricks built houses, the balls flew from side to side, the battledores and shuttlecocks kept it up among themselves, and the skipping-ropes went round, the hoops ran off, and the sticks ran after them, the cobbler's wax at the tails of all the green frogs gave way, and they jumped at the same moment, whilst an old-fashioned go-cart ran madly about with nobody inside. it was most exhilarating. "i soon became aware that the beetle was once more at my elbow. "'there are some beautiful toys here,' i said. "'well, yes,' he replied, 'and some odd-looking ones too. you see, whatever has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a right to come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, i assure you. look there.' "i looked, and said, 'it seems to be a potato.' "'so it is,' said the beetle. 'it belonged to an irish child in one of your great cities. but to whom the child belonged i don't know, and i don't think he knew himself. he lived in the corner of a dirty, overcrowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. it was the only plaything he ever had. he stuck two cinders into it for eyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. he sat upon it during the day, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took it out and played with it. he was often hungry, but he never ate that potato. when he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept into the ashes. then it came down here.' "'what a sad story!' i exclaimed. "the beetle seemed in no way affected. "'it is a curious thing,' he rambled on, 'that potato takes quite a good place among the toys. you see, rank and precedence down here is entirely a question of age; that is, of the length of time that any plaything has been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly old things hold the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful works of art have often been smashed or lost by the spoilt children of rich people in two or three days. if you care for sad stories, there is another queer thing belonging to a child who died.' "it appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of needlework upon it. "'it belonged to a little girl in a rich household,' the beetle continued; 'she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. we have lots of her toys, and very pretty ones too. at last some one taught her to make caterpillars in wool-work. a bit of work was to be done in a certain stitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy caterpillar. the child took to this, and cared for nothing else. wool of every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all colours. her only complaint was that they did not turn into butterflies. however, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she went on, hoping that they would do so, and making new ones. one day she was heard talking and laughing in her bed for joy. she said that all the caterpillars had become butterflies of many colours, and that the room was full of them. in that happy fancy she died.' "'and the caterpillars came down here?' "'not for a long time,' said the beetle; 'her mother kept them while _she_ lived, and then they were lost and came down. no toys come down here till they are broken or lost.' "'what are those sticks doing here?' i asked. "the music had ceased, and all the toys were lying quiet. up in a corner leaned a large bundle of walking-sticks. they are often sold in toy-shops, but i wondered on what grounds they came here. "'did you ever meet with a too benevolent old gentleman wondering where on earth his sticks go to?' said the beetle. 'why do they lend them to their grandchildren? the young rogues use them as hobby-horses and lose them, and down they come, and the sentinels cannot stop them. the real hobby-horses won't allow them to ride with them, however. there was a meeting on the subject. every stick was put through an examination. "where is your nose? where is your mane? where are your wheels?" the last was a poser. some of them had got noses, but none of them had got wheels. so they were not true hobby-horses. something of the kind occurred with the elder-whistles.' "'the what?' i asked. "'whistles that boys make of elder-sticks with the pith scooped out,' said the beetle. 'the real instruments would not allow them to play with them. the elder-whistles said they would not have joined had they been asked. they were amateurs, and never played with professionals. so they have private concerts with the combs and curl-papers. but, bless you, toys of this kind are endless here! teetotums made of old cotton reels, tea-sets of acorn cups, dinner-sets of old shells, monkeys made of bits of sponge, all sorts of things made of breastbones and merrythoughts, old packs of cards that are always building themselves into houses and getting knocked down when the band begins to play, feathers, rabbits' tails--' "'ah! i have heard about the rabbits' tails,' i said. "'there they are,' the beetle continued; 'and when the band plays you will see how they skip and run. i don't believe you would find out that they had no bodies, for my experience of a warren is, that when rabbits skip and run it is the tails chiefly that you do see. but of all the amateur toys the most successful are the boats. we have a lake for our craft, you know, and there's quite a fleet of boats made out of old cork floats in fishing villages. then, you see, the old bits of cork have really been to sea, and seen a good deal of service on the herring-nets, and so they quite take the lead of the smart shop ships, that have never been beyond a pond or a tub of water. but that's an exception. amateur toys are mostly very dowdy. look at that box.' "i looked, thought i must have seen it before, and wondered why a very common-looking box without a lid should affect me so strangely, and why my memory should seem struggling to bring it back out of the past. suddenly it came to me--it was our old toy box. "i had completely forgotten that nursery institution till recalled by the familiar aspect of the inside, which was papered with proof-sheets of some old novel on which black stars had been stamped by way of ornament. dim memories of how these stars, and the angles of the box, and certain projecting nails interfered with the letter-press and defeated all attempts to trace the thread of the nameless narrative, stole back over my brain; and i seemed once more, with my head in the toy box, to beguile a wet afternoon by apoplectic endeavours to follow the fortunes of sir charles and lady belinda, as they took a favourable turn in the left-hand corner at the bottom of the trunk. "'what are you staring at?' said the beetle. "'it's my old toy box!' i exclaimed. "the beetle rolled on to his back, and struggled helplessly with his legs: i turned him over. (neither the first nor the last time of my showing that attention to beetles.) "'that's right,' he said, 'set me on my legs. what a turn you gave me! you don't mean to say you have any toys here? if you have, the sooner you make your way home the better.' "'why?' i inquired. "'well,' he said, 'there's a very strong feeling in the place. the toys think that they are ill-treated, and not taken care of by children in general. and there is some truth in it. toys come down here by scores that have been broken the first day. and they are all quite resolved that if any of their old masters or mistresses come this way they shall be punished.' "'how will they be punished?' i inquired. "'exactly as they did to their toys, their toys will do to them. all is perfectly fair and regular.' "'i don't know that i treated mine particularly badly,' i said; 'but i think i would rather go.' "'i think you'd better,' said the beetle. 'good-evening!' and i saw him no more. "i turned to go, but somehow i lost the road. at last, as i thought, i found it, and had gone a few steps when i came on a detachment of wooden soldiers, drawn up on their lazy tongs. i thought it better to wait till they got out of the way, so i turned back, and sat down in a corner in some alarm. as i did so, i heard a click, and the lid of a small box covered with mottled paper burst open, and up jumped a figure in a blue striped shirt and a rabbit-skin beard, whose eyes were intently fixed on me. he was very like my old jack-in-a-box. my back began to creep, and i wildly meditated escape, frantically trying at the same time to recall whether it were i or my brother who originated the idea of making a small bonfire of our own one th of november, and burning the old jack-in-a-box for guy fawkes, till nothing was left of him but a twirling bit of red-hot wire and a strong smell of frizzled fur. at this moment he nodded to me and spoke. "'oh! that's you, is it?' he said. "'no, it's not,' i answered hastily; for i was quite demoralized by fear and the strangeness of the situation. "'who is it, then?' he inquired. "'i'm sure i don't know,' i said; and really i was so confused that i hardly did. "'well, _we_ know,' said the jack-in-a-box, 'and that's all that's needed. now, my friends,' he continued, addressing the toys who had begun to crowd round us, 'whoever recognizes a mistress and remembers a grudge--the hour of our revenge has come. can we any of us forget the treatment we received at her hands? no! when we think of the ingenious fancy, the patient skill, that went to our manufacture; that fitted the delicate joints and springs, laid on the paint and varnish, and gave back-hair-combs and ear-rings to our smallest dolls, we feel that we deserved more care than we received. when we reflect upon the kind friends who bought us with their money, and gave us away in the benevolence of their hearts, we know that for their sakes we ought to have been longer kept and better valued. and when we remember that the sole object of our own existence was to give pleasure and amusement to our possessors, we have no hesitation in believing that we deserved a handsomer return than to have had our springs broken, our paint dirtied, and our earthly careers so untimely shortened by wilful mischief or fickle neglect. my friends, the prisoner is at the bar.' "'i am not,' i said; for i was determined not to give in as long as resistance was possible. but as i said it i became aware, to my unutterable amazement, that i was inside the go-cart. how i got there is to this moment a mystery to me--but there i was. "there was a great deal of excitement about the jack-in-a-box's speech. it was evident that he was considered an orator, and, indeed, i have seen counsel in a real court look wonderfully like him. meanwhile, my old toys appeared to be getting together. i had no idea that i had had so many. i had really been very fond of most of them, and my heart beat as the sight of them recalled scenes long forgotten, and took me back to childhood and home. there were my little gardening tools, and my slate, and there was the big doll's bedstead, that had a real mattress, and real sheets and blankets, all marked with the letter d, and a work-basket made in the blind school, and a shilling school of art paint-box, and a wooden doll we used to call the dowager, and innumerable other toys which i had forgotten till the sight of them recalled them to my memory, but which have again passed from my mind. exactly opposite to me stood the chinese mandarin, nodding as i had never seen him nod since the day when i finally stopped his performances by ill-directed efforts to discover how he did it. "and what was that familiar figure among the rest, in a yellow silk dress and maroon velvet cloak and hood trimmed with black lace? how those clothes recalled the friends who gave them to me! and surely this was no other than my dear doll rosa--the beloved companion of five years of my youth, whose hair i wore in a locket after i was grown up. no one could say i had ill-treated _her_. indeed, she fixed her eyes on me with a most encouraging smile--but then she always smiled, her mouth was painted so. "'all whom it may concern, take notice,' shouted the jack-in-a-box, at this point, 'that the rule of this honourable court is tit for tat.' "'tit, tat, tumble two,' muttered the slate in a cracked voice. (how well i remembered the fall that cracked it, and the sly games of tit tat that varied the monotony of our long multiplication sums!) "'what are you talking about?' said the jack-in-a-box, sharply; 'if you have grievances, state them, and you shall have satisfaction, as i told you before.' "'---- and five make nine,' added the slate promptly, 'and six are fifteen, and eight are twenty-seven--there we go again.' i wonder why i never get up to the top of a line of figures right. it will never prove at this rate.' "'his mind is lost in calculations,' said the jack-in-a-box, 'besides--between ourselves--he has been "cracky" for some time. let some one else speak, and observe that no one is at liberty to pass a sentence on the prisoner heavier than what he has suffered from her. i reserve _my_ judgment to the last.' "'i know what that will be,' thought i; 'oh dear! oh dear! that a respectable maiden lady should live to be burnt as a guy fawkes!' "'let the prisoner drink a gallon of iced water at once, and then be left to die of thirst.' "the horrible idea that the speaker might possibly have the power to enforce his sentence diverted my attention from the slate, and i looked round. in front of the jack-in-a-box stood a tiny red flower-pot and saucer, in which was a miniature cactus. my thoughts flew back to a bazaar in london where, years ago, a stand of these fairy plants had excited my warmest longings, and where a benevolent old gentleman whom i had not seen before, and never saw again, bought this one and gave it to me. vague memories of his directions for repotting and tending it reproached me from the past. my mind misgave me that after all it had died a dusty death for lack of water. true, the cactus tribe being succulent plants do not demand much moisture, but i had reason to fear that, in this instance, the principle had been applied too far, and that after copious baths of cold spring water in the first days of its popularity it had eventually perished by drought. i suppose i looked guilty, for it nodded its prickly head towards me, and said, 'ah! you know me. you remember what i was, do you? did you ever think of what i might have been? there was a fairy rose which came down here not long ago--a common rose enough, in a broken pot patched with string and white paint. it had lived in a street where it was the only pure beautiful thing your eyes could see. when the girl who kept it died there were eighteen roses upon it. she was eighteen years old, and they put the roses in the coffin with her when she was buried. that was worth living for. who knows what i might have done? and what right had you to cut short a life that might have been useful?' "before i could think of a reply to these too just reproaches, the flower-pot enlarged, the plant shot up, putting forth new branches as it grew; then buds burst from the prickly limbs, and in a few moments there hung about it great drooping blossoms of lovely pink, with long white tassels in their throats. i had been gazing at it some time in silent and self-reproachful admiration, when i became aware that the business of this strange court was proceeding, and that the other toys were pronouncing sentence against me. "'tie a string round her neck and take her out bathing in the brooks,' i heard an elderly voice say in severe tones. it was the dowager doll. she was inflexibly wooden, and had been in the family for more than one generation. "'it's not fair,' i exclaimed, 'the string was only to keep you from being carried away by the stream. the current is strong and the bank steep by the hollow oak pool, and you had no arms or legs. you were old and ugly, but you would wash, and we loved you better than many waxen beauties.' "'old and ugly!' shrieked the dowager. 'tear her wig off! scrub the paint off her face! flatten her nose on the pavement! saw off her legs and give her no crinoline! take her out bathing, i say, and bring her home in a wheelbarrow with fern roots on the top of her.' "i was about to protest again, when the paint-box came forward, and balancing itself in an artistic, undecided kind of way on two camel's-hair brushes which seemed to serve it for feet, addressed the jack-in-a-box. "'never dip your paint into the water. never put your brush into your mouth--" "'that's not evidence,' said the jack-in-a-box. "'your notions are crude,' said the paint-box loftily; 'it's in print, and here, all of it, or words to that effect;' with which he touched the lid, as a gentleman might lay his hand upon his heart. "'it's not evidence,' repeated the jack-in-a-box. 'let us proceed.' "'take her to pieces and see what she's made of, if you please,' tittered a pretty german toy that moved to a tinkling musical accompaniment. 'if her works are available after that it will be an era in natural science.' "the idea tickled me, and i laughed. "'hard-hearted wretch!' growled the dowager doll. "'dip her in water and leave her to soak on a white soup-plate,' said the paint-box; 'if that doesn't soften her feelings, deprive me of my medal from the school of art!' "'give her a stiff neck!' muttered the mandarin. 'ching fo! give her a stiff neck.' "'knock her teeth out,' growled the rake in a scratchy voice; and then the tools joined in chorus. "'take her out when it's fine and leave her out when it's wet, and lose her in-- "'the coal-hole,' said the spade. "'the hay-field,' said the rake. "'the shrubbery,' said the hoe. "this difference of opinion produced a quarrel, which in turn seemed to affect the general behaviour of the toys, for a disturbance arose which the jack-in-a-box vainly endeavoured to quell. a dozen voices shouted for a dozen different punishments, and (happily for me) each toy insisted upon its own wrongs being the first to be avenged, and no one would hear of the claims of any one else being attended to for an instant. terrible sentences were passed, which i either failed to hear through the clamour then, or have forgotten now. i have a vague idea that several voices cried that i was to be sent to wash in somebody's pocket; that the work-basket wished to cram my mouth with unfinished needlework; and that through all the din the thick voice of my old leather ball monotonously repeated: "'throw her into the dust-hole.' "suddenly a clear voice pierced the confusion, and rosa tripped up. "'my dears,' she began, 'the only chance of restoring order is to observe method. let us follow our usual rule of precedence. i claim the first turn as the prisoner's oldest toy.' "'that you are not, miss,' snapped the dowager; 'i was in the family for fifty years.' "'in the family. yes, ma'am; but you were never her doll in particular. i was her very own, and she kept me longer than any other plaything. my judgment must be first.' "'she is right,' said the jack-in-a-box; 'and now let us get on. the prisoner is delivered unreservedly into the hands of our trusty and well-beloved rosa--doll of the first class--for punishment according to the strict law of tit for tat.' "'i shall request the assistance of the pewter tea-things,' said rosa, with her usual smile. 'and now, my love,' she added, turning to me, 'we will come and sit down.' "where the go-cart vanished to i cannot remember, nor how i got out of it; i only know that i suddenly found myself free, and walking away with my hand in rosa's. i remember vacantly feeling the rough edge of the stitches on her flat kid fingers, and wondering what would come next. "'how very oddly you hold your feet, my dear,' she said; 'you stick out your toes in such an eccentric fashion, and you lean on your legs as if they were table legs, instead of supporting yourself by my hand. turn your heels well out, and bring your toes together. you may even let them fold over each other a little; it is considered to have a pretty effect among dolls,' "under one of the big trees miss rosa made me sit down, propping me against the trunk as if i should otherwise have fallen; and in a moment more a square box of pewter tea-things came tumbling up to our feet, where the lid burst open, and all the tea-things fell out in perfect order; the cups on the saucers, the lid on the teapot, and so on. "'take a little tea, my love?' said miss rosa, pressing a pewter teacup to my lips. "i made believe to drink, but was only conscious of inhaling a draught of air with a slight flavour of tin. in taking my second cup i was nearly choked with the teaspoon, which got into my throat. "'what are you doing?' roared the jack-in-a-box at this moment; 'you are not punishing her.' "'i am treating her as she treated me,' answered rosa, looking as severe as her smile would allow. 'i believe that tit for tat is the rule, and that at present it is my turn.' "'it will be mine soon,' growled the jack-in-a-box, and i thought of the bonfire with a shudder. however, there was no knowing what might happen before his turn did come, and meanwhile i was in friendly hands. it was not the first time my dolly and i had sat together under a tree, and, truth to say, i do not think she had any injuries to avenge. "'when your wig comes off,' murmured rosa, as she stole a pink kid arm tenderly round my neck, 'i'll make you a cap with blue and white rosettes, and pretend that you have had a fever.' "i thanked her gratefully, and was glad to reflect that i was not yet in need of an attention which i distinctly remember having shown to her in the days of her dollhood. presently she jumped up. "'i think you shall go to bed now, dear,' she said, and, taking my hand once more, she led me to the big doll's bedstead, which, with its pretty bed-clothes and white dimity furniture, looked tempting enough to a sleeper of suitable size. it could not have supported one quarter of my weight. "'i have not made you a night-dress, my love,' rosa continued; 'i am not fond of my needle, you know. _you_ were not fond of your needle, i think, i fear you must go to bed in your clothes, my dear.' "'you are very kind,' i said, 'but i am not tired, and--it would not bear my weight.' "'pooh! pooh!' said rosa. 'my love! i remember passing one sunday in it with the rag-doll, and the dowager, and the punch and judy (the amount of pillow their two noses took up i shall never forget!), and the old doll that had nothing on, because her clothes were in the dolls' wash and did not get ironed on saturday night, and the highlander, whose things wouldn't come off, and who slept in his kilt. not bear you? nonsense! you must go to bed, my dear. i've got other things to do, and i can't leave you lying about.' "'the whole lot of you did not weigh one quarter of what i do,' i cried desperately. 'i cannot and will not get into that bed; i should break it all to pieces, and hurt myself into the bargain.' "'well, if you will not go to bed i must put you there,' said rosa, and without more ado, she snatched me up in her kid arms, and laid me down. "of course it was just as i expected. i had hardly touched the two little pillows (they had a meal-baggy smell from being stuffed with bran), when the woodwork gave way with a crash, and i fell--fell--fell-- "though i fully believed every bone in my body to be broken, it was really a relief to get to the ground. as soon as i could, i sat up, and felt myself all over. a little stiff, but, as it seemed, unhurt. oddly enough, i found that i was back again under the tree; and more strange still, it was not the tree where i sat with rosa, but the old oak-tree in the little wood. was it all a dream? the toys had vanished, the lights were out, the mosses looked dull in the growing dusk, the evening was chilly, the hole no larger than it was thirty years ago, and when i felt in my pocket for my spectacles i found that they were on my nose. "i have returned to the spot many times since, but i never could induce a beetle to enter into conversation on the subject, the hole remains obstinately impassable, and i have not been able to repeat my visit to the land of lost toys. "when i recall my many sins against the playthings of my childhood, i am constrained humbly to acknowledge that perhaps this is just as well." * * * * * sam sets up shop. "i think you might help me, dot," cried sam, in dismal and rather injured tones. it was the morning following the day of the earthquake, and of aunt penelope's arrival. sam had his back to dot, and his face to the fire, over which indeed he had bent for so long that he appeared to be half roasted. "what do you want?" asked dot, who was working at a doll's night-dress that had for long been partly finished, and now seemed in a fair way to completion. "it's the glue-pot," sam continued. "it does take so long to boil. and i have been stirring at the glue with a stick for ever so long to get it to melt. it is very hot work. i wish you would take it for a bit. it's as much for your good as for mine." "is it?" said dot. "yes, it is, miss," cried sam. "you must know i've got a splendid idea." "not another earthquake, i hope?" said dot, smiling. "now, dot, that's truly unkind of you. i thought it was to be forgotten." "so it is," said dot, getting up. "i was only joking. what is the idea?" "i don't think i shall tell you till i have finished my shop. i want to get to it now, and i wish you would take a turn at the glue-pot." sam was apt to want a change of occupation. dot, on the other hand, was equally averse from leaving what she was about till it was finished, so they suited each other like jack sprat and his wife. it had been an effort to dot to leave the night-dress which she had hoped to finish at a sitting; but when she was fairly set to work on the glue business she never moved till the glue was in working order, and her face as red as a ripe tomato. by this time sam had set up business in the window-seat, and was fastening a large paper inscription over his shop. it ran thus:-- * * * * * mr. sam. _dolls' doctor and toymender to her majesty the queen, and all other potentates_. * * * * * "splendid!" shouted dot, who was serving up the glue as if it had been a kettle of soup, and who looked herself very like an over-toasted cook. sam took the glue, and began to bustle about. "now, dot, get me all the broken toys, and we'll see what we can do. and here's a second splendid idea. do you see that box? into that we shall put all the toys that are quite spoiled and cannot possibly be mended. it is to be called the hospital for incurables. i've got a placard for that. at least it's not written yet, but here's the paper, and perhaps you would write it, dot, for i am tired of writing, and i want to begin the mending." "for the future," he presently resumed, "when i want a doll to scalp or behead, i shall apply to the hospital for incurables, and the same with any other toy that i want to destroy. and you will see, my dear dot, that i shall be quite a blessing to the nursery; for i shall attend the dolls gratis, and keep all the furniture in repair." sam really kept his word. he had a natural turn for mechanical work, and, backed by dot's more methodical genius, he prolonged the days of the broken toys by skilful mending, and so acquired an interest in them which was still more favourable to their preservation. when his birthday came round, which was some months after these events, dot (assisted by mamma and aunt penelope) had prepared for him a surprise that was more than equal to any of his own "splendid ideas." the whole force of the toy cupboard was assembled on the nursery table, to present sam with a fine box of joiner's tools as a reward for his services, papa kindly acting as spokesman on the occasion. and certain gaps in the china tea-set, some scars on the dolls' faces, and a good many new legs, both amongst the furniture and the animals, are now the only remaining traces of sam's earthquake. * * * * * three christmas trees. this is a story of three christmas trees. the first was a real one, but the child we are to speak of did not see it. he saw the other two, but they were not real; they only existed in his fancy. the plot of the story is very simple; and, as it has been described so early, it is easy for those who think it stupid to lay the book down in good time. probably every child who reads this has seen one christmas tree or more; but in the small town of a distant colony with which we have to do, this could not at one time have been said. christmas-trees were then by no means so universal, even in england, as they now are, and in this little colonial town they were unknown. unknown, that is, till the governor's wife gave her great children's party. at which point we will begin the story. the governor had given a great many parties in his time. he had entertained big wigs and little wigs, the passing military, and the local grandees. everybody who had the remotest claim to attention had been attended to: the ladies had had their full share of balls and pleasure parties: only one class of the population had any complaint to prefer against his hospitality; but the class was a large one--it was the children. however, he, was a bachelor, and knew little or nothing about little boys and girls: let us pity rather than blame him. at last he took to himself a wife; and among the many advantages of this important step, was a due recognition of the claims of these young citizens. it was towards happy christmas-tide that "the governor's amiable and admired lady" (as she was styled in the local newspaper) sent out notes for her first children's party. at the top of the note-paper was a very red robin, who carried a blue christmas greeting in his mouth, and at the bottom--written with a.d.c.'s best flourish--were the magic words, _a christmas tree_. in spite of the flourishes--partly perhaps because of them--the a.d.c.'s handwriting, though handsome, was rather illegible. but for all this, most of the children invited contrived to read these words, and those who could not do so were not slow to learn the news by hearsay. there was to be a christmas tree! it would be like a birthday party, with this above ordinary birthdays, that there were to be presents for every one. one of the children invited lived in a little white house, with a spruce fir-tree before the door. the spruce fir did this good service to the little house, that it helped people to find their way to it; and it was by no means easy for a stranger to find his way to any given house in this little town, especially if the house were small and white, and stood in one of the back streets. for most of the houses were small, and most of them were painted white, and back streets ran parallel with each other, and had no names, and were all so much alike that it was very confusing. for instance, if you had asked the way to mr. so-and-so's, it is very probable that some friend would have directed you as follows: "go straight forward and take the first turning to your left, and you will find that there are four streets, which run at right angles to the one you are in, and parallel with each other. each of them has got a big pine in it--one of the old forest trees. take the last street but one, and the fifth white house you come to is mr. so-and-so's. he has green blinds and a coloured servant." you would not always have got such clear directions as these, but with them you would probably have found the house at last, partly by accident, partly by the blinds and coloured servant. some of the neighbours affirmed that the little white house had a name; that all the houses and streets had names, only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere; that very few people knew them, and nobody made any use of them. the name of the little white house was said to be trafalgar villa, which seemed so inappropriate to the modest peaceful little home, that the man who lived in it tried to find out why it had been so called. he thought that his predecessor must have been in the navy, until he found that he had been the owner of what is called a "dry-goods store," which seems to mean a shop where things are sold which are not good to eat or drink--such as drapery. at last somebody said, that as there was a public-house called the "duke of wellington" at the corner of the street, there probably had been a nearer one called "the nelson," which had been burnt down, and that the man who built "the nelson" had built the house with the spruce fir before it, and that so the name had arisen. an explanation which was just so far probable, that public-houses and fires were of frequent occurrence in those parts. but this has nothing to do with the story. only we must say, as we said before, and as we should have said had we been living there then, the child we speak of lived in the little white house with one spruce fir just in front of it. of all the children who looked forward to the christmas tree, he looked forward to it the most intensely. he was an imaginative child, of a simple, happy nature, easy to please. his father was an englishman, and in the long winter evenings he would tell the child tales of the old country, to which his mother would listen also. perhaps the parents enjoyed these stories the most. to the boy they were new, and consequently delightful, but to the parents they were old; and as regards some stories, that is better still. "what kind of a bird is this on my letter?" asked the boy on the day which brought the governor's lady's note of invitation. "and oh! what is a christmas tree?" "the bird is an english robin," said his father. "it is quite another bird to that which is called a robin here: it is smaller and rounder, and has a redder breast and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at home through the winter. a christmas tree is a fir-tree--just such a one as that outside the door--brought into the house and covered with lights and presents. picture to yourself our fir-tree lighted up with tapers on all the branches, with dolls, and trumpets, and bon-bons, and drums, and toys of all kinds hanging from it like fir-cones, and on the tip-top shoot a figure of a christmas angel in white, with a star upon its head." "fancy!" said the boy. and fancy he did. every day he looked at the spruce fir, and tried to imagine it laden with presents, and brilliant with tapers, and thought how wonderful must be that "old country"--_home_, as it was called, even by those who had never seen it--where the robins were so very red, and where at christmas the fir-trees were hung with toys instead of cones. it was certainly a pity that, two days before the party, an original idea on the subject of snowmen struck one of the children who used to play together, with their sleds and snow shoes, in the back streets. the idea was this: that instead of having a commonplace snowman, whose legs were obliged to be mere stumps, for fear he should be top-heavy, and who could not walk, even with them; who, in fact, could do nothing but stand at the corner of the street, holding his impotent stick, and staring with his pebble eyes, till he was broken to pieces or ignominiously carried away by a thaw,--that, instead of this, they should have a real, live snowman, who should walk on competent legs, to the astonishment, and (happy thought!) perhaps to the alarm of the passers-by. this delightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering one of the boys of the party with snow till he looked as like a real snowman as circumstances would admit. at first everybody wanted to be the snowman, but, when it came to the point, it was found to be so much duller to stand still and be covered up than to run about and work, that no one was willing to act the part. at last it was undertaken by the little boy from the fir house. he was somewhat small, but then he was so good-natured he would always do as he was asked. so he stood manfully still, with his arms folded over a walking-stick upon his breast, whilst the others heaped the snow upon him. the plan was not so successful as they had hoped. the snow would not stick anywhere except on his shoulders, and when it got into his neck he cried with the cold; but they were so anxious to carry out their project, that they begged him to bear it "just a little longer"; and the urchin who had devised the original idea wiped the child's eyes with his handkerchief, and (with that hopefulness which is so easy over other people's matters) "dared say that when all the snow was on, he wouldn't feel it." however, he did feel it, and that so severely that the children were obliged to give up the game, and, taking the stick out of his stiff little arms, to lead him home. it appears that it is with snowmen as with some other men in conspicuous positions. it is easier to find fault with them than to fill their place. the end of this was a feverish cold, and, when the day of the party came, the ex-snowman was still in bed. it is due to the other children to say that they felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that it greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them to think that they had prevented his sharing in the treat. the most penitent of all was the deviser of the original idea. he had generously offered to stay at home with the little patient, which was as generously refused; but the next evening he was allowed to come and sit on his bed, and describe it all for the amusement of his friend. he was a quaint boy, this urchin, with a face as broad as an american indian's, eyes as bright as a squirrel's, and all the mischief in life lurking about him, till you could see roguishness in the very folds of his hooded indian winter coat of blue and scarlet. in his hand he brought the sick child's present: a dray with two white horses, and little barrels that took off and on, and a driver, with wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything, in fact, that was suitable to the driver of a brewer's dray, except that he had blue boots and earrings, and that his hair was painted in braids like a lady's, which is clearly the fault of the doll manufacturers, who will persist in making them all of the weaker sex. "and what was the christmas tree like?" asked the invalid. "exactly like the fir outside your door," was the reply. "just about that size, and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. it was kept in another room till after tea, and then when the door was opened it was like a street fire in the town at night--such a blaze of light--candles everywhere! and on all the branches the most beautiful presents. i got a drum and a penwiper." "was there an angel?" the child asked. "oh, yes!" the boy answered. "it was on the tip-top branch, and it was given to me, and i brought it for you, if you would like it; for, you know, i am so very, very sorry i thought of a snowman and made you ill, and i do love you, and beg you to forgive me." and the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed; and out of a pocket in the hooded coat came forth the christmas angel. in the face it bore a strong family likeness to the drayman, but its feet were hidden in folds of snowy muslin, and on its head glittered a tinsel star. "how lovely!" said the child. "father told me about this. i like it best of all. and it is very kind of you, for it is not your fault that i caught cold. i should have liked it if we could have done it, but i think to enjoy being a snowman, one should be snow all through." they had tea together, and then the invalid was tucked up for the night. the dray was put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel to bed with him. and so ended the first of the three christmas trees. * * * * * except for a warm glow from the wood fire in the stove, the room was dark; but about midnight it seemed to the child that a sudden blaze of light filled the chamber. at the same moment the window curtains were drawn aside, and he saw that the spruce fir had come close up to the panes and was peeping in. ah! how beautiful it looked! it had become a christmas tree. lighted tapers shone from every familiar branch, toys of the most fascinating appearance hung like fruit, and on the tip-top shoot there stood the christmas angel. he tried to count the candles, but somehow it was impossible. when he looked at them they seemed to change places--to move--to become like the angel, and then to be candles again, whilst the flames nodded to each other and repeated the blue greeting of the robin, "a merry christmas and a happy new year!" then he tried to distinguish the presents, but, beautiful as the toys looked, he could not exactly discover what any of them were, or choose which he would like best. only the angel he could see clearly--so clearly! it was more beautiful than the doll under his pillow; it had a lovely face like his own mother's, he thought, and on its head gleamed a star far brighter than tinsel. its white robes waved with the flames of the tapers, and it stretched its arms towards him with a smile. "i am to go and choose my present," thought the child; and he called "mother! mother dear! please open the window." but his mother did not answer. so he thought he must get up himself, and with an effort he struggled out of bed. but when he was on his feet, everything seemed changed! only the firelight shone upon the walls, and the curtains were once more firmly closed before the window. it had been a dream, but so vivid that in his feverish state he still thought it must be true, and dragged the curtains back to let in the glorious sight again. the firelight shone upon a thick coating of frost upon the panes, but no further could he see, so with all his strength he pushed the window open and leaned out into the night. the spruce fir stood in its old place; but it looked very beautiful in its christmas dress. beneath it lay a carpet of pure white. the snow was clustered in exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches; wrapping the tree top with its little cross shoots, as a white robe might wrap a figure with outstretched arms. there were no tapers to be seen, but northern lights shot up into the dark blue sky, and just over the fir-tree shone a bright, bright star. "jupiter looks well to-night," said the old professor in the town observatory, as he fixed his telescope; but to the child it seemed as the star of the christmas angel. his mother had really heard him call, and now came and put him back to bed again. and so ended the second of the three christmas trees. * * * * * it was enough to have killed him, all his friends said; but it did not. he lived to be a man, and--what is rarer--to keep the faith, the simplicity, the tender-heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood. he lived to see many christmas trees "at home," in that old country where the robins are redbreasts, and sing in winter. there a heart as good and gentle as his own became one with his; and once he brought his young wife across the sea to visit the place where he was born. they stood near the little white house, and he told her the story of the christmas trees. "this was when i was a child," he added. "but that you are still," said she; and she plucked a bit of the fir-tree and kissed it, and carried it away. he lived to tell the story to his children, and even to his grandchildren; but he never was able to decide which of the two was the more beautiful--the christmas tree of his dream, or the spruce fir as it stood in the loveliness of that winter night. this is told, not that it has anything to do with any of the three christmas trees, but to show that the story is a happy one, as is right and proper; that the hero lived, and married, and had children, and was as prosperous as good people, in books, should always be. of course he died at last. the best and happiest of men must die; and it is only because some stories stop short in their history, that every hero is not duly buried before we lay down the book. when death came for our hero he was an old man. the beloved wife, some of his children, and many of his friends had died before him, and of those whom he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin. he had had a short illness, with little pain, and was now lying on his deathbed in one of the big towns in the north of england. his youngest son, a clergy-man, was with him, and one or two others of his children, and by the fire sat the doctor. the doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do no more for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly, half-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and had spread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vessels of the supper of the lord. the old man had been "wandering" somewhat during the day. he had talked much of going home to the old country, and with the wide range of dying thoughts he had seemed to mingle memories of childhood with his hopes of paradise. at intervals he was clear and collected--one of those moments had been chosen for his last sacrament--and he had fallen asleep with the blessing in his ears. he slept so long and so peacefully that the son almost began to hope that there might be a change, and looked towards the doctor, who still sat by the fire with his right leg crossed over his left. the doctor's eyes were also on the bed, but at that moment he drew out his watch and looked at it with an air of professional conviction, which said, "it's only a question of time." then he crossed his left leg over his right, and turned to the fire again. before the right leg should be tired, all would be over. the son saw it as clearly as if it had been spoken, and he too turned away and sighed. as they sat, the bells of a church in the town began to chime for midnight service, for it was christmas eve, but they did not wake the dying man. he slept on and on. the doctor dozed. the son read in the prayer book on the table, and one of his sisters read with him. another, from grief and weariness, slept with her head upon his shoulder. except for a warm glow from the fire, the room was dark. suddenly the old man sat up in bed, and, in a strong voice, cried with inexpressible enthusiasm, "_how beautiful!_" the son held back his sisters, and asked quietly, "_what_, my dear father?" "the christmas tree!" he said in a low, eager voice. "draw back the curtains." they were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old man gazed as if in ecstasy. "light!" he murmured. "the angel! the star!" again there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, and cried passionately, "the angel is beckoning to me! mother! mother dear! please open the window." the sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those of the dying man were gazing. there was no christmas tree--no tree at all. but over the house-tops the morning star looked pure and pale in the dawn of christmas day. for the night was past, and above the distant hum of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the words of an old carol heard--words dearer for their association than their poetry: "while shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground, the angel of the lord came down, and glory shone around." when the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back to the bed the old man had lain down again, and, like a child, was smiling in his sleep--his last sleep. and this was the third christmas tree. * * * * * an idyll of the wood. "tell us a story," said the children, "a sad one, if you please, and a little true. but, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of people who live happily ever after." "i heard one lately," said the old man who lived in the wood; "it is founded on fact, and is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or no i cannot pretend to say. that is a matter of taste: what is a bad ending?" "a story ends badly," said the children with authority, "when people die, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and princess." "a most lucid explanation," said the old man. "i think my story will do, for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding." "tell it, tell it!" cried his hearers, "and tell us also where you got it from." "who knows the riches of a wood in summer?" said the old man. "in summer, do i say? in spring, in autumn, or in winter either. who knows them? you, my children? well, well. better than some of your elders, perchance. you know the wood where i live; the hollow tree that will hold five children, and queen mab knows how many fairies. (what a castle it makes! and if it had but another floor put into it, with a sloping ladder--like one of the round towers of ireland--what a house for children to live in! with no room for lesson-books, grown-up people, or beds!) "you know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wild strawberries grow. you know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, like good children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you may not disturb that little mother. you know (for i have shown you) where the rare fern grows--a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages. _we_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move a root it is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as much mystery and circumspection as if we were performing some solemn druidical rite. it is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of its abode we keep faithfully secret. it will be thus held sacred by us until, with all the seed its untouched fronds have scattered, and all the offshoots we have propagated, it shall have become as plentiful as heaven intends all beautiful things to be. every one is not so scrupulous. there are certain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near my cottage in the hot weather, and who tell each other that they love a wood. most of these good people have nevertheless neither eyes nor ears for what goes on around them, except that they hear each other, and see the cold collation. they will picnic there summer after summer, and not know whether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. all birds sing for them the same song. tell _them_ that such a plant is rare in the neighbourhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and it will not long be their fault if there are any. does any one direct them to it, they tear it ruthlessly up and carry it away. if by any chance a root is left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth, that there is small chance that it will survive. probably, also, the ravished clump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted, either from neglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential to its life; and the rare plant becomes yet rarer. oh! without doubt they love a wood. it gives more shade than the largest umbrella, and is cheaper for summer entertainment than a tent: there you get canopy and carpet, fuel and water, shade and song, and beauty--all gratis; and these are not small matters when one has invited a large party of one's acquaintance. there are insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb our friends; and as they do not know which sting, and which are harmless, they kill all that come within their reach, as a safe general principle. the town boys, too! they know the wood--that is to say, they know where the wild fruits grow, and how to chase the squirrel, and rob the birds' nests, and snare the birds. well, well, my children; to know and love a wood truly, it may be that one must live in it as i have done; and then a lifetime will scarcely reveal all its beauties, or exhaust its lessons. but even then, one must have eyes that see, and ears that hear, or one misses a good deal. it was in the wood that i heard this story that i shall tell you." "how did you hear it?" asked the children. "a thrush sang it to me one night." "one night?" said the children. "then you mean a nightingale." "i mean a thrush," said the old man. "do i not know the note of one bird from another? i tell you that pine-tree by my cottage has a legend of its own, and the topmost branch is haunted. must all legends be about the loves and sorrows of our self-satisfied race alone?" "but did you really and truly hear it?" they asked. "i heard it," said the old man. "but, as i tell you, one hears and one hears. i don't say that everybody would have heard it, merely by sleeping in my chamber; but, for the benefit of the least imaginative, i will assure you that it is founded on fact." "begin! begin!" shouted the children. "once upon a time," said the old man, "there was a young thrush, who was born in that beautiful dingle where we last planted the ---- fern. his home-nest was close to the ground, but the lower one is, the less fear of falling; and in woods, the elevation at which you sleep is a matter of taste, and not of expense or gentility. he awoke to life when the wood was dressed in the pale fresh green of early summer; and believing, like other folk, that his own home was at least the principal part of the world, earth seemed to him so happy and so beautiful an abode, that his heart felt ready to burst with joy. the ecstasy was almost pain, till wings and a voice came to him. then, one day, when, after a grey morning, the sun came out at noon, drawing the scent from the old pine that looks in at my bedroom window, his joy burst forth, after long silence, into song, and flying upwards, he sat on the topmost branch of the pine, and sang as loud as he could sing to the sun and the blue sky. "'joy! joy!' he sang. 'fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sunshine and sunflecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves, glade, and sward, and dell. lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and flowers. green leaves! green leaves! summer! summer! summer!' "it was monotonous, but every word came from the singer's heart, which is not always the case. thenceforward, though he slept near the ground, he went up every day to this pine, as to some sacred high place, and sang the same song, of which neither he nor i were ever weary. "let one be ever so inoffensive, however, one is not long left in peace in this world, even in a wood. the thrush sang too loudly of his simple happiness, and some boys from the town heard him and snared him, and took him away in a dirty cloth cap, where he was nearly smothered. the world is certainly not exclusively composed of sunshine, and green woods, and odorous pines. he became almost senseless during the hot dusty walk that led to the town. it was a seaport town, about two miles from the wood, a town of narrow, steep streets, picturesque old houses, and odours compounded of tar, dead fish, and many other scents less agreeable than forest perfumes. the thrush was put into a small wicker-cage in an upper room, in one of the narrowest and steepest of the streets. "'i shall die to-night,' he piped. but he did not. he lived that night, and for several nights and days following. the boys took small care of him, however. he was often left without food, without water, and always with too little air. two or three times they tried to sell him, but he was not bought, for no one could hear him sing. one day he was hung outside the window, and partly owing to the sun and fresh air, and partly because a woman was singing in the street, he began to carol his old song. "the woman was a street singer. she was even paler, thinner, and more destitute-looking than such women usually are. in some past time there had been beauty and feeling in her face, but the traces of both were well-nigh gone. an indifference almost amounting to vacancy was there now, and, except that she sang, you might almost have fancied her a corpse. in her voice, also, there had once been beauty and feeling, and here again the traces were small indeed. from time to time, she was stopped by fits of coughing, when an ill-favoured hunchback, who accompanied her on a tambourine, swore and scowled at her. she sang a song of sentiment, with a refrain about 'love and truth, and joys of youth--' on which the melody dwelt and quavered as if in mockery. as she sang, a sailor came down the street. his collar was very large, his trousers were very wide, his hat hung on the back of his head more as an ornament than for shelter; and he had one of the roughest faces and the gentlest hearts that ever went together since beauty was entertained by the beast. his hands were in his pockets, where he could feel one shilling and a penny, all the spare cash that remained to him after a friendly stroll through the town. when he saw the street singer, he stopped, pulled off his hat, and scratched his head, as was his custom when he was puzzled or interested. "'it's no good keeping an odd penny,' he said to himself; 'poor thing, she looks bad enough!' and, bringing the penny to the surface out of the depths of his pocket, he gave it to the woman. the hunchback came forward to take it, but the sailor passed him with a shove of his elbow, and gave it to the singer, who handed it over to her companion without moving a feature, and went on with her song. "'i'd like to break every bone in your ugly body,' muttered the sailor, with a glance at the hunchback, who scowled in return. "'i shall die of this close street, and of all i have suffered,' thought the thrush. "'green leaves! green leaves!' he sang, for it was the only song he knew. "'my voice is gone,' thought the hunchback's companion. 'he'll beat me again to-night; but it can't last long: "love and truth, and joys of youth"'-- she sang, for that was the song she had learned; and it was not her fault that it was inappropriate. "but the ballad-singer's captivity was nearly at an end. when the hunchback left her that evening to spend the sailor's penny with the few others which she had earned, he swore that when he came back he would make her sing louder than she had done all day. her face showed no emotion, less than it did when he saw it hours after, when beauty and feeling seemed to have returned to it in the peace of death, when he came back and found the cage empty, and that the long-prisoned spirit had flown away to seek the face of love and truth indeed. "but how about the thrush? "the sailor had scarcely swallowed the wrath which the hunchback had stirred in him, when his ear was caught by the song of the thrush above him. "'you sing uncommon well, pretty one,' he said, stopping and putting his hat even farther back than usual to look up. he was one of those good people who stop a dozen times in one street, and look at everything as they go along; whereby you may see three times as much of life as other folk, but it is a terrible temptation to spend money. it was so in this instance. the sailor looked till his kindly eye perceived that the bird was ill-cared for. "'it should have a bit of sod, it _should_,' he said emphatically, taking his hat off, and scratching his head again; 'and there's not a crumb of food on board. maybe, they don't understand the ways of birds here. it would be a good turn to mention it.' "with this charitable intention he entered the house, and when he left it, his pocket was empty, and the thrush was carried tenderly in his handkerchief. "'the canary died last voyage,' he muttered apologetically to himself, 'and the money always does go somehow or other.' "the sailor's hands were about three times as large and coarse as those of the boy who had carried the thrush before, but they seemed to him three times more light and tender--they were handy and kind, and this goes farther than taper fingers. "the thrush's new home was not in the narrow streets. it was in a small cottage in a small garden at the back of the town. the canary's old cage was comparatively roomy, and food, water, and fresh turf were regularly supplied to him. he could see green leaves too. there was an apple-tree in the garden, and two geraniums, a fuchsia, and a tea-rose in the window. near the tea-rose an old woman sat in the sunshine. she was the sailor's mother, and looked very like a tidily-kept window-plant herself. she had a little money of her own, which gave her a certain dignity, and her son was very good to her; and so she dwelt in considerable comfort, dividing her time chiefly between reading in the big bible, knitting socks for jack, and raising cuttings in bottles of water. she had heard of hothouses and forcing-frames, but she did not think much of them. she believed a bottle of water to be the most natural, because it was the oldest method she knew of, and she thought no good came of new-fangled ways, and trying to outdo nature. "'slow and sure is best,' she said, and stuck to her own system. "'what's that, my dear?' she asked, when the sailor came in and held up the handkerchief. he told her. "'you're always a-laying out your money on something or other,' said the old lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy. 'what did you give for _that_?' "'a shilling, ma'am.' "'tst! tst! tst!' said the old lady, disapprovingly. "'now, mother, don't shake that cap of yours off your head,' said the sailor. 'what's a shilling? if i hadn't spent it, i should have changed it; and once change a shilling, and it all dribbles away in coppers, and you get nothing for it. but spend it in the lump, and you get something you want. that's what i say.' "'_i_ want no more pets,' said the old lady, stiffly. "'well, you won't be troubled with this one long,' said her son; 'it'll go with me, and that's soon enough.' "any allusion to his departure always melted the old lady, as jack well knew. she became tearful, and begged him to leave the thrush with her. "'you know, my dear, i've always looked to your live things as if they were christians; and loved them too (unless it was that monkey that i never _could_ do with!). leave it with me, my dear. i'd never bother myself with a bird on board ship, if i was you.' "'that's because you've got a handsome son of your own, old lady,' chuckled the sailor; 'i've neither chick nor child, ma'am, remember, and a man must have something to look to. the bird'll go with me.' "and so it came to pass that just when the thrush was becoming domesticated, and almost happy at the cottage, one morning the sailor brought him fresh turf and groundsel, besides his meal-cake, and took the cage down. and the old woman kissed the wires, and bade the bird good-bye, and blessed her son, and prayed heaven to bring him safe home again; and they went their way. "the forecastle of a steam-ship (even of a big one) is a poor exchange for a snug cottage to any one but a sailor. to jack, the ship was home. _he_ had never lived in a wood, and carolled in tree-tops. he preferred blue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipe very comfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro, and swung the bird's cage above his head. to the thrush it was only an imprisonment that grew worse as time went on. each succeeding day made him pine more bitterly for his native woods--for fresh air and green leaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant sounds of country life. his turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no more could be got. he longed even to be back with the old woman--to see the apple-tree, and the window-plants, and be still. the shudder of the screw, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook's galley, the ceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribable smells which haunt a steam-ship, became more wearisome day by day. even when the cage was hung outside, the, sea breeze seemed to mock him with its freshness. the rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, his eyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him, and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and icebergs gleamed upon the horizon. "the sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had become deeply attached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he had scarcely fretted after his beloved wood. but with every hour of the voyage, home-sickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart went back to the nest, and the pine-top, and the old home. when one sleeps soundly, it is seldom that one remembers one's dreams; but when one is apt to be roused by an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of a fog-whistle, or the scream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper, and the visions of the night have a strange reality, and are easily recalled. and now the thrush always dreamt of home. "one day he was hung outside. it was not a very fine day, but he looked drooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air. his heart was sore with home-sickness, and he watched the sea-birds skimming up and down with envious eyes. it seemed all very well for poor men, who hadn't so much as a wing to carry them over the water, to build lumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish, and wings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisy steam-engines--and to endure it all. but for him, who could fly over a hundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swing outside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his, which quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars. as he thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook the wires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vessel righted, the cage-door swung slowly open. "at this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and a gleaming sea bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon a wave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. it was too much. with one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage, spread his wings, and followed him. "when the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to take the cage down, and then his grief was sore indeed. "'the canary died last voyage,' he said, sadly. 'the cage was bought on a friday, and i knew ill luck would come of it. i said so to mother; but the old lady says there's no such thing as luck, and she's bible-learned, if ever a woman was. "that's very true," says i, "but if i'd the money for another cage, i wouldn't use this;" and i never will again. poor, bird! it was a sweet singer.' and he turned his face aside. "'it may have the sense to come back,' said one of the crew. the sailor scratched his head, and shook it sadly. "'noah's bird came back to him, when she found no rest,' he said, 'but i don't think mine will, tom.' "he was right. the thrush returned no more. he did not know how wide was the difference between his own strength and that of the bird he followed. the sea-fowl cut the air with wings of tenfold power: he swooped up and down, he stooped to fish, he rested on the ridges of the dancing waves, and then, with one steady flight, he disappeared, and the thrush was left alone. other birds passed him, and flew about him, and fished, and rocked upon the waters near him, but he held steadily on. ships passed him also, but too far away for him to rest upon; whales spouted in the distance, and strange fowl screamed; but not a familiar object broke the expanse of the cold sea. he did not know what course he was taking. he hoped against hope that he was going home. although he was more faint and weary than he had ever yet been, he felt no pain. the intensity of his hope to reach the old wood made everything seem light; even at the last, when his wings were almost powerless, he believed that they would bear him home, and was happy. already he seemed to rest upon the trees, the waters sounded in his ears like the rustling of leaves, and the familiar scent of the pine-tree seemed to him to come upon the breeze. "in this he was not wrong. a country of pine-woods was near; and land was in sight, though too far away for him to reach it now. not home, but yet a land of wondrous summer beauty; of woods, and flowers, and sun-flecked leaves--of sunshine more glowing than he had ever known--of larger ferns, and deeper mosses, and clearer skies--a land, of balmy summer nights, where the stars shine brighter than with us, and where fireflies appear and vanish, like stars of a lower firmament, amid the trees. as the sun broke out, the scent of pines came strong upon the land breeze. a strange land, but the thrush thought it was his own. "'i smell woods,' he chirped faintly; 'i see the sun. this is home!' "all round him, the noisy crests of the fresh waves seemed to carol the song he could no longer sing--'home, home! fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves, glade and sward and dell, lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and flowers. green leaves! green leaves! summer! summer! summer!' "the slackened wings dropped, the dying eyes looked landward, and then closed. but even as he fell, he believed himself sinking to rest on mother earth's kindly bosom, and he did not know it, when the cold waves buried him at sea." "oh, then, he _did_ die!" cried the children, who, though they were tired of stories that end happily, yet, when they heard it, liked a sad ending no better than other children do (in which, by the bye, we hold them to be in the right, and can hardly forgive ourselves for chronicling this "ower true tale"). "yes," said the old man, "he died; but it is said that the sweet dingle which was his home--forsaken by the nightingale--is regarded by birds as men regard a haunted house; for that at still summer midnight, when other thrushes sleep, a shadowy form, more like a skeleton leaf than a living bird, swings upon the tall tree-tops where he sat of old, and, rapt in a happy ecstasy, sings a song more sweet and joyous than thrush ever sang by day." "have you heard it?" asked the children. the old man nodded. but not another word would he say. the children, however, forthwith began to lay plans for getting into the wood some mid-summer night, to test with their own ears the truth of his story, and to hear the spectre thrush's song. whether the authorities permitted the expedition, and if not, whether the young people baffled their vigilance--whether they heard the song, and if so, whether they understood it--we are not empowered to tell here. * * * * * christmas crackers. a fantasia. it was christmas-eve in an old-fashioned country-house, where christmas was being kept with old-fashioned form and custom. it was getting late. the candles swaggered in their sockets, and the yule log glowed steadily like a red-hot coal. "the fire has reached his heart," said the tutor: "he is warm all through. how red he is! he shines with heat and hospitality like some warm-hearted old gentleman when a convivial evening is pretty far advanced. to-morrow he will be as cold and grey as the morning after a festival, when the glasses are being washed up, and the host is calculating his expenses. yes! you know it is so;" and the tutor nodded to the yule log as he spoke; and the log flared and crackled in return, till the tutor's face shone like his own. he had no other means of reply. the tutor was grotesque-looking at any time. he was lank and meagre, with a long body and limbs, and high shoulders. his face was smooth-shaven, and his skin like old parchment stretched over high cheek-bones and lantern jaws; but in their hollow sockets his eyes gleamed with the changeful lustre of two precious gems. in the ruddy firelight they were like rubies, and when he drew back into the shade they glared green like the eyes of a cat. it must not be inferred from the tutor's presence this evening that there were no christmas holidays in this house. they had begun some days before; and if the tutor had had a home to go to, it is to be presumed that he would have gone. as the candles got lower, and the log flared less often, weird lights and shades, such as haunt the twilight, crept about the room. the tutor's shadow, longer, lanker, and more grotesque than himself, mopped and mowed upon the wall beside him. the snapdragon burnt blue, and as the raisin-hunters stirred the flaming spirit, the ghastly light made the tutor look so hideous that the widow's little boy was on the eve of howling, and spilled the raisins he had just secured. (he did not like putting his fingers into the flames, but he hovered near the more adventurous school-boys and collected the raisins that were scattered on the table by the hasty _grabs_ of braver hands.) the widow was a relative of the house. she had married a mr. jones, and having been during his life his devoted slave, had on his death transferred her allegiance to his son. the late mr. jones was a small man with a strong temper, a large appetite, and a taste for drawing-room theatricals. so mrs. jones had called her son macready; "for," she said, "his poor papa would have made a fortune on the stage, and i wish to commemorate his talents. besides, macready sounds better with jones than a commoner christian name would do." but his cousins called him macgreedy. "the apples of the enchanted garden were guarded by dragons. many knights went after them. one wished for the apples, but he did not like to fight the dragons." it was the tutor who spoke from the dark corner by the fire-place. his eyes shone like a cat's, and macgreedy felt like a half-scared mouse, and made up his mind to cry. he put his right fist into one eye, and had just taken it out, and was about to put his left fist into the other, when he saw that the tutor was no longer looking at him. so he made up his mind to go on with the raisins, for one can have a peevish cry at any time, but plums are not scattered broadcast every day. several times he had tried to pocket them, but just at the moment the tutor was sure to look at him, and in his fright he dropped the raisins, and never could find them again. so this time he resolved to eat them then and there. he had just put one into his mouth when the tutor leaned forward, and his eyes, glowing in the firelight, met macgreedy's, who had not even the presence of mind to shut his mouth, but remained spellbound, with a raisin in his cheek. flicker, flack! the school-boys stirred up snapdragon again, and with the blue light upon his features the tutor made so horrible a grimace that macgreedy swallowed the raisin with a start. he had bolted it whole, and it might have been a bread pill for any enjoyment he had of the flavour. but the tutor laughed aloud. he certainly was an alarming object, pulling those grimaces in the blue brandy glare; and unpleasantly like a picture of bogy himself with horns and a tail, in a juvenile volume upstairs. true, there were no horns to speak of among the tutor's grizzled curls, and his coat seemed to fit as well as most people's on his long back, so that unless he put his tail in his pocket, it is difficult to see how he could have had one. but then (as miss letitia said) "with dress one can do anything and hide anything," and on dress miss letitia's opinion was final. miss letitia was a cousin. she was dark, high-coloured, glossy-haired, stout, and showy. she was as neat as a new pin, and had a will of her own. her hair was firmly fixed by bandoline, her garibaldis by an arrangement which failed when applied to those of the widow, and her opinions by the simple process of looking at everything from one point of view. her _forte_ was dress and general ornamentation; not that miss letitia was extravagant--far from it. if one may use the expression, she utilized for ornament a hundred bits and scraps that most people would have wasted. but, like other artists, she saw everything through the medium of her own art. she looked at birds with an eye to hats, and at flowers with reference to evening parties. at picture exhibitions and concerts she carried away jacket patterns and bonnets in her head, as other people make mental notes of an aerial effect, or a bit of fine instrumentation. an enthusiastic horticulturist once sent miss letitia a cut specimen of a new flower. it was a lovely spray from a lately-imported shrub. a botanist would have pressed it--an artist must have taken its portrait--a poet might have written a sonnet in praise of its beauty. miss letitia twisted a piece of wire round its stem, and fastened it on to her black lace bonnet. it came on the day of a review, when miss letitia had to appear in a carriage, and it was quite a success. as she said to the widow, "it was so natural that no one could doubt its being parisian." "what a strange fellow that tutor is!" said the visitor. he spoke to the daughter of the house, a girl with a face like a summer's day, and hair like a ripe corn-field rippling in the sun. he was a fine young man, and had a youth's taste for the sports and amusements of his age. but lately he had changed. he seemed to himself to be living in a higher, nobler atmosphere than hitherto. he had discovered that he was poetical--he might prove to be a genius. he certainly was eloquent, he could talk for hours, and did so--to the young lady with the sunshiny face. they spoke on the highest subjects, and what a listener she was! so intelligent and appreciative, and with such an exquisite _pose_ of the head--it must inspire a block of wood merely to see such a creature in a listening attitude. as to our young friend, he poured forth volumes; he was really clever, and for her he became eloquent. to-night he spoke of christmas, of time-honoured custom and old association; and what he said would have made a christmas article for a magazine of the first class. he poured scorn on the cold nature that could not, and the affectation that would not, appreciate the domestic festivities of this sacred season. what, he asked, could be more delightful, more perfect than such a gathering as this, of the family circle round the christmas hearth? he spoke with feeling, and it may be said with disinterested feeling, for he had not joined his family circle himself this christmas, and there was a vacant place by the hearth of his own home. "he is strange," said the young lady (she spoke of the tutor in answer to the above remark); "but i am very fond of him. he has been with us so long he is like one of the family; though we know as little of his history as we did on the day he came." "he looks clever," said the visitor. (perhaps that is the least one can say for a fellow-creature who shows a great deal of bare skull, and is not otherwise good-looking.) "he is clever," she answered, "wonderfully clever; so clever and so odd that sometimes i fancy he is hardly 'canny.' there is something almost supernatural about his acuteness and his ingenuity, but they are so kindly used; i wonder he has not brought out any playthings for us to-night." "playthings?" inquired the young man. "yes; on birthdays or festivals like this he generally brings something out of those huge pockets of his. he has been all over the world, and he produces indian puzzles, japanese flower-buds that bloom in hot water, and german toys with complicated machinery, which i suspect him of manufacturing himself. i call him godpapa grosselmayer, after that delightful old fellow in hoffman's tale of the nut cracker." "what's that about crackers?" inquired the tutor, sharply, his eyes changing colour like a fire opal. "i am talking of _nussnacker und mausekönig_," laughed the young lady. "crackers do not belong to christmas; fireworks come on the th of november." "tut, tut!" said the tutor; "i always tell your ladyship that you are still a tom-boy at heart, as when i first came, and you climbed trees and pelted myself and my young students with horse-chestnuts. you think of crackers to explode at the heels of timorous old gentlemen in a november fog; but i mean bonbon crackers, coloured crackers, dainty crackers--crackers for young people with mottoes of sentiment" (here the tutor shrugged his high shoulders an inch or two higher, and turned the palms of his hands outwards with a glance indescribably comical)--"crackers with paper prodigies, crackers with sweetmeats--_such_ sweetmeats!" he smacked his lips with a grotesque contortion, and looked at master mcgreedy, who choked himself with his last raisin, and forthwith burst into tears. the widow tried in vain to soothe him with caresses, but he only stamped and howled the more. but miss letitia gave him some smart smacks on the shoulders to cure his choking fit, and as she kept up the treatment with vigour, the young gentleman was obliged to stop and assure her that the raisin had "gone the right way" at last. "if he were my child," miss letitia had been known to observe, with that confidence which characterizes the theories of those who are not parents, "i would, &c., &c., &c.;" in fact, miss letitia thought she would have made a very different boy of him--as, indeed, i believe she would. "are crackers all that you have for us, sir?" asked one of the two school-boys, as they hung over the tutor's chair. they were twins, grand boys, with broad, good-humoured faces, and curly wigs, as like as two puppy dogs of the same breed. they were only known apart by their intimate friends, and were always together, romping, laughing, snarling, squabbling, huffing and helping each other against the world. each of them owned a wiry terrier, and in their relations to each other the two dogs (who were marvellously alike) closely followed the example of their masters. "do you not care for crackers, jim?" asked the tutor. "not much, sir. they do for girls: but, as you know, i care for nothing but military matters. do you remember that beautiful toy of yours--'the besieged city'? ah! i liked that. look out, tom! you're shoving my arm. can't you stand straight, man?' "r-r-r-r--r-r, snap!" tom's dog was resenting contact with jim's dog on the hearthrug. there was a hustle among the four, and then they subsided. "the besieged city was all very well for you, jim," said tom, who meant to be a sailor; "but please to remember that it admitted of no attack from the sea; and what was there for me to do? ah, sir! you are so clever, i often think you could help me to make a swing with ladders instead of single ropes, so that i could run up and down the rigging whilst it was in full go." "that would be something like your fir-tree prank, tom," said his sister. "can you believe," she added, turning to the visitor, "that tom lopped the branches of a tall young fir-tree all the way up, leaving little bits for foothold, and then climbed up it one day in an awful storm of wind, and clung on at the top, rocking backwards and forwards? and when papa sent word for him to come down, he said parental authority was superseded at sea by the rules of the service. it was a dreadful storm, and the tree snapped very soon after he got safe to the ground." "storm!" sneered tom, "a capful of wind. well, it did blow half a gale at the last. but oh! it was glorious!" "let us see what we can make of the crackers," said the tutor--and he pulled some out of his pocket. they were put in a dish upon the table, for the company to choose from; and the terriers jumped and snapped, and tumbled over each other, for they thought that the plate contained eatables. animated by the same idea, but with quieter steps, master macgreedy also approached the table. "the dogs are noisy," said the tutor, "too noisy. we must have quiet--peace and quiet." his lean hand was once more in his pocket, and he pulled out a box, from which he took some powder, which he scattered on the burning log. a slight smoke now rose from the hot embers, and floated into the room. was the powder one of those strange compounds that act upon the brain? was it a magician's powder? who knows? with it came a sweet, subtle fragrance. it was strange--every one fancied he had smelt it before, and all were absorbed in wondering what it was, and where they had met with it. even the dogs sat on their haunches with their noses up, sniffing in a speculative manner. "it's not lavender," said the grandmother, slowly, "and it's not rosemary. there is a something of tansy in it (and a very fine tonic flavour too, my dears, though it's _not_ in fashion now). depend upon it, it's a potpourri, and from an excellent receipt, sir"--and the old lady bowed courteously towards the tutor. "my mother made the best potpourri in the county, and it was very much like this. not quite, perhaps, but much the same, much the same." the grandmother was a fine old gentlewoman "of the old school," as the phrase is. she was very stately and gracious in her manners, daintily neat in her person, and much attached to the old parson of the parish, who now sat near her chair. all her life she had been very proud of her fine stock of fair linen, both household and personal; and for many years past had kept her own graveclothes ready in a drawer. they were bleached as white as snow, and lay amongst bags of dried lavender and potpourri. many times had it seemed likely that they would be needed, for the old lady had had severe illnesses of late, when the good parson sat by her bedside, and read to her of the coming of the bridegroom, and of that "fine linen clean and white," which is "the righteousness of the saints." it was of that drawer, with its lavender and potpourri bags, that the scented smoke had reminded her. "it has rather an overpowering odour," said the old parson; "it is suggestive of incense. i am sure i once smelt something like it in the church of the nativity at bethlehem. it is very delicious." the parson's long residence in his parish had been marked by one great holiday. with the savings of many years he had performed a pilgrimage to the holy land; and it was rather a joke against him that he illustrated a large variety of subjects by reference to his favourite topic, the holiday of his life. "it smells of gunpowder," said jim, decidedly, "and something else. i can't tell what." "something one smells in a seaport town," said tom. "can't be very delicious then," jim retorted. "it's not _quite_ the same," piped the widow; "but it reminds me very much of an old bottle of attar of roses that was given to me when i was at school, with a copy of verses, by a young gentleman who was brother to one of the pupils. i remember mr. jones was quite annoyed when he found it in an old box, where i am sure i had not touched it for ten years or more; and i never spoke to him but once, on examination day (the young gentleman, i mean). and its like--yes it's certainly like a hair-wash mr. jones used to use. i've forgotten what it was called, but i know it cost fifteen shillings a bottle; and macready threw one over a few weeks before his dear papa's death, and annoyed him extremely." whilst the company were thus engaged, master macgreedy took advantage of the general abstraction to secure half-a-dozen crackers to his own share; he retired to a corner with them, where he meant to pick them quietly to pieces by himself. he wanted the gay paper, and the motto, and the sweetmeats; but he did not like the report of the cracker. and then what he did want, he wanted all to himself. "give us a cracker," said master jim, dreamily. the dogs, after a few dissatisfied snorts, had dropped from their sitting posture, and were lying close together on the rug, dreaming and uttering short commenting barks and whines at intervals. the twins were now reposing lazily at the tutor's feet, and did not feel disposed to exert themselves even so far as to fetch their own bonbons. "there's one," said the tutor, taking a fresh cracker from his pocket. one end of it was of red and gold paper, the other of transparent green stuff with silver lines. the boys pulled it. * * * * * the report was louder than jim had expected. "the firing has begun," he murmured, involuntarily; "steady, steady!" these last words were to his horse, who seemed to be moving under him, not from fear, but from impatience. what had been the red and gold paper of the cracker was now the scarlet and gold lace of his own cavalry uniform. he knocked a speck from his sleeve, and scanned the distant ridge, from which a thin line of smoke floated solemnly away, with keen, impatient eyes. were they to stand inactive all the day? presently the horse erects his head. his eyes sparkle--he pricks his sensitive ears--his nostrils quiver with a strange delight. it is the trumpet! fan farrâ! fan farrâ! the brazen voice speaks--the horses move--the plumes wave--the helmets shine. on a summer's day they ride slowly, gracefully, calmly down a slope, to death or glory. fan farrâ! fan farrâ! fan farrâ! * * * * * of all this master tom knew nothing. the report of the cracker seemed to him only an echo in his brain of a sound that had been in his ears for thirty-six weary hours. the noise of a heavy sea beating against the ship's side in a gale. it was over now, and he was keeping the midnight watch on deck, gazing upon the liquid green of the waves, which, heaving and seething after storm, were lit with phosphoric light, and as the ship held steadily on her course, poured past at the rate of twelve knots an hour in a silvery stream. faster than any ship can sail his thoughts travelled home; and as old times came back to him, he hardly knew whether what he looked at was the phosphor-lighted sea, or green gelatine paper barred with silver. and did the tutor speak? or was it the voice of some sea-monster sounding in his ears? "the spirits of the storm have gone below to make their report. the treasure gained from sunk vessels has been reckoned, and the sea is illuminated in honour of the spoil." * * * * * the visitor now took a cracker and held it to the young lady. her end was of white paper with a raised pattern; his of dark-blue gelatine with gold stars. it snapped, the bonbon dropped between them, and the young man got the motto. it was a very bald one-- "my heart is thine. wilt thou be mine?" he was ashamed to show it to her. what could be more meagre? one could write a hundred better couplets "standing on one leg," as the saying is. he was trying to improvise just one for the occasion, when he became aware that the blue sky over his head was dark with the shades of night, and lighted with stars. a brook rippled near with a soothing monotony. the evening wind sighed through the trees, and wafted the fragrance of the sweet bay-leaved willow towards him, and blew a stray lock of hair against his face. yes! _she_ also was there, walking beside him, under the scented willow-bushes. where, why, and whither he did not ask to know. she was with him--with him; and he seemed to tread on the summer air. he had no doubt as to the nature of his own feelings for her, and here was such an opportunity for declaring them as might never occur again. surely now, if ever, he would be eloquent! thoughts of poetry clothed in words of fire must spring unbidden to his lips at such a moment. and yet somehow he could not find a single word to say. he beat his brains, but not an idea would come forth. only that idiotic cracker motto, which haunted him with its meagre couplet: "my heart is thine. wilt thou be mine?" meanwhile they wandered on. the precious time was passing. he must at least make a beginning. "what a fine night it is!" he observed. but, oh dear! that was a thousand times balder and more meagre than the cracker motto; and not another word could he find to say. at this moment the awkward silence was broken by a voice from a neighbouring copse. it was a nightingale singing to his mate. there was no lack of eloquence, and of melodious eloquence, there. the song was as plaintive as old memories, and as full of tenderness as the eyes of the young girl were full of tears. they were standing still now, and with her graceful head bent she was listening to the bird. he stooped his head near hers, and spoke with a simple natural outburst almost involuntary. "do you ever think of old times? do you remember the old house, and the fun we used to have? and the tutor whom you pelted with horse-chestnuts when you were a little girl? and those cracker bonbons, and the motto _we_ drew-- 'my heart is thine. wilt thou be mine?'" she smiled, and lifted her eyes ("blue as the sky, and bright as the stars," he thought) to his, and answered "yes." then the bonbon motto was avenged, and there was silence. eloquent, perfect, complete, beautiful silence! only the wind sighed through the fragrant willows, the stream rippled, the stars shone, and in the neighbouring copse the nightingale sang, and sang, and sang. * * * * * when the white end of the cracker came into the young lady's hand, she was full of admiration for the fine raised pattern. as she held it between her fingers it suddenly struck her that she had discovered what the tutor's fragrant smoke smelt like. it was like the scent of orange-flowers, and had certainly a soporific effect upon the senses. she felt very sleepy, and as she stroked the shiny surface of the cracker she found herself thinking it was very soft for paper, and then rousing herself with a start, and wondering at her own folly in speaking thus of the white silk in which she was dressed, and of which she was holding up the skirt between her finger and thumb, as if she were dancing a minuet. "it's grandmamma's egg-shell brocade!" she cried. "oh, grandmamma! have you given it to me? that lovely old thing! but i thought it was the family wedding-dress, and that i was not to have it till i was a bride." "and so you are, my dear. and a fairer bride the sun never shone on," sobbed the old lady, who was kissing and blessing her, and wishing her, in the words of the old formula-- "health to wear it, strength to tear it, and money to buy another." "there is no hope for the last two things, you know," said the young girl; "for i am sure that the flag that braved a thousand years was not half so strong as your brocade; and as to buying another, there are none to be bought in these degenerate days." the old lady's reply was probably very gracious, for she liked to be complimented on the virtues of old things in general, and of her egg-shell brocade in particular. but of what she said her granddaughter heard nothing. with the strange irregularity of dreams, she found herself, she knew not how, in the old church. it was true. she was a bride, standing there with old friends and old associations thick around her, on the threshold of a new life. the sun shone through the stained glass of the windows, and illuminated the brocade, whose old-fashioned stiffness so became her childish beauty, and flung a thousand new tints over her sunny hair, and drew so powerful a fragrance from the orange-blossom with which it was twined, that it was almost overpowering. yes! it was too sweet--too strong. she certainly would not be able to bear it much longer without losing her senses. and the service was going on. a question had been asked of her, and she must reply. she made a strong effort, and said "yes," simply and very earnestly, for it was what she meant. but she had no sooner said it than she became uneasily conscious that she had not used the right words. some one laughed. it was the tutor, and his voice jarred and disturbed the dream, as a stone troubles the surface of still water. the vision trembled, and then broke, and the young lady found herself still sitting by the table and fingering the cracker paper, whilst the tutor chuckled and rubbed his hands by the fire, and his shadow scrambled on the wall like an ape upon a tree. but her "yes" had passed into the young man's dream without disturbing it, and he dreamt on. it was a cracker like the preceding one that the grandmother and the parson pulled together. the old lady had insisted upon it. the good rector had shown a tendency to low spirits this evening, and a wish to withdraw early. but the old lady did not approve of people "shirking" (as boys say) either their duties or their pleasures; and to keep a "merry christmas" in a family circle that had been spared to meet in health and happiness, seemed to her to be both the one and the other. it was his sermon for next day which weighed on the parson's mind. not that he was behindhand with that part of his duties. he was far too methodical in his habits for that, and it had been written before the bustle of christmas week began. but after preaching christmas sermons from the same pulpit for thirty-five years, he felt keenly how difficult it is to awaken due interest in subjects that are so familiar, and to give new force to lessons so often repeated. so he wanted a quiet hour in his own study before he went to rest, with the sermon that did not satisfy him, and the subject that should be so heart-stirring and ever-new,--the story of bethlehem. he consented, however, to pull one cracker with the grandmother, though he feared the noise might startle her nerves, and said so. "nerves were not invented in my young days," said the old lady, firmly; and she took her part in the ensuing explosion without so much as a wink. as the cracker snapped, it seemed to the parson as if the fragrant smoke from the yule log were growing denser in the room. through the mist from time to time the face of the tutor loomed large, and then disappeared. at last the clouds rolled away, and the parson breathed clear air. clear, yes, and how clear! this brilliant freshness, these intense lights and shadows, this mildness and purity in the night air-- "it is not england," he muttered, "it is the east. i have felt no air like this since i breathed the air of palestine." over his head, through immeasurable distances, the dark blue space was lighted by the great multitude of the stars, whose glittering ranks have in that atmosphere a distinctness and a glory unseen with us. perhaps no scene of beauty in the visible creation has proved a more hackneyed theme for the poet and the philosopher than a starry night. but not all the superabundance of simile and moral illustration with which the subject has been loaded can rob the beholder of the freshness of its grandeur or the force of its teaching; that noblest and most majestic vision of the handiwork of god on which the eye of man is here permitted to rest. as the parson gazed he became conscious that he was not alone. other eyes besides his were watching the skies to-night. dark, profound, patient, eastern eyes, used from the cradle to the grave to watch and wait. the eyes of star-gazers and dream-interpreters; men who believed the fate of empires to be written in shining characters on the face of heaven, as the "mene, mene," was written in fire on the walls of the babylonian palace. the old parson was one of the many men of real learning and wide reading who pursue their studies in the quiet country parishes of england, and it was with the keen interest of intelligence that he watched the group of figures that lay near him. "is this a vision of the past?" he asked himself. "there can be no doubt as to these men. they are star-gazers, magi, and, from their dress and bearing, men of high rank; perhaps 'teachers of a higher wisdom' in one of the purest philosophies of the old heathen world. when one thinks," he pursued, "of the intense interest, the eager excitement which the student of history finds in the narrative of the past as unfolded in dusty records written by the hand of man, one may realize how absorbing must have been that science which professed to unveil the future, and to display to the eyes of the wise the fate of dynasties written with the finger of god amid the stars." the dark-robed figures were so still that they might almost have been carved in stone. the air seemed to grow purer and purer; the stars shone brighter and brighter; suspended in ether the planets seemed to hang like lamps. now a shooting meteor passed athwart the sky, and vanished behind the hill. but not for this did the watchers move; in silence they watched on--till, on a sudden, how and whence the parson knew not, across the shining ranks of that immeasurable host, whose names and number are known to god alone, there passed in slow but obvious motion one brilliant solitary star--a star of such surpassing brightness that he involuntarily joined in the wild cry of joy and greeting with which the men of the east now prostrated themselves with their faces to the earth. he could not understand the language in which, with noisy clamour and gesticulation, they broke their former profound and patient silence, and greeted the portent for which they had watched. but he knew now that these were the wise men of the epiphany, and that this was the star of bethlehem. in his ears rang the energetic simplicity of the gospel narrative, "when they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy." with exceeding great joy! ah! happy magi, who (more blest than balaam the son of beor) were faithful to the dim light vouchsafed to you; the gentile church may well be proud of your memory. ye travelled long and far to bring royal offerings to the king of the jews, with a faith not found in israel. ye saw him whom prophets and kings had desired to see, and were glad. wise men indeed, and wise with the highest wisdom, in that ye suffered yourselves to be taught of god. then the parson prayed that if this were indeed a dream he might dream on; might pass, if only in a vision, over the hill, following the footsteps of the magi, whilst the star went before them, till he should see it rest above that city, which, little indeed among the thousands of judah, was yet the birthplace of the lord's christ. "ah!" he almost sobbed, "let me follow! on my knees let me follow into the house and see the holy child. in the eyes of how many babies i have seen mind and thought far beyond their powers of communication, every mother knows. but if at times, with a sort of awe, one sees the immortal soul shining through the prison-bars of helpless infancy, what, oh! what must it be to behold the god-head veiled in flesh through the face of a little child!" the parson stretched out his arms, but even with the passion of his words the vision began to break. he dared not move for fear it should utterly fade, and as he lay still and silent, the wise men roused their followers, and, led by the star, the train passed solemnly over the distant hills. then the clear night became clouded with fragrant vapour, and with a sigh the parson awoke. * * * * * when the cracker snapped and the white end was left in the grandmother's hand, she was astonished to perceive (as she thought) that the white lace veil which she had worn over her wedding bonnet was still in her possession, and that she was turning it over in her fingers. "i fancied i gave it to jemima when her first baby was born," she muttered dreamily. it was darned and yellow, but it carried her back all the same, and recalled happy hours with wonderful vividness. she remembered the post-chaise and the postillion. "he was such a pert little fellow, and how we laughed at him! he must be either dead or a very shaky old man by now," said the old lady. she seemed to smell the scent of meadow-sweet that was so powerful in a lane through which they drove; and how clearly she could see the clean little country inn where they spent the honeymoon! she seemed to be there now, taking off her bonnet and shawl, in the quaint clean chamber, with the heavy oak rafters, and the jasmine coming in at the window, and glancing with pardonable pride at the fair face reflected in the mirror. but as she laid her things on the patchwork coverlet, it seemed to her that the lace veil became fine white linen, and was folded about a figure that lay in the bed; and when she looked round the room again everything was draped in white--white blinds hung before the windows, and even the old oak chest and the press were covered with clean white cloths, after the decent custom of the country; whilst from the church tower without the passing bell tolled slowly. she had not seen the face of the corpse, and a strange anxiety came over her to count the strokes of the bell, which tell if it is a man, woman, or child who has passed away. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven! no more. it was a woman, and when she looked on the face of the dead she saw her own. but even as she looked the fair linen of the grave-clothes became the buoyant drapery of another figure, in whose face she found a strange recognition of the lineaments of the dead with all the loveliness of the bride. but ah! more, much more! on that face there was a beauty not doomed to wither, before those happy eyes lay a future unshadowed by the imperfections of earthly prospects, and the folds of that robe were white as no fuller on earth can white them. the window curtain parted, the jasmine flowers bowed their heads, the spirit passed from the chamber of death, and the old lady's dream was ended. * * * * * miss letitia had shared a cracker with the widow. the widow squeaked when the cracker went off, and then insisted upon giving up the smart paper and everything to miss letitia. she had always given up everything to mr. jones, she did so now to master macgreedy, and was quite unaccustomed to keep anything for her own share. she did not give this explanation herself, but so it was. the cracker that thus fell into the hands of miss letitia was one of those new-fashioned ones that have a paper pattern of some article of dress wrapped up in them instead of a bonbon. this one was a paper bonnet made in the latest _mode_--of green tissue-paper; and miss letitia stuck it on the top of her chignon, with an air that the widow envied from the bottom of her heart. she had not the gift of "carrying off" her clothes. but to the tutor, on the contrary, it seemed to afford the most extreme amusement; and as miss letitia bowed gracefully hither and thither in the energy of her conversation with the widow, the green paper fluttering with each emphasis, he fairly shook with delight, his shadow dancing like a maniac beside him. he had scattered some more powder on the coals, and it may have been that the smoke got into her eyes, and confused her ideas of colour, but miss letitia was struck with a fervid and otherwise unaccountable admiration for the paper ends of the cracker, which were most unusually ugly. one was of a sallowish salmon-colour, and transparent, the other was of brick-red paper with a fringe. as miss letitia turned them over, she saw, to her unspeakable delight, that there were several yards of each material, and her peculiar genius instantly seized upon the fact that in the present rage for double skirts there might be enough of the two kinds to combine into a fashionable dress. it had never struck her before that a dirty salmon went well with brick-red. "they blend so becomingly, my dear," she murmured; "and i think the under-skirt will sit well, it is so stiff." the widow did not reply. the fumes of the tutor's compound made her sleepy, and though she nodded to miss letitia's observations, it was less from appreciation of their force, than from inability to hold up her head. she was dreaming uneasy, horrible dreams, like nightmares; in which from time to time there mingled expressions of doubt and dissatisfaction which fell from miss letitia's lips. "just half-a-yard short--no gores--false hem," (and the melancholy reflection that) "flounces take so much stuff." then the tutor's face kept appearing and vanishing with horrible grimaces through the mist. at last the widow fell fairly asleep, and dreamed that she was married to the blue beard of nursery annals, and that on his return from his memorable journey he had caught her in the act of displaying the mysterious cupboard to miss letitia. as he waved his scimitar over her head, he seemed unaccountably to assume the form and features of the tutor. in her agitation the poor woman could think of no plea against his severity, except that the cupboard was already crammed with the corpses of his previous wives, and there was no room for her. she was pleading this argument when miss letitia's voice broke in upon her dream with decisive accent: "there's enough for two bodies." the widow shrieked and awoke. "high and low," explained miss letitia. "my dear, what _are_ you screaming about?" "i am very sorry indeed," said the widow; "i beg your pardon, i'm sure, a thousand times. but since mr. jones's death i have been so nervous, and i had such a horrible dream. and, oh dear! oh dear!" she added, "what is the matter with my precious child? macready, love, come to your mamma, my pretty lamb." ugh! ugh! there were groans from the corner where master macgreedy sat on his crackers as if they were eggs, and he hatching them. he had only touched one, as yet, of the stock he had secured. he had picked it to pieces, had avoided the snap, and had found a large comfit like an egg with a rough shell inside. every one knows that the goodies in crackers are not of a very superior quality. there is a large amount of white lead in the outside thinly disguised by a shabby flavour of sugar. but that outside once disposed of, there lies an almond at the core. now an almond is a very delicious thing in itself, and doubly nice when it takes the taste of white paint and chalk out of one's mouth. but in spite of all the white lead and sugar and chalk through which he had sucked his way, macgreedy could not come to the almond. a dozen times had he been on the point of spitting out the delusive sweetmeat; but just as he thought of it he was sure to feel a bit of hard rough edge, and thinking he had gained the kernel at last, he held valiantly on. it only proved to be a rough bit of sugar, however, and still the interminable coating melted copiously in his mouth; and still the clean, fragrant almond evaded his hopes. at last with a groan he spat the seemingly undiminished bonbon on to the floor, and turned as white and trembling as an arrowroot blanc-mange. in obedience to the widow's entreaties the tutor opened a window, and tried to carry macgreedy to the air; but that young gentleman utterly refused to allow the tutor to approach him, and was borne howling to bed by his mamma. with the fresh air the fumes of the fragrant smoke dispersed, and the company roused themselves. "rather oppressive, eh?" said the master of the house, who had had his dream too, with which we have no concern. the dogs had had theirs also, and had testified to the same in their sleep by low growls and whines. now they shook themselves, and rubbed against each other, growling in a warlike manner through their teeth, and wagging peaceably with their little stumpy tails. the twins shook themselves, and fell to squabbling as to whether they had been to sleep or no; and, if either, which of them had given way to that weakness. miss letitia took the paper bonnet from her head with a nervous laugh, and after looking regretfully at the cracker papers put them in her pocket. the parson went home through the frosty night. in the village street he heard a boy's voice singing two lines of the christian hymn-- "trace we the babe who hath redeemed our loss from the poor manger to the bitter cross;" and his eyes filled with tears. the old lady went to bed and slept in peace. "in all the thirty-five years we have been privileged to hear you, sir," she told the rector next day after service, "i never heard such a christmas sermon before." the visitor carefully preserved the blue paper and the cracker motto. he came down early next morning to find the white half to put with them. he did not find it, for the young lady had taken it the night before. the tutor had been in the room before him, wandering round the scene of the evening's festivities. the yule log lay black and cold upon the hearth, and the tutor nodded to it. "i told you how it would be," he said; "but never mind, you have had your day, and a merry one too." in the corner lay the heap of crackers which master macgreedy had been too ill to remember when he retired. the tutor pocketed them with a grim smile. as to the comfit, it was eaten by one of the dogs, who had come down earliest of all. he swallowed it whole, so whether it contained an almond or not, remains a mystery to the present time. * * * * * amelia and the dwarfs. my godmother's grandmother knew a good deal about the fairies. _her_ grandmother had seen a fairy rade on a roodmas eve, and she herself could remember a copper vessel of a queer shape which had been left by the elves on some occasion at an old farm-house among the hills, the following story came from her, and where she got it i do not know. she used to say it was a pleasant tale, with a good moral in the inside of it. my godmother often observed that a tale without a moral was like a nut without a kernel; not worth the cracking. (we called fire-side stories "cracks" in our part of the country.) this is the tale. amelia. a couple of gentlefolk once lived in a certain part of england. (my godmother never would tell the name either of the place or the people, even if she knew it. she said one ought not to expose one's neighbours' failings more than there was due occasion for.) they had an only child, a daughter, whose name was amelia. they were an easy-going, good-humoured couple; "rather soft," my godmother said, but she was apt to think anybody "soft" who came from the southern shires, as these people did. amelia, who had been born farther north, was by no means so. she had a strong resolute will, and a clever head of her own, though she was but a child. she had a way of her own too, and had it very completely. perhaps because she was an only child, or perhaps because they were so easy-going, her parents spoiled her. she was, beyond question, the most tiresome little girl in that or any other neighbourhood. from her baby days her father and mother had taken every opportunity of showing her to their friends, and there was not a friend who did not dread the infliction. when the good lady visited her acquaintances, she always took amelia with her, and if the acquaintances were fortunate enough to see from the windows who was coming, they used to snatch up any delicate knick-knacks, or brittle ornaments lying about, and put them away, crying, "what is to be done? here comes amelia!" when amelia came in, she would stand and survey the room, whilst her mother saluted her acquaintance; and if anything struck her fancy, she would interrupt the greetings to draw her mother's attention to it, with a twitch of her shawl, "oh, look, mamma, at that funny bird in the glass case!" or perhaps, "mamma, mamma! there's a new carpet since we were here last;" for, as her mother said, she was "a very observing child." then she would wander round the room, examining and fingering everything, and occasionally coming back with something in her hand to tread on her mother's dress, and break in upon the ladies' conversation with--"mamma! mamma! what's the good of keeping this old basin? it's been broken and mended, and some of the pieces are quite loose now. i can feel them:" or--addressing the lady of the house--"that's not a real ottoman in the corner. it's a box covered with chintz. i know, for i've looked." then her mamma would say, reprovingly, "my _dear_ amelia!" and perhaps the lady of the house would beg, "don't play with that old china, my love; for though it is mended, it is very valuable;" and her mother would add, "my dear amelia, you must not." sometimes the good lady said, "you _must_ not." sometimes she tried--"you must _not_" when both these failed, and amelia was balancing the china bowl on her finger-ends, her mamma would get flurried, and when amelia flurried her, she always rolled her r's, and emphasized her words, so that it sounded thus: "my dear-r-r-r-ramelia! you must not." at which amelia would not so much as look round, till perhaps the bowl slipped from her fingers, and was smashed into unmendable fragments. then her mamma would exclaim, "oh, dear-r-r-r, oh, dear-r-ramelia" and the lady of the house would try to look as if it did not matter, and when amelia and her mother departed, would pick up the bits, and pour out her complaints to her lady friends, most of whom had suffered many such damages at the hands of this "very observing child." when the good couple received their friends at home, there was no escaping from amelia. if it was a dinner-party, she came in with the dessert, or perhaps sooner. she would take up her position near some one, generally the person most deeply engaged in conversation, and either lean heavily against him or her, or climb on to his or her knee, without being invited. she would break in upon the most interesting discussion with her own little childish affairs, in the following style--"i've been out to-day. i walked to the town. i jumped across three brooks. can you jump? papa gave me sixpence to-day. i am saving up my money to be rich. you may cut me an orange; no, i'll take it to mr. brown, he peels it with a spoon and turns the skin back. mr. brown! mr. brown! don't talk to mamma, but peel me an orange, please. mr. brown! i'm playing with your finger-glass." and when the finger-glass full of cold water had been upset on to mr. brown's shirt-front, amelia's mamma would cry--"oh dear, oh dear-r-ramelia!" and carry her off with the ladies to the drawing-room. here she would scramble on to the ladies' knees, or trample out the gathers of their dresses, and fidget with their ornaments, startling some luckless lady by the announcement, "i've got your bracelet undone at last!" who would find one of the divisions broken open by force, amelia not understanding the working of a clasp. or perhaps two young lady friends would get into a quiet corner for a chat. the observing child would sure to spy them, and run on to them, crushing their flowers and ribbons, and crying--"you two want to talk secrets, i know. i can hear what you say. i'm going to listen, i am. and i shall tell, too;" when perhaps a knock at the door announced the nurse to take miss amelia to bed, and spread a general rapture of relief. then amelia would run to trample and worry her mother, and after much teasing, and clinging, and complaining, the nurse would be dismissed, and the fond mamma would turn to the lady next to her, and say with a smile--"i suppose i must let her stay up a little. it is such a treat to her, poor child!" but it was no treat to the visitors. besides tormenting her fellow-creatures, amelia had a trick of teasing animals. she was really fond of dogs, but she was still fonder of doing what she was wanted not to do, and of worrying everything and everybody about her. so she used to tread on the tips of their tails, and pretend to give them biscuit, and then hit them on the nose, besides pulling at those few, long, sensitive hairs which thin-skinned dogs wear on the upper lip. now amelia's mother's acquaintances were so very well-bred and amiable, that they never spoke their minds to either the mother or the daughter about what they endured from the latter's rudeness, wilfulness, and powers of destruction. but this was not the case with the dogs, and they expressed their sentiments by many a growl and snap. at last one day amelia was tormenting a snow-white bulldog (who was certainly as well-bred and as amiable as any living creature in the kingdom), and she did not see that even his patience was becoming worn out. his pink nose became crimson with increased irritation, his upper lip twitched over his teeth, behind which he was rolling as many warning r's as amelia's mother herself. she finally held out a bun towards him, and just as he was about to take it, she snatched it away and kicked him instead. this fairly exasperated the bulldog, and as amelia would not let him bite the bun, he bit amelia's leg. her mamma was so distressed that she fell into hysterics, and hardly knew what she was saying. she said the bulldog must be shot for fear he should go mad, and amelia's wound must be done with a red-hot poker for fear _she_ should go mad (with hydrophobia). and as of course she couldn't bear the pain of this, she must have chloroform, and she would most probably die of that; for as one in several thousands dies annually under chloroform, it was evident that her chance of life was very small indeed. so, as the poor lady said, "whether we shoot amelia and burn the bulldog--at least i mean shoot the bulldog and burn amelia with a red-hot poker--or leave it alone; and whether amelia or the bulldog has chloroform or bears it without--it seems to be death or madness every way!" and as the doctor did not come fast enough, she ran out without her bonnet to meet him, and amelia's papa, who was very much distressed too, ran after her with her bonnet. meanwhile the doctor came in by another way, and found amelia sitting on the dining-room floor with the bulldog, and crying bitterly. she was telling him that they wanted to shoot him, but that they should not, for it was all her fault and not his. but she did not tell him that she was to be burnt with a red-hot poker, for she thought it might hurt his feelings. and then she wept afresh, and kissed the bulldog, and the bulldog kissed her with his red tongue, and rubbed his pink nose against her, and beat his own tail much harder on the floor than amelia had ever hit it. she said the same things to the doctor, but she told him also that she was willing to be burnt without chloroform if it must be done, and if they would spare the bulldog. and though she looked very white, she meant what she said. but the doctor looked at her leg, and found that it was only a snap, and not a deep wound; and then he looked at the bulldog, and saw that so far from looking mad, he looked a great deal more sensible than anybody in the house. so he only washed amelia's leg and bound it up, and she was not burnt with the poker, neither did she get hydrophobia; but she had got a good lesson on manners, and thenceforward she always behaved with the utmost propriety to animals, though she tormented her mother's friends as much as ever. now although amelia's mamma's acquaintances were too polite to complain before her face, they made up for it by what they said behind her back. in allusion to the poor lady's ineffectual remonstrances, one gentleman said that the more mischief amelia did, the dearer she seemed to grow to her mother. and somebody else replied that however dear she might be as a daughter, she was certainly a very _dear_ friend, and proposed that they should send in a bill for all the damages she had done in the course of the year, as a round robin to her parents at christmas. from which it may be seen that amelia was not popular with her parents' friends, as (to do grown-up people justice) good children almost invariably are. if she was not a favourite in the drawing-room, she was still less so in the nursery, where, besides all the hardships naturally belonging to attendance on a spoilt child, the poor nurse was kept, as she said, "on the continual go" by amelia's reckless destruction of her clothes. it was not fair wear and tear, it was not an occasional fall in the mire, or an accidental rent or two during a game at "hunt the hare," but it was constant wilful destruction, which nurse had to repair as best she might. no entreaties would induce amelia to "take care" of anything. she walked obstinately on the muddy side of the road when nurse pointed out the clean parts, kicking up the dirt with her feet; if she climbed a wall she never tried to free her dress if it had caught; on she rushed, and half a skirt might be left behind for any care she had in the matter. "they must be mended," or "they must be washed," was all she thought about it. "you seem to think things clean and mend themselves, miss amelia," said poor nurse one day. "no, i don't," said amelia, rudely. "i think you do them; what are you here for?" but though she spoke in this insolent and unlady-like fashion, amelia really did not realize what the tasks were which her carelessness imposed on other people. when every hour of nurse's day had been spent in struggling to keep her wilful young lady regularly fed, decently dressed, and moderately well behaved (except, indeed, those hours when her mother was fighting the same battle down-stairs); and when at last, after the hardest struggle of all, she had been got to bed not more than two hours later than her appointed time, even then there was no rest for nurse. amelia's mamma could at last lean back in her chair and have a quiet chat with her husband, which was not broken in upon every two minutes, and amelia herself was asleep; but nurse must sit up for hours wearing out her eyes by the light of a tallow candle, in fine-darning great, jagged, and most unnecessary holes in amelia's muslin dresses. or perhaps she had to wash and iron clothes for amelia's wear next day. for sometimes she was so very destructive, that towards the end of the week she had used up all her clothes and had no clean ones to fall back upon. amelia's meals were another source of trouble. she would not wear a pinafore; if it had been put on, she would burst the strings, and perhaps in throwing it away knock her plate of mutton broth over the tablecloth and her own dress. then she fancied first one thing and then another; she did not like this or that; she wanted a bit cut here or there. her mamma used to begin by saying, "my dear-r-ramelia, you must not be so wasteful," and she used to end by saying, "the dear child has positively no appetite;" which seemed to be a good reason for not wasting any more food upon her; but with amelia's mamma it only meant that she might try a little cutlet and tomato sauce when she had half finished her roast beef, and that most of the cutlet and all the mashed potato might be exchanged for plum tart and custard; and that when she had spooned up the custard and played with the paste, and put the plum stones on the tablecloth, she might be tempted with a little stilton cheese and celery, and exchange that for anything that caught her fancy in the dessert dishes. the nurse used to say, "many a poor child would thank god for what you waste every meal-time, miss amelia," and to quote a certain good old saying, "waste not, want not." but amelia's mamma allowed her to send away on her plates what would have fed another child, day after day. under the haycocks. it was summer, and haytime. amelia had been constantly in the hayfield, and the haymakers had constantly wished that she had been anywhere else. she mislaid the rakes, nearly killed herself and several other persons with a fork, and overturned one haycock after another as fast as they were made. at tea-time it was hoped that she would depart, but she teased her mamma to have the tea brought into the field, and her mamma said, "the poor child must have a treat sometimes," and so it was brought out. after this she fell off the haycart, and was a good deal shaken, but not hurt. so she was taken indoors, and the haymakers worked hard and cleared the field, all but a few cocks which were left till the morning. the sun set, the dew fell, the moon rose. it was a lovely night. amelia peeped from behind the blinds of the drawing-room windows, and saw four haycocks, each with a deep shadow reposing at its side. the rest of the field was swept clean, and looked pale in the moonshine. it was a lovely night. "i want to go out," said amelia. "they will take away those cocks before i can get at them in the morning, and there will be no more jumping and tumbling, i shall go out and have some fun now." "my dear amelia, you must not," said her mamma; and her papa added, "i won't hear of it." so amelia went up-stairs to grumble to nurse; but nurse only said, "now, my dear miss amelia, do go quietly to bed, like a dear love. the field is all wet with dew. besides, it's a moonlight night, and who knows what's abroad? you might see the fairies--bless us and sain us!--and what not. there's been a magpie hopping up and down near the house all day, and that's a sign of ill-luck." "i don't care for magpies," said amelia; "i threw a stone at that one to-day." and she left the nursery, and swung down-stairs on the rail of the banisters. but she did not go into the drawing-room; she opened the front door and went out into the moonshine. it was a lovely night. but there was something strange about it. everything looked asleep, and yet seemed not only awake but watching. there was not a sound, and yet the air seemed full of half-sounds. the child was quite alone, and yet at every step she fancied some one behind her, on one side of her, somewhere, and found it only a rustling leaf or a passing shadow. she was soon in the hayfield, where it was just the same; so that when she fancied that something green was moving near the first haycock she thought very little of it, till, coming closer, she plainly perceived by the moonlight a tiny man dressed in green, with a tall, pointed hat, and very, very long tips to his shoes, tying his shoestring with his foot on a stubble stalk. he had the most wizened of faces, and when he got angry with his shoe, he pulled so wry a grimace that it was quite laughable. at last he stood up, stepping carefully over the stubble, went up to the first haycock, and drawing out a hollow grass stalk blew upon it till his cheeks were puffed like footballs. and yet there was no sound, only a half-sound, as of a horn blown in the far distance, or in a dream. presently the point of a tall hat, and finally just such another little wizened face, poked out through the side of the haycock. "can we hold revel here to-night?" asked the little green man. "that indeed you cannot," answered the other; "we have hardly room to turn round as it is, with all amelia's dirty frocks." "ah, bah!" said the dwarf; and he walked on to the next haycock, amelia cautiously following. here he blew again, and a head was put out as before; on which he said, "can we hold revel here to-night?" "how is it possible," was the reply, "when there is not a place where one can so much as set down an acorn cup, for amelia's broken victuals?" "fie! fie!" said the dwarf, and went on to the third, where all happened as before; and he asked the old question, "can we hold revel here to-night?" "can you dance on glass and crockery sherds?" inquired the other. "amelia's broken gimcracks are everywhere." "pshaw!" snorted the dwarf, frowning terribly; and when he came to the fourth haycock he blew such an angry blast that the grass stalk split into seven pieces. but he met with no better success than before. only the point of a hat came through the hay, and a feeble voice piped in tones of depression--"the broken threads would entangle our feet. it's all amelia's fault. if we could only get hold of her!" "if she's wise, she'll keep as far from these haycocks as she can," snarled the dwarf, angrily; and he shook his fist as much as to say, "if she did come, i should not receive her very pleasantly." now with amelia, to hear that she had better not do something, was to make her wish at once to do it; and as she was not at all wanting in courage, she pulled the dwarf's little cloak, just as she would have twitched her mother's shawl, and said (with that sort of snarly whine in which spoilt children generally speak)--"why shouldn't i come to the haycocks if i want to? they belong to my papa, and i shall come if i like. but you have no business here." "nightshade and hemlock!" ejaculated the little man, "you are not lacking in impudence. perhaps your sauciness is not quite aware how things are distributed in this world?" saying which he lifted his pointed shoes and began to dance and sing, "all under the sun belongs to men, and all under the moon to the fairies. so, so, so! ho, ho, ho! all under the moon to the fairies." as he sang "ho, ho, ho!" the little man turned head over heels; and though by this time amelia would gladly have got away, she could not, for the dwarf seemed to dance and tumble round her, and always to cut off the chance of escape; whilst numberless voices from all around seemed to join in the chorus, with "so, so, so! ho, ho, ho! all under the moon to the fairies." "and now," said the little man, "to work! and you have plenty of work before you, so trip on, to the first haycock." "i shan't!" said amelia. "on with you!" repeated the dwarf. "i won't!" said amelia. but the little man, who was behind her, pinched her funny-bone with his lean fingers, and, as everybody knows, that is agony; so amelia ran on, and tried to get away. but when she went too fast, the dwarf trod on her heels with his long-pointed shoe, and if she did not go fast enough, he pinched her funny-bone. so for once in her life she was obliged to do as she was told. as they ran, tall hats and wizened faces were popped out on all sides of the haycocks, like blanched almonds on a tipsy cake; and whenever the dwarf pinched amelia, or trod on her heels, the goblins cried "ho, ho, ho!" with such horrible contortions as they laughed, that it was hideous to behold them. "here is amelia!" shouted the dwarf when they reached the first haycock. "ho, ho, ho!" laughed all the others, as they poked out here and there from the hay. "bring a stock," said the dwarf; on which the hay was lifted, and out ran six or seven dwarfs, carrying what seemed to amelia to be a little girl like herself. and when she looked closer, to her horror and surprise the figure was exactly like her--it was her own face, clothes, and everything. "shall we kick it into the house?" asked the goblins. "no," said the dwarf; "lay it down by the haycock. the father and mother are coming to seek her now." when amelia heard this she began to shriek for help; but she was pushed into the haycock, where her loudest cries sounded like the chirruping of a grasshopper. it was really a fine sight to see the inside of the cock. farmers do not like to see flowers in a hayfield, but the fairies do. they had arranged all the buttercups, &c., in patterns on the haywalls; bunches of meadow-sweet swung from the roof like censers, and perfumed the air; and the ox-eye daisies which formed the ceiling gave a light like stars. but amelia cared for none of this. she only struggled to peep through the hay, and she did see her father and mother and nurse come down the lawn, followed by the other servants, looking for her. when they saw the stock they ran to raise it with exclamations of pity and surprise. the stock moaned faintly, and amelia's mamma wept, and amelia herself shouted with all her might. "what's that?" said her mamma. (it is not easy to deceive a mother.) "only the grasshoppers, my dear," said papa. "let us get the poor child home." the stock moaned again, and the mother said, "oh dear! oh dear-r-ramelia!" and followed in tears. "rub her eyes," said the dwarf; on which amelia's eyes were rubbed with some ointment, and when she took a last peep, she could see that the stock was nothing but a hairy imp, with a face like the oldest and most grotesque of apes. "--and send her below," added the dwarf. on which the field opened, and amelia was pushed underground. she found herself on a sort of open heath, where no houses were to be seen. of course there was no moonshine, and yet it was neither daylight nor dark. there was as the light of early dawn, and every sound was at once clear and dreamy, like the first sounds of the day coming through the fresh air before sunrise. beautiful flowers crept over the heath, whose tints were constantly changing in the subdued light; and as the hues changed and blended, the flowers gave forth different perfumes. all would have been charming but that at every few paces the paths were blocked by large clothes-baskets full of dirty frocks, and the frocks were amelia's. torn, draggled, wet, covered with sand, mud, and dirt of all kinds, amelia recognized them. "you've got to wash them all," said the dwarf, who was behind her as usual; "that's what you've come down for--not because your society is particularly pleasant. so the sooner you begin the better." "i can't," said amelia (she had already learnt that "i won't" is not an answer for every one); "send them up to nurse, and she'll do them. it is her business." "what nurse can do she has done, and now it's time for you to begin," said the dwarf. "sooner or later the mischief done by spoilt children's wilful disobedience comes back on their own hands. up to a certain point we help them, for we love children, and we are wilful ourselves. but there are limits to everything. if you can't wash your dirty frocks, it is time you learnt to do so, if only that you may know what the trouble is you impose on other people. _she_ will teach you." the dwarf kicked out his foot in front of him, and pointed with his long toe to a woman who sat by a fire made upon the heath, where a pot was suspended from crossed poles. it was like a bit of a gipsy encampment, and the woman seemed to be a real woman, not a fairy--which was the case, as amelia afterwards found. she had lived underground for many years, and was the dwarfs' servant. and this was how it came about that amelia had to wash her dirty frocks. let any little girl try to wash one of her dresses; not to half wash it, not to leave it stained with dirty water, but to wash it quite clean. let her then try to starch and iron it--in short, to make it look as if it had come from the laundress--and she will have some idea of what poor amelia had to learn to do. there was no help for it. when she was working she very seldom saw the dwarfs; but if she were idle or stubborn, or had any hopes of getting away, one was sure to start up at her elbow and pinch her funny-bone, or poke her in the ribs, till she did her best. her back ached with stooping over the wash-tub; her hands and arms grew wrinkled with soaking in hot soapsuds, and sore with rubbing. whatever she did not know how to do, the woman of the heath taught her. at first, whilst amelia was sulky, the woman of the heath was sharp and cross; but when amelia became willing and obedient, she was good-natured, and even helped her. the first time that amelia felt hungry she asked for some food. "by all means," said one of the dwarfs; "there is plenty down here which belongs to you;" and he led her away till they came to a place like the first, except that it was covered with plates of broken meats; all the bits of good meat, pie, pudding, bread-and-butter, &c., that amelia had wasted beforetime. "i can't eat cold scraps like these," said amelia, turning away. "then what did you ask for food for before you were hungry?" screamed the dwarf, and he pinched her and sent her about her business. after a while she became so famished that she was glad to beg humbly to be allowed to go for food; and she ate a cold chop and the remains of a rice pudding with thankfulness. how delicious they tasted! she was surprised herself at the good things she had rejected. after a time she fancied she would like to warm up some of the cold meat in a pan, which the woman of the heath used to cook her own dinner in, and she asked for leave to do so. "you may do anything you like to make yourself comfortable, if you do it yourself," said she; and amelia, who had been watching her for many times, became quite expert in cooking up the scraps. as there was no real daylight underground, so also there was no night. when the old woman was tired she lay down and had a nap, and when she thought that amelia had earned a rest, she allowed her to do the same. it was never cold, and it never rained, so they slept on the heath among the flowers. they say that "it's a long lane that has no turning," and the hardest tasks come to an end some time, and amelia's dresses were clean at last; but then a more wearisome work was before her. they had to be mended. amelia looked at the jagged rents made by the hedges; the great gaping holes in front where she had put her foot through; the torn tucks and gathers. first she wept, then she bitterly regretted that she had so often refused to do her sewing at home that she was very awkward with her needle. whether she ever would have got through this task alone is doubtful, but she had by this time become so well-behaved and willing that the old woman was kind to her, and, pitying her blundering attempts, she helped her a great deal; whilst amelia would cook the old woman's victuals, or repeat stories and pieces of poetry to amuse her. "how glad i am that i ever learnt anything!" thought the poor child: "everything one learns seems to come in useful some time." at last the dresses were finished. "do you think i shall be allowed to go home now?" amelia asked of the woman of the heath. "not yet," said she; "you have got to mend the broken gimcracks next." "but when i have done all my tasks," amelia said; "will they let me go then?" "that depends," said the woman, and she sat silent over the fire; but amelia wept so bitterly, that she pitied her and said--"only dry your eyes, for the fairies hate tears, and i will tell you all i know and do the best for you i can. you see, when you first came you were--excuse me!--such an unlicked cub; such a peevish, selfish, wilful, useless, and ill-mannered little miss, that neither the fairies nor anybody else were likely to keep you any longer than necessary. but now you are such a willing, handy, and civil little thing, and so pretty and graceful withal, that i think it is very likely that they will want to keep you altogether. i think you had better make up your mind to it. they are kindly little folk, and will make a pet of you in the end." "oh, no! no!" moaned poor amelia; "i want to be with my mother, my poor dear mother! i want to make up for being a bad child so long. besides, surely that 'stock,' as they called her, will want to come back to her own people." "as to that," said the woman, "after a time the stock will affect mortal illness, and will then take possession of the first black cat she sees, and in that shape leave the house, and come home. but the figure that is like you will remain lifeless in the bed, and will be duly buried. then your people, believing you to be dead, will never look for you, and you will always remain here. however, as this distresses you so, i will give you some advice. can you dance?" "yes," said amelia; "i did attend pretty well to my dancing lessons. i was considered rather clever about it." "at any spare moments you find," continued the woman, "dance, dance all your dances, and as well as you can. the dwarfs love dancing." "and then?" said amelia. "then, perhaps some night they will take you up to dance with them in the meadows above-ground." "but i could not get away. they would tread on my heels--oh! i could never escape them." "i know that," said the woman; "your only chance is this. if ever, when dancing in the meadows, you can find a four-leaved clover, hold it in your hand, and wish to be at home. then no one can stop you. meanwhile i advise you to seem happy, that they may think you are content, and have forgotten the world. and dance, above all, dance!" and amelia, not to be behindhand, began then and there to dance some pretty figures on the heath. as she was dancing the dwarf came by. "ho, ho!" said he, "you can dance, can you?" "when i am happy i can," said amelia, performing several graceful movements as she spoke. "what are you pleased about now?" snapped the dwarf, suspiciously. "have i not reason?" said amelia. "the dresses are washed and mended." "then up with them!" returned the dwarf. on which half-a-dozen elves popped the whole lot into a big basket and kicked them up into the world, where they found their way to the right wardrobes somehow. as the woman of the heath had said, amelia was soon set to a new task. when she bade the old woman farewell, she asked if she could do nothing for her if ever she got at liberty herself. "can i do nothing to get you back to your old home?" amelia cried, for she thought of others now as well as herself. "no, thank you," returned the old woman; "i am used to this, and do not care to return. i have been here a long time--how long i do not know; for as there is neither daylight nor dark we have no measure of time--long, i am sure, very long. the light and noise up yonder would now be too much for me. but i wish you well, and, above all, remember to dance!" the new scene of amelia's labours was a more rocky part of the heath, where grey granite boulders served for seats and tables, and sometimes for workshops and anvils, as in one place, where a grotesque and grimy old dwarf sat forging rivets to mend china and glass. a fire in a hollow of the boulder served for a forge, and on the flatter part was his anvil. the rocks were covered in all directions with the knick-knacks, ornaments, &c., that amelia had at various times destroyed. "if you please, sir," she said to the dwarf, "i am amelia." the dwarf left off blowing at his forge and looked at her. "then i wonder you're not ashamed of yourself," said he. "i am ashamed of myself," said poor amelia, "very much ashamed. i should like to mend these things if i can." "well, you can't say more than that," said the dwarf, in a mollified tone, for he was a kindly little creature; "bring that china bowl here, and i'll show you how to set to work." poor amelia did not get on very fast, but she tried her best. as to the dwarf, it was truly wonderful to see how he worked. things seemed to mend themselves at his touch, and he was so proud of his skill, and so particular, that he generally did over again the things which amelia had done after her fashion. the first time he gave her a few minutes in which to rest and amuse herself, she held out her little skirt, and began one of her prettiest dances. "rivets and trivets!" shrieked the little man, "how you dance! it is charming! i say it is charming! on with you! fa, la fa! la, fa la! it gives me the fidgets in my shoe-points to see you!" and forthwith down he jumped, and began capering about. "i am a good dancer myself," said the little man. "do you know the 'hop, skip, and a jump' dance?" "i do not think i do," said amelia. "it is much admired," said the dwarf, "when i dance it;" and he thereupon tucked up the little leathern apron in which he worked, and performed some curious antics on one leg. "that is the hop," he observed, pausing for a moment. "the skip is thus. you throw out your left leg as high and as far as you can, and as you drop on the toe of your left foot you fling out the right leg in the same manner, and so on. this is the jump," with which he turned a somersault and disappeared from view. when amelia next saw him he was sitting cross-legged on his boulder. "good, wasn't it?" he said. "wonderful!" amelia replied. "now it's your turn again," said the dwarf. but amelia cunningly replied--"i'm afraid i must go on with my work." "pshaw!" said the little tinker. "give me your work. i can do more in a minute than you in a month, and better to boot. now dance again." "do you know this?" said amelia, and she danced a few paces of a polka mazurka. "admirable!" cried the little man. "stay"--and he drew an old violin from behind the rock; "now dance again, and mark the time well, so that i may catch the measure, and then i will accompany you." which accordingly he did, improvising a very spirited tune, which had, however, the peculiar subdued and weird effect of all the other sounds in this strange region. "the fiddle came from up yonder," said the little man. "it was smashed to atoms in the world and thrown away. but, ho, ho, ho! there is nothing that i cannot mend, and a mended fiddle is an amended fiddle. it improves the tone. now teach me that dance, and i will patch up all the rest of the gimcracks. is it a bargain?" "by all means," said amelia; and she began to explain the dance to the best of her ability. "charming, charming!" cried the dwarf. "we have no such dance ourselves. we only dance hand in hand, and round and round, when we dance together. now i will learn the step, and then i will put my arm round your waist and dance with you." amelia looked at the dwarf. he was very smutty, and old, and wizened. truly, a queer partner! but "handsome is that handsome does;" and he had done her a good turn. so when he had learnt the step, he put his arm round amelia's waist, and they danced together. his shoe-points were very much in the way, but otherwise he danced very well. then he set to work on the broken ornaments, and they were all very soon "as good as new." but they were not kicked up into the world, for, as the dwarfs said, they would be sure to break on the road. so they kept them and used them; and i fear that no benefit came from the little tinker's skill to amelia's mamma's acquaintance in this matter. "have i any other tasks?" amelia inquired. "one more," said the dwarfs; and she was led farther on to a smooth mossy green, thickly covered with what looked like bits of broken thread. one would think it had been a milliner's work-room from the first invention of needles and thread. "what are these?" amelia asked. "they are the broken threads of all the conversations you have interrupted," was the reply; "and pretty dangerous work it is to dance here now, with threads getting round one's shoe-points. dance a hornpipe in a herring-net, and you'll know what it is!" amelia began to pick up the threads, but it was tedious work. she had cleared a yard or two, and her back was aching terribly, when she heard the fiddle and the mazurka behind her; and looking round she saw the old dwarf, who was playing away, and making the most hideous grimaces as his chin pressed the violin. "dance, my lady, dance!" he shouted. "i do not think i can," said amelia; "i am so weary with stooping over my work." "then rest a few minutes," he answered, "and i will play you a jig. a jig is a beautiful dance, such life, such spirit! so!" and he played faster and faster, his arm, his face, his fiddle-bow all seemed working together; and as he played, the threads danced themselves into three heaps. "that is not bad, is it?" said the dwarf; "and now for our own dance," and he played the mazurka. "get the measure well into your head. lá, la fá lâ! lâ, la fá lâ! so!" and throwing away his fiddle, he caught amelia round the waist, and they danced as before. after which, she had no difficulty in putting the three heaps of thread into a basket. "where are these to be kicked to?" asked the young goblins. "to the four winds of heaven," said the old dwarf. "there are very few drawing-room conversations worth putting together a second time. they are not like old china bowls." by moonlight. thus amelia's tasks were ended; but not a word was said of her return home. the dwarfs were now very kind, and made so much of her that it was evident that they meant her to remain with them. amelia often cooked for them, and she danced and played with them, and never showed a sign of discontent; but her heart ached for home, and when she was alone she would bury her face in the flowers and cry for her mother. one day she overheard the dwarfs in consultation. "the moon is full to-morrow," said one--("then i have been a month down here," thought amelia; "it was full moon that night")--"shall we dance in the mary meads?" "by all means," said the old tinker dwarf; "and we will take amelia, and dance my dance." "is it safe?" said another. "look how content she is," said the old dwarf; "and, oh! how she dances; my feet tickle at the bare thought." "the ordinary run of mortals do not see us," continued the objector; "but she is visible to any one. and there are men and women who wander in the moonlight, and the mary meads are near her old home." "i will make her a hat of touchwood," said the old dwarf, "so that even if she is seen it will look like a will-o'-the-wisp bobbing up and down. if she does not come, i will not. i must dance my dance. you do not know what it is! we two alone move together with a grace which even here is remarkable. but when i think that up yonder we shall have attendant shadows echoing our movements, i long for the moment to arrive." "so be it," said the others; and amelia wore the touchwood hat, and went up with them to the mary meads. amelia and the dwarf danced the mazurka, and their shadows, now as short as themselves, then long and gigantic, danced beside them. as the moon went down, and the shadows lengthened, the dwarf was in raptures. "when one sees how colossal one's very shadow is," he remarked, "one knows one's true worth. you also have a good shadow. we are partners in the dance, and i think we will be partners for life. but i have not fully considered the matter, so this is not to be regarded as a formal proposal." and he continued to dance, singing, "lâ, la, fá, lâ, lâ, la, fá, lâ." it was highly admired. the mary meads lay a little below the house where amelia's parents lived, and once during the night her father, who was watching by the sick bed of the stock, looked out of the window. "how lovely the moonlight is!" he murmured; "but, dear me! there is a will-o'-the-wisp yonder. i had no idea the mary meads were so damp." then he pulled the blind down and went back into the room. as for poor amelia, she found no four-leaved clover, and at cockcrow they all went underground. "we will dance on hunch hill to-morrow," said the dwarfs. all went as before; not a clover plant of any kind did amelia see, and at cockcrow the revel broke up. on the following night they danced in the hayfield. the old stubble was now almost hidden by green clover. there was a grand fairy dance--a round dance, which does not mean, as with us, a dance for two partners, but a dance where all join hands and dance round and round in a circle with appropriate antics. round they went, faster and faster, the pointed shoes now meeting in the centre like the spokes of a wheel, now kicked out behind like spikes, and then scamper, caper, hurry! they seemed to fly, when suddenly the ring broke at one corner, and nothing being stronger than its weakest point, the whole circle were sent flying over the field. "ho, ho, ho!" laughed the dwarfs, for they are good-humoured little folk, and do not mind a tumble. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed amelia, for she had fallen with her fingers on a four-leaved clover. she put it behind her back, for the old tinker dwarf was coming up to her, wiping the mud from his face with his leathern apron. "now for our dance!" he shrieked. "and i have made up my mind--partners now and partners always. you are incomparable. for three hundred years i have not met with your equal." but amelia held the four-leaved clover above her head, and cried from her very heart--"i want to go home!" the dwarf gave a hideous yell of disappointment, and at this instant the stock came tumbling head over heels into the midst, crying--"oh! the pills, the powders, and the draughts! oh, the lotions and embrocations! oh, the blisters, the poultices, and the plasters! men may well be so short-lived!" and amelia found herself in bed in her own home. at home again. by the side of amelia's bed stood a little table, on which were so many big bottles of medicine, that amelia smiled to think of all the stock must have had to swallow during the month past. there was an open bible on it too, in which amelia's mother was reading, whilst tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks. the poor lady looked so thin and ill, so worn with sorrow and watching, that amelia's heart smote her, as if some one had given her a sharp blow. "mamma, mamma! mother, my dear, dear mother!" the tender, humble, loving tone of voice was so unlike amelia's old imperious snarl, that her mother hardly recognized it; and when she saw amelia's eyes full of intelligence instead of the delirium of fever, and that (though older and thinner and rather pale) she looked wonderfully well, the poor worn-out lady could hardly restrain herself from falling into hysterics for very joy. "dear mamma, i want to tell you all about it," said amelia, kissing the kind hand that stroked her brow. but it appeared that the doctor had forbidden conversation; and though amelia knew it would do her no harm, she yielded to her mother's wish and lay still and silent. "now, my love, it is time to take your medicine." but amelia pleaded--"oh, mamma, indeed i don't want any medicine. i am quite well, and would like to get up." "ah, my dear child!" cried her mother, "what i have suffered in inducing you to take your medicine, and yet see what good it has done you." "i hope you will never suffer any more from my wilfulness," said amelia; and she swallowed two tablespoonfuls of a mixture labelled "to be well shaken before taken," without even a wry face. presently the doctor came. "you're not so very angry at the sight of me to-day, my little lady, eh?" he said. "i have not seen you for a long time," said amelia; "but i know you have been here, attending a stock who looked like me. if your eyes had been touched with fairy ointment, however, you would have been aware that it was a fairy imp, and a very ugly one, covered with hair. i have been living in terror lest it should go back underground in the shape of a black cat. however, thanks to the four-leaved clover, and the old woman of the heath, i am at home again." on hearing this rhodomontade, amelia's mother burst into tears, for she thought the poor child was still raving with fever. but the doctor smiled pleasantly, and said--"ay, ay, to be sure," with a little nod, as one should say, "we know all about it;" and laid two fingers in a casual manner on amelia's wrist. "but she is wonderfully better, madam," he said afterwards to her mamma; "the brain has been severely tried, but she is marvellously improved: in fact, it is an effort of nature, a most favourable effort, and we can but assist the rally; we will change the medicine." which he did, and very wisely assisted nature with a bottle of pure water flavoured with tincture of roses. "and it was so very kind of him to give me his directions in poetry," said amelia's mamma; "for i told him my memory, which is never good, seemed going completely, from anxiety, and if i had done anything wrong just now, i should never have forgiven myself. and i always found poetry easier to remember than prose,"--which puzzled everybody, the doctor included, till it appeared that she had ingeniously discovered a rhyme in his orders-- 'to be kept cool and quiet, with light nourishing diet.' under which treatment amelia was soon pronounced to be well. she made another attempt to relate her adventures, but she found that not even nurse would believe in them. "why you told me yourself i might meet with the fairies," said amelia, reproachfully. "so i did, my dear," nurse replied, "and they say that it's that put it into your head. and i'm sure what you say about the dwarfs and all is as good as a printed book, though you can't think that ever i would have let any dirty clothes store up like that, let alone your frocks, my dear. but for pity's sake, miss amelia, don't go on about it to your mother, for she thinks you'll never get your senses right again, and she has fretted enough about you, poor lady; and nursed you night and day till she is nigh worn out. and anybody can see you've been ill, miss, you've grown so, and look paler and older like. well, to be sure, as you say, if you'd been washing and working for a month in a place without a bit of sun, or a bed to lie on, and scraps to eat, it would be enough to do it; and many's the poor child that has to, and gets worn and old before her time. but, my dear, whatever you think, give in to your mother; you'll never repent giving in to your mother, my dear, the longest day you live." so amelia kept her own counsel. but she had one confidant. when her parents brought the stock home on the night of amelia's visit to the haycocks, the bulldog's conduct had been most strange. his usual good-humour appeared to have been exchanged for incomprehensible fury, and he was with difficulty prevented from flying at the stock, who on her part showed an anger and dislike fully equal to his. finally the bulldog had been confined to the stable, where he remained the whole month, uttering from time to time such howls, with his snub nose in the air, that poor nurse quite gave up hope of amelia's recovery. "for indeed, my dear, they do say that a howling dog is a sign of death, and it was more than i could abear." but the day after amelia's return, as nurse was leaving the room with a tray which had carried some of the light nourishing diet ordered by the doctor, she was knocked down, tray and all, by the bulldog, who came tearing into the room, dragging a chain and dirty rope after him, and nearly choked by the desperate efforts which had finally effected his escape from the stable. and he jumped straight on to the end of amelia's bed, where he lay, _thudding_ with his tail, and giving short whines of ecstasy. and as amelia begged that he might be left, and as it was evident that he would bite any one who tried to take him away, he became established as chief nurse. when amelia's meals were brought to the bedside on a tray, he kept a fixed eye on the plates, as if to see if her appetite were improving. and he would even take a snack himself, with an air of great affability. and when amelia told him her story, she could see by his eyes, and his nose, and his ears, and his tail, and the way he growled whenever the stock was mentioned, that he knew all about it. as, on the other hand, he had no difficulty in conveying to her by sympathetic whines the sentiment, "of course i would have helped you if i could; but they tied me up, and this disgusting old rope has taken me a month to worry through." so, in spite of the past, amelia grew up good and gentle, unselfish and considerate for others. she was unusually clever, as those who have been with the "little people" are said always to be. and she became so popular with her mother's acquaintances that they said--"we will no longer call her amelia, for it is a name we learnt to dislike, but we will call her amy, that is to say, 'beloved.'" * * * * * "and did my godmother's grandmother believe that amelia had really been with the fairies, or did she think it was all fever ravings?" "that, indeed, she never said, but she always observed that it was a pleasant tale with a good moral, which was surely enough for anybody." the end. _richard clay & sons, limited, london & bungay._ [transcriber's note: the following statement was in the edition from which this copy was acquired.] _the present series of mrs. ewing's works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform edition published. it will consist of volumes, small crown vo, at s. d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the series will be completed within months. the device of the cover was specially designed by a friend of mrs. ewing._ _the following is a list of the books included in the series_-- . melchior's dream, and other tales. . mrs. overtheway's remembrances. . old-fashioned fairy-tales. . a flat iron for a farthing. . the brownies, and other tales. . six to sixteen. . lob-lie-by-the-fire, and other tales. . jan of the windmill. . verses for children, and songs. . the peace egg--a christmas mumming play--hints for private theatricals, &c. . a great emergency, and other tales. . brothers of pity, and other tales of beasts and men. . we and the world, part i. . we and the world, part ii. . jackanapes--daddy darwin's dovecote--the story of a short life. . mary's meadow, and other tales of fields and flowers. . miscellanea, including the mystery of the bloody hand--wonder stories--tales of the khoja, and other translations. . juliana horatia ewing and her books, with a selection from mrs. ewing's letters. * * * * * s.p.c.k., northumberland avenue, london, w.c. carlo, or kindness rewarded mcloughlin bros new york carlo, or kindness rewarded. ida was a kind-hearted girl, and one day when crossing a bridge near her home, she saw two boys on the banks of the stream, trying to drown a little dog. ida, like all good girls, could not bear to see anything suffer, and was brave enough to try and prevent it. so, she ran to the shore, wringing her hands, and crying loudly, "oh! you bad, wicked boys! how can you be so cruel to that poor little dog?" the boys looked at her in wonder, for they were more thoughtless than cruel; and one of them said, "father sold the rest of the pups, but could not sell this one, and so he told us to drown it." "then he should have done it himself," replied ida, her pretty face flushing with anger as she spoke, "and not have trusted it to boys, who would cause it needless pain." the dog had, by this time, reached the bank, and after politely shaking off the water, crept timidly toward ida, as if he knew her for a friend. "poor little fellow," she said, patting his head tenderly, "how pitiful he looks! will you give him to me?" "yes," said the boys, looking very foolish, "we did not mean to be cruel. you may have him and welcome." ida thanked the boys very sweetly, and ran home. "oh! mamma," she cried, "look at this dear little dog; two boys were trying to drown him in the creek, and i asked them to give him to me. may i keep him, dear mamma?" "my dear child," said mrs. mason, (which was the name of ida's mother,) "i am very glad to hear that you saved the little creature from pain. we cannot very well keep him here, but perhaps, in a few days, we can find some one who will be kind to him." ida was a little disappointed, for we always love anything we have saved from death, but she said nothing, and you will see in the end how her goodness was rewarded. the next morning, ida sat at the door of the cottage, studying her lesson, while her new pet, little carlo (as she had named the dog) played at her feet. a pleasant looking young lad, who was walking slowly down the road, switching the tall grass as he came, stopped to look at the pretty picture. his name was eugene morris, and he was the son of a rich gentleman, who lived near by. "good morning, ida," he said, with a bow and a smile, "is that pretty little dog yours?" "yes, sir," said ida, blushing a little; "but mamma says i must give him away, because we cannot afford to keep him." ida then told the story of the dog, and how she had saved him from the hands of the thoughtless boys; and finished by saying that she was only keeping him, until she could find some kind person who would take good care of him. eugene looked much pleased at her artless story, and after a short pause, said, "well, pretty ida, i do not ask you to _give_ him to me, but if you will _sell_ him, i will take him with pleasure. here are five dollars; will that pay for carlo?" "we do not want any _pay_ for good carlo," said ida, patting the little creature tenderly, "except a promise of kind treatment, and that i am sure he will get from you." eugene looked pleased at this, and, with a "good-bye, then, till to-morrow," went slowly down the road, and was soon out of sight. the next morning, eugene came, and took carlo away, leaving five dollars with mrs. mason, which he compelled her to take, for he knew she was poor, and a widow. ida cried a little when carlo whined for her, but she knew that he would be in good hands and soon dried her tears. [illustration: ida saving carlo.] one morning, about two years after carlo had gone with his new master, ida was standing upon the same bridge, looking at some fish which darted about in the water as if at play. at last they went further under the bridge; and ida, leaning over, a little too far, in her eagerness to see them, lost her balance, and fell over the low rail into the creek, which, at that point, was deep enough to drown her! she had but just time to give one loud cry of fright, as she sunk beneath the cruel water. in a moment, she rose to the top, but only to sink again. poor ida! is there no one to help her? yes, the good god who watches over the smallest of his creatures has not forgotten little ida. a large dog, who lay lazily winking in the sunshine a little way off, has heard her cry. he pricks up his ears, and comes swiftly toward her, with great leaps--barking loudly as he jumps--in a moment he plunges into the creek, and catches ida by her dress just as she is about to sink for the last time! ida is heavy, and cannot help herself, but the dog is strong and brave, and, swimming and tugging with all his might, he soon brings her in safety to the shore. then pulling her head out of the water, so that it rested on the soft grass, he raised his head in the air, opened his great mouth, and barked long and loudly for help. and help was near. the master of the dog, a tall, handsome boy, came running up, "why, carlo boy, what's the matter?" he said cheerily. but in a moment he saw ida still partly in the water, with her eyes closed, as if dead! he at once drew her up on the bank, when she soon opened her eyes, and looked around as if she did not know where she was. but eugene morris, for it was he, said, "what! little ida, nearly drowned. why, how in the world did you get in the water?" ida was now well enough to tell her story; and after she had finished, eugene called her attention to the dog, at the same time wrapping ida in his overcoat, and leading her toward her home. "don't you know him?" he said, "it is your old friend carlo; you saved _his_ life, and now he has saved yours in return." [illustration: eugene and ida.] how strange are the ways of god! the very dog which ida saved from death, two years before, had now been able to pay his debt to the tender-hearted little girl, on the same spot! this surely is not chance, but seems to show that good deeds are rewarded even in _this_ world. carlo, who was a well-bred dog, had shaken himself dry by this time, and was rubbing his nose against ida's dress, as if to say, "don't you know your old friend?" as she was still weak, from the shock of the fall and the fright, eugene went home with her, and explained the thing to the alarmed mrs. mason, after which he took his leave, promising to come and see her the next day. eugene was as good as his word; and early the next morning came down to the widow's cottage, accompanied by a gentleman and a little girl about four years old, whom ida had never seen before. carlo, of course, was in the party, and was made much of by everybody, receiving a great deal of attention, which he accepted with much dignity; sitting up on his hind legs, wagging his tail, and giving vent, now and then, to a short, amiable bark of thanks to his kind friends. [illustration: carlo saving ida.] the gentleman, who was eugene's father, mr. morris, after kissing little ida, said, "this little girl whom i have brought to see you, is my only daughter lottie; and _you_ were the means of her having been saved from drowning." ida's look of surprise at this, was comical to see. "not long since," went on mr. morris, "our good carlo saved _her_ life, just as he did _yours_, yesterday. eugene tells me, that, but for your goodness of heart, carlo would have been killed when he was a puppy; and in that case i should have had no little lottie to-day; for there was no one near at the time but the nurse, who was too much frightened to be of any use. i desire then, mrs. mason, with your permission, to make ida a little present." so saying, he kissed ida again--put a small package into her hand, and bowing politely, to the surprised mrs. mason; left the cottage with his party, before she could find words to thank him. the package proved to be a bank-book in which ida was credited with five thousand dollars in her own name! this was mr. morris's "little present." mrs. mason owned the cottage in which she lived, but nothing more; and was obliged to sew, early and late, to gain a scanty support for ida and herself. this money was, therefore, great wealth to them, and would enable mrs. mason to fulfil the dearest wish of her heart, which was to give a good education to her beloved ida. every kind action is, i think, rewarded, either here or hereafter; yet we should try to do good for its own sake, and leave the result to the great father of us all! [illustration: frontispiece.] kindness to animals; or, the sin of cruelty exposed and rebuked. [illustration] revised by the committee of publication of the american sunday-school union. philadelphia: american sunday-school union, chestnut street. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by herman cope, treasurer, in trust for the american sunday-school union, in the clerk's office of the district court of the eastern district of pennsylvania. kindness to animals. kindness to animals. [illustration] chapter i. about the beginning. many books have been written about animals, and very good books too, giving a great deal of information. most of them are called works of natural history; and they usually give some description of the birds and beasts, fishes and insects, that are known to man. i am not going to write such a book as that; but to say a little about different kinds of creatures that we are all in the habit of seeing, and to tell you a few things of some which have belonged to me, or have come under my own observation; so that, at least, i can promise to write nothing but what i know to be true. i have not learned their characters and habits from books, but by watching them ever since i was a very young child; and many a happy hour i have spent in that delightful employment. one of the first things that it came into my little head to ask was, "how were the animals made; and why were any of them made wild and cruel, while some are tame and quiet?" i was told that the bible gave an answer to that question; and so it does. if we look in the first chapter of genesis, where there is an account of the creation of the world, we find that on the fifth day god created the fishes to move in the water, and the fowls to fly in the air; and on the sixth day, "god made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and god saw that it was good." from this we learn, that there was no violence or cruelty in any of them, as they first came from the hand of the holy and merciful god. and i would have you take particular notice of what directly follows: "and god said, let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth." now, the great god is invisible--a spirit--and not a body, as i think you all know; and when it is said that god made man in his own image, it must mean that man was made to be holy, and just, and good, and merciful; and he was made to be a careful and loving ruler over the poor dumb creatures, as the lord god is a careful and loving ruler over all that he has created. then, in the next chapter, we have a beautiful picture before us: i do not mean a print, or drawing, but a description in words, that, if we think a little, will make us fancy we see a lovely sight, such as we cannot now see anywhere. we are told that out of the ground the lord god formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and then that he "brought them unto adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof." was it not a wonderful and a beautiful sight? there, in a very delicious garden, full of all manner of rich fruit and bright flowers, with soft warm air, and calm sunshine, was the first and only man in all the world! he was righteous and good, without any malice, or cruelty, or covetousness, or pride in his heart, looking with delight upon the creatures that came about him as their rightful ruler, to receive their names. can you not fancy how he must have admired the noble and beautiful creatures as they meekly and lovingly came to him? the mighty lion, shaking the curls of his mane, and fixing his eyes (not then fierce and fiery, but bright and joyous) on the man, who, by god's gift, was mightier than he; the great elephant, putting out his trunk to caress his new master, and passing on to rest under the shadow of some stately tree; the horse, with his arching neck and prancing movements; the fond dog; the gentle sheep; the peacock, with its plumes of blue, and green, and gold; the majestic snow-white swan; the little linnet; the robin-redbreast; and that most beautiful, tiny creature, the humming-bird; the gay butterfly; the bee. it is impossible to go over the names of even what we know by sight, of the good creatures of god, who on that sixth day of the creation came about our first father, to receive just what name he was pleased to give them. but i often think about it, because it keeps me in mind that the lord god never overlooks any thing which he has seen good to make. but what changed the animals so sadly as they must have been changed, to become what some of them are now? that we learn in the next chapter. eve listened to the wicked temptation of satan, and disobeyed the good and gracious lord god, and persuaded adam to do the same. so every thing was altered: they were driven out of that fair garden into the wide world, the ground of which was cursed for man's sake; and this curse, which fell upon the earth, made it bring forth thorns and thistles, and then it was very difficult for man to make it fruitful, till he had cut and bruised it with iron spades and ploughshares, and bestowed a great deal of labour upon it. this sad curse was on the animals too; not by their fault, poor things! but by man's dreadful sin. for, you see, it was god who made them subject to man; and when man became a rebel and traitor to god, the creatures turned against him, and against each other. oh, it is sad to think of all the misery and crime brought into the world by the ungrateful disobedience of man to his heavenly king and father! however, it did happen once again that a thing as wonderful though not so beautiful was seen: indeed, we may say more wonderful, considering how the nature of the creatures had been changed for the worse. when all the world had become so wicked that god resolved to destroy every human being from off the face of the earth, except noah and his family, he directed that pious man to make an ark, as you all know--an immense ship, or floating house--in which he was to be preserved on the surface of the waters for many days. when this great ark was ready, god caused a pair of each from among all the animals and birds to come to noah, and to enter into the ark. of some kinds there were seven, and of none less than two. this was a very great miracle; and it shows us, too, how perfectly the lord knows and numbers all the works of his hands, and how tenderly he cares for them all. this is one of the things that we are apt to forget when have a beast, or a bird, or a fish, or an insect, in our power. we are too ready to say to ourselves, "this is mine, and i may do what i like to it." not so; it is a creature of god's, not of ours; and if we do to it any thing that he does not approve of, he will surely reckon with us for it. when i call this to mind, i am alarmed--though i do not think i have often been cruel to animals, or any such thing--and i am ready to pray, "lord, if i have hurt any of thy creatures, pardon my past sin, for jesus christ's sake, i beseech thee; and give me grace to be merciful for the future." now, having told you how i got instructed when i was little, i shall give you the history of some animals and birds that i have had, and how i treated them, and what amusement they gave me. i am sure if you knew how very amusing they all are, when left to their own harmless ways, and gently restrained from ways that are not harmless, you would think it a great loss to have them so altered as they are by bad management. if i had been a great traveller, i could tell you more wonderful stories; but having only been in england, and ireland, and part of north america, my store of anecdotes is not so great. however, i will try my best to give you some notion of what i do know; and as i shall often have occasion to name jack, i will begin by telling you who he was. jack was a little irish boy, who became deaf while he was still a baby; and because, as you know, babies learn to talk by hearing those around them, jack, not hearing anybody talk, could not learn, and so he grew up dumb. it is a sad thing to be deaf and dumb. a person who is so, cannot possibly learn any thing about god and our lord jesus christ, until he has been taught to read; and it is so very difficult to teach them, that if some benevolent people, who have money, did not subscribe to keep up charitable schools on purpose for the deaf and dumb poor, i do not suppose that one in a thousand of them would ever learn so much as that they have a soul to be saved or lost: and you may judge what a miserable life they must lead, in total ignorance, nobody speaking to them, and they not able to speak to anybody. jack was in this state when i first saw him, at eleven years old; he was a poor boy, and i took him, and taught him, and he lived with me above seven years, till he died of a consumption. he died very happy indeed, full of love to god for his great mercy in sending his son into the world to save sinners: and depending on the lord jesus for salvation. he was always with me, speaking by means of his fingers, but in an odd, that is, an imperfect sort of language, that would make you smile. so when i mention jack, you will know who i mean; and we will now have some talk about the domestic animals. when i say domestic, i mean such as we are used to see in our houses, streets, and fields. lions, tigers, elephants, and such as are shut up in caravans, or only taken about for a show, do not belong to these; though i am not sure that i shall not have a word or two to say about bears and monkeys. i want to amuse you, my young friends, and to make you think a little too; for all the good things given us of god become more valuable to us when we think about them in a right way. jack knew this: he used to rub his forehead with his fingers' ends, shake his head wisely, and spell, "very good think." i hope you will judge the same; and when you have come to the end of my little book, be able to say you have had a "very good think" too. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. the horse. the great mistake that people seem to me to make about animals is this: they fancy that they must be frightened into obedience, and kept from disobeying their masters by being made afraid of punishment. i dare say that animals, like human beings, often need correction; but two things are necessary to make such correction useful. one is, not to punish them too severely, which only hardens them in rebellion; the other is, never to hurt them at all except for a real fault--something that they know to be a fault, and know that they will be punished for doing. otherwise, the poor beast, not knowing when or why it may be beaten, gets confused and foolish, and does wrong, as any boy might do, from being in a great fright. the truth is, that the animals are very sensible, and very willing to do their best. they are fond of being praised and rewarded; they become very much attached to those who treat them kindly; and when they are so attached, they are very happy, and show off all the fine qualities that make them both valuable and entertaining. i am going to tell you some stories about my own favourites; and, to prevent your thinking that they were different from others of the same kind, i shall begin by letting you into the secret of making them so knowing. first, i tried to find out their habits; and i will tell you what they are. all very young animals like to sleep a good deal, and to be let alone. it both frightens and hurts them to be pulled about, and makes them fretful and ill-tempered; spoils their growth, and prevents their loving you. a puppy or a kitten is very fond of play, and will jump and bounce about with you for a long while; but the moment they begin to get tired, they should be left alone, to rest as much as they like. you may suppose, that if, when you are comfortably going to sleep at night, a rough-handed man were to come and shake you, and bawl out in your ears, and wake you continually, you would soon become fretful and ill too, and feverish, and be very glad to get out of the way of such a tormentor. so my rule is, when creatures are young, to let them have as much sleep as they will. it may sometimes prevent their being playthings when you want them; but it will be made up in their health, and good-temper, and gratitude to you. next, all creatures like liberty: a horse or a dog is never so happy as when bounding across the fields in perfect freedom. why does chaining or tying up a dog make him savage? because he then looks on mankind as his enemies, and fancies that everybody he meets is going to take away his liberty. my dogs have known as little about chains as possible: two of them had been used to be tied up before i had them, and i never could break them of being savage. as to beating it out of them, it would be like putting on coals to keep a fire from burning. that, you know, makes the fire look dull for a little while; but the moment you stir it, up it blazes, much higher and brighter than if no coals had been put on. i knew a horse that was not naturally good-tempered, and bad usage had made him much worse: he was then bought by a gentleman, who gave him enough of the whip, and spur, and sharp iron bit to cure him, if that could have done it; but it only made him cunning and revengeful. poor beast! a little patient kindness would have gone much farther. i will tell you an instance of this. once i had a mare, and such a beautiful creature she was! she lived on a sort of farm, where they had not put her to work, and where the children had been used to play with her. she was hardly full grown. i lived then in a house with very low windows, and the pretty mare was grazing on the outside. one warm day, the windows were all open, and i was sitting at work, when she popped her beautiful head and neck in at the one nearest to me. i gave her a bit of bread that was lying by me, and told her to go away; but she would not. i said to myself, "why should i drive her away? god made the animals to be loving and confiding towards man; and if this lonely creature wants me to be a friend to her, why should i not? the bible says, 'a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast;' and what is life to a poor animal that has no hereafter to look to, if its life be without comforts?" so i put down my work, and went and rubbed her forehead, stroked her long white face, patted her shining neck, and talked to her. after this when i was alone at my morning work, she was sure to put her head in at one of the windows, to ask, in her dumb way, to be petted; and many an apple, many a handful of oats, did she get by coming there. she would soon listen for my footstep about the house, and i seldom could look out from any window without seeing her under it, or before it. she would also follow me like a dog when i walked in the grounds where she grazed. [illustration] one day, a gentleman's groom undertook to ride her; but he began by whipping and by jerking the bridle, which is a very cruel thing. my mare did not like this; and as he went on doing it, she lost her patience; and after a long trial as to who should be master, she threw him over her head, and trotted home to her stable. he was not hurt, but very much mortified, being a soldier, and a great horseman; and he told his master that she was the most vicious beast in the world, not safe for anybody to ride. i did not like my pretty mare to get such a bad name: so i told my own groom to put on the side saddle, and i asked the gentleman to mount his fine english horse, and to ride out, and see if she were not easily managed. we had a long ride over mountains, and through little streams, and crossing deep torrents by the unsteady bridges made of trunks of trees, and he said he never saw an animal so full of spirit and good-temper as my mare. i never touched her with the whip, but spoke gently to her; and i can truly say, that for the year and a half of my riding her every day, she never brought me into danger, nor ever disobeyed me. you may say, "but this was a particular sort of horse, not like others." i have only to answer you, that the bad, vicious horse i spoke of before, was bred in the same place, lived in the same stable, and the only difference between them was the different usage that they had received. the horse is one of the most sensible and most affectionate of creatures. you see, every day, how they will obey the man who drives them, going on, stopping, moving to the right or left, and turning any corner, all without the driver going near them. they have learned the meaning of his words, or they could not do this; and is it not dreadful that a creature able to understand, and most willing to obey the voice, should be beaten and tortured as horses are? why does a horse go as fast as he can when he is cruelly whipped, and his poor mouth wounded by the hard bit? because he is trying to get away from the man or boy who treats him so. ah, when god brought his beautiful creatures to the first man, to be named, and gave them into his care, there was no appearance of man ever becoming so cruel, or the animals so miserable as they now are! yet the lord loves mercy and judgment, and hates tyranny and wrong, as much now as he did then: and we may be quite certain of this, that every cruelty committed is an offence in his sight, and will be terribly punished, if it be not repented of, and left off; for when a person says he repents, and goes on doing the same thing as before, he is deceiving himself and provoking god. the horse must bear a great deal of dreadful pain and suffering to be made fit for the use man puts him to, in drawing carriages, and other things. it is not natural to him to have even a bridle and saddle on him; much less to be loaded with harness, to wear blinders on his eyes, and to drag a great heavy weight as fast as he can run, keeping always attentive to the least touch of the reins, and turning accordingly, to prevent running his carriage against others. his fine spirit must be broken, his liberty quite taken away, and many a bitter smart must the poor, dumb, harmless, helpless creature suffer. but surely this ought to be enough; and you would not be the cruel wretch to add to his pains? sometimes people _must_ go fast; but one who would distress and torment a horse to make him go fast, just because it pleases the driver to be moving quickly, is doing a very wrong thing; and so is the person who could neglect to give food and drink to a horse when he wants it. i wonder when i see the poor doing this. they know what it is to be overworked, and to want as much as they could eat; they are often cold, and cannot get fuel enough: and if they were tied up, and not able to run about, or to help themselves, having no servants to wait on them, how very badly off they would think themselves! yet a poor horse is much worse off; he can neither do any thing for himself, nor express his wants to others: he does his best, serves us faithfully, obeys all that he understands; and then to be ill-used, neglected, starved! it is a thing that i cannot bear to think of; and i hope my readers will always set their faces against such wickedness. remember that promise which the lord has given, "blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." i dare say you have heard of the arabs--a wild people, the descendants of ishmael, the son of abraham, who possess a great deal of country in the east; and are powerful, and much feared, because nobody has been able to conquer them. their greatest strength consists in having the boldest, fleetest, most docile horses in the whole world. arabian horses may be known in a moment by their uncommon beauty, their delicate arched necks, waving manes, and long tails; but though a great price is given for them, and they are lodged, and fed, and tended with all the care possible, they cannot be so happy in a king's palace, as in the tent or hut of their poor masters at home. the arab treats his horse like a child; gives it to eat of his own victuals, to drink of his own bowl of milk, and lets it sleep in the midst of his family. of course, the animal becomes so fond of him, that it serves him for love, carries him through all dangers, and has often been known to defend him with its life. we cannot bring up our horses in this way, nor treat them as the wild arab does; but knowing what sense, and feeling, and gratitude, and love, this noble creature can and does show, we ought to be always watching to avoid giving it unnecessary pain, and to persuade others to be equally kind. i cannot tell you how it used to grieve my dumb boy, jack, when he saw a horse ill-used; or how very kind he was to one that he had the care of. he would sooner have wanted food and drink himself, than have allowed his master's horse to feel hunger or thirst. he was very tender when rubbing it down, if there was any, sore place; and if the animal got cross or impatient, he would say to me in signs, "poor horse not know: horse tired: soon go sleep, poor horse!" that was a very strong, spirited animal, and needed a steady hand to rein him in; but i often saw the dumb boy jump on his back, and with only the halter over his head, guide him where he chose. i never saw him give that horse a blow or a kick, in all the two years that he tended him. jack was fourteen when he began, and sixteen when he left off being his groom. he was strong and healthy then; but at nineteen he died; and he told me that it made him very happy to think that he had never been cruel to any of god's poor creatures. but i must not say any more now about the noble horse. there is another animal, the natural companion of man, the dog, which comes next in value; for though it cannot take us on a long journey, or convey our goods from place to place, it stands sentry over us and our property, being not only a good servant, but a most intelligent, fond, and faithful friend. it does not need to be broke in, like the horse; it learns the ways and the wishes of those around it; and the more liberty you give it, the more eager it is to serve and please you. the dog deserves a chapter to himself, and shall have it. [illustration] chapter iii. the dog. there is a great deal of sorrow in the world: perhaps, through the goodness of god, you have been kept from suffering much yourselves, but you must have seen trouble among your friends and neighbours; sickness and death, perhaps. and it often happens that great distress comes on people, so as to keep them hungry and cold, for want of what would buy enough food and fuel. besides this, how often the bad conduct of one in a family will make the rest unhappy! a single drunkard, or thief, or violent person, will bring shame and misery on all the rest. the world is full of troubles; but i do not think that we often find, even among those of our own nature, men, women, boys, and girls, not related to us, a person with so little selfishness as to be always sorry and sad when we are so, and because we are so. when we meet with any one so kind-hearted, we love that person, and would do a great deal to serve or oblige such a feeling friend. now, i always observed that a dog, when kindly treated and taken care of, will show his concern for the troubles of his master or mistress, in a wonderful way. indeed, i never, in my life, had a dog that would not do so; and seeing this has convinced me that it is worse than cruel to treat a dog ill--it is most ungrateful. it does sometimes happen that a dog has a bad and violent temper, even from a puppy; and if very careful treatment does not soon cure this, i should say that such a dog ought to be destroyed, by a quick and easy death; not making the poor brute suffer for what it cannot help. but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a dog's savageness is the fault of those who have brought him up: and few things are more wicked than to teach or encourage a dog to fight his own race, or to bark and fly at human beings. when the world was as god made it, there was no hatred in it, no quarrelling, no wish in any living creature to frighten or hurt any other living creatures; but when adam became a sinner, his sin broke through all this beautiful order, and peace, and love, and set the animals against each other, and against himself. i am trying always to remember this; for when they alarm or distress me, and i am thinking to punish them, i ought not to forget what first made the brutes vicious, and brought so much suffering on them. it was man's sin alone: man should therefore do the best he can to make them amends; and not increase their misery, as he often does, by cruel severity. i think you will agree with me in this. besides, it is a certain truth, that god's eye is upon us and on the animals about us, as much as it was on adam and the living creatures that came to him to be named; and though we and they are much changed for the worse, yet the lord god never does or can change. he is as righteous, as holy, as merciful, and as just to-day, as he was then. how often has jack, when he saw a thoughtless boy hurting a dog, or any other animal, gone up to him, and said, on his fingers, in a very quiet, gentle, but earnest manner, "god see--god angry." he felt much for the dumb beast, suffering pain; but more for the boy who was forgetting that the lord's hand would yet punish him, when he least expected it: for jack very well knew that the bible says, "he shall have judgment without mercy that hath showed no mercy." dogs have been a great amusement to me ever since i was a baby; and i never have been without one in the house when i could keep one. ladies and gentlemen are not often willing to let their carpets be soiled by dogs; but the poor people, who are not troubled with carpets, make companions of them. i am writing this book in a room with a carpet and good furniture, but i have my two dogs with me. there is little fiddy, the small spaniel, at my feet, where he has lain every day for eight years; and there is bronti, the fine big newfoundlander, lying, where do you think? why the rogue has got upon the sofa, and when i shake my head at him, he wags his long tail, and turns up his large bright eyes to my face, as much as to say, "pray let me stop here; it is so comfortable." but no, bronti, you must walk down, my fine fellow, or some lady coming to see me may have her gown soiled, which would not be fair. we have no right to make our pets a plague to other people, and, perhaps, a means of injuring them too. that was enough for bronti; no need of a loud, cross, or threatening voice. he saw that i wished him to leave the sofa, and he wags his tail as contentedly on the carpet. i can manage him with a word, almost with a look, because he was born in the house, and has never been away from me; but master fiddy was a year or two old when i had him, and some things he will do in spite of me. he will hunt a cat, kill a bird, and growl most furiously over a bone. bronti has the same nature, but his love for us overcomes it all. he would live peaceably with a cat, it we had one; he will let the chickens and pigeons perch upon him, or walk between his feet; and last year i had half a dozen tame mice, which i used to let out upon him, when they would nestle in his warm coat, run races over and under him, and he would not move a limb, for fear of hurting one. as to a bone, he will allow me to take it out of his mouth at any time; and, what is more, he will readily give it up to fiddy, whose little teeth can only nibble off the meat; and when he has done that, bronti takes it, and munches the bone. his mother was full grown when i had her, and she was very fierce: if any workman came to the house, unless her master or i was by to restrain her, she would put him in fear of his life; and would have bitten him too, if she could have seized him. we gave her away to a friend who would be kind to her, and keep her out of mischief; and we brought up a puppy for ourselves, this same bronti. now he is more than three years old; and though he will sometimes fight a big dog who affronts him in the street, he never frightened anybody who came to the house. he watches, and gives one single, deep, quiet bark, to let us know that there is a stranger; and seeing that we are satisfied, he sits with one ear thrown back, listening and watching. if he meets a workman in the house, he does not even growl; only keeps him in sight, following him about, but with such a sweet-tempered look, that the greatest coward, if honest, could not contrive to be afraid of him. i might leave a joint of meat under his care, if he were ever so hungry; he would not touch it, because he is truly honest: and as to his sense, you would hardly believe if i told you how sensible he is. when i am putting on my boots, he comes up to me, and looks very eagerly in my face; if i say "yes," or, "bronti shall go," he is just wild with joy, tearing about, barking, and making no small riot. if i say "no," or shake my head sorrowfully and say nothing, he steals away, lies down, and never attempts to follow me: but he gets on a chair, and fiddy on a table, to see me go out at the gate; and then they both begin to cry and moan most piteously, so that nobody can comfort them. on sunday morning, bronti looks very melancholy; how he knows the day i cannot tell. of course, we all go to church, but he begins to be sad as soon as we get up. neither he, nor fiddy would attempt to follow us then, if the doors and gate were all set open: they seat themselves at the window to see us go. and now i recollect one time when bronti was as savage as his mother. you shall hear about it. one sunday, when were all at church, a friend, just landed from a voyage, came to the house. he opened the garden gate, and was walking towards the door, when up jumped bronti on a chair at window, barking, growling, and behaving so violently, that he really dared not try to get into a house where such a wild beast stood ready to seize him. so he went off to the church, found us, and after service returned with us; and bronti, seeing him as a friend of the family, gave him an affectionate welcome. then he told us of his ferocious behaviour; and we were very glad to find that our gentle dog knew how to protect our house and property when it was left entirely to his care. a book larger than this might be filled, all through, with stories about the dog, besides what are already published; but any one of you may see enough to delight you every day in the affectionate creature, it you will only be patient and kind. it is too often the custom to punish a dog when he does not do just what you like; and you may like things quite different at different times. now, the poor brute cannot tell exactly what you wish; and if he is used to get a blow, or an angry scolding, he will be so afraid of doing wrong, that what little sense he has left will fail him, and he will be so confused as to make him do wrong. an animal, or a boy either, living in constant fear of ill-usage whether he deserves it or not, will get either so stupid or so careless, as seldom to do what is required. think a little, and you will understand this. an angry tone and hard words agitate a dog very much. mr. blaine, who wrote a book about their diseases and cures, says that he has often known a dog, weakened by illness, to go into convulsions on hearing another dog violently scolded. i tell you this to explain why some dogs are hard to manage: they are frightened out of their senses; to say nothing of the cruel pain that they are often made to suffer. i have seen a person beat a dog one day for not following him when he wished it, and the next day for following when he was not wanted. i have seen a dog set at another to fight, being encouraged, and irritated, and made savage on purpose; and soon after beaten for flying at some person, or thing that he was not wanted to attack. no wonder if the poor creature loses all his fine qualities under such treatment. all that he wishes is to be allowed to love you, and follow you, and serve you. he wants the help of your reason to keep him from doing wrong; and he wants you to explain to him how he may please you. it has made my heart ache, many a time, to see a poor dog obey his master's call, coming up to him in a crouching, crawling way, trembling with fear, and seeming to say, "pray, pray do not hurt me! i am ready to do what you wish, and to lay down my life for you; but you are going to beat or to kick me, and i am a poor creature, without any one to take my part. i _could_ bite you, i _could_ seize you by the throat, or tear the flesh off your leg, but i will not do so. i come because you call me; pray do not hurt me!" and i have seen the meek, obedient creature struck, and put to cruel pain, without the smallest reason in the world. and when i recollected the words of the bible, "verily there is a god that judgeth in the earth," i have grieved the more to think what punishment that cruel man or boy was bringing on himself. if we call one of our dogs, even when at high play in the fields, he instantly comes bounding up, puts his head on one side, pricks up his ears, and looks full in our faces as if saying, "well, here i am; what do you want me to do?" a beating is the last thing that they would think of. i am not now speaking of bronti and fiddy in particular, but all the dogs that ever i had. the reason is, that the dog is the very fondest creature that breathes; and any but a really ill-tempered dog may be managed by means of this fondness; while, as i before remarked, a really bad-tempered one should not be kept to be punished, but speedily destroyed. you know what a terrible thing the bite of a mad dog is. the wound may be so small as hardly to leave a scar, and it may heal, and be forgotten, perhaps for weeks and months; still, the deadly poison is in the person's blood, and when it breaks out, a most fearful death follows, after such sufferings as nobody, who has not seen them, can have an idea of. but, perhaps, you do not know that the angry bite of a dog, when teased or hurt, has often produced the same awful madness. i remember a neighbour's son dying most horribly of it, who had only had his finger wounded, as if by a pin's point, by the tooth of a little dog which he was teasing and provoking in play. this shows us how very dangerous it is to irritate an animal; for you never know what peril you may run into. these things do not fall out by chance. the lord god orders them all; and sometimes he does very terrible things, in judgment on those who knowingly transgress, and for an example to others. may you, dear young readers, be loving, and merciful, and kind; and never stand for a moment in the hateful character of oppressors, where it is alike your duty and your happiness to help the defenceless and to protect the weak! [illustration] chapter iv. the cat--the cow--the sheep--the ass. poor puss! i have not so much to say for her as for the noble dog. the cat is more selfish, and not so trustful; neither does she often show so much affection for us. the cat's habits are more like those of a wild animal, than are the habits of any other of our domestic creatures. it is hardly possible to keep her from straying about, or to teach her to do no mischief. i have had a cat that would not steal, and a dog that would: both proving that every rule has an exception. i often think, when i see puss watching for mice and birds, and choosing them rather than meat, what a wonderful thing it is that god should have taught a beast of prey to attach itself to man, so far as to rid him of other creatures which, by increasing too fast, would eat up what he wants to live upon. at the same time, i grieve to remember that this war between us and the smaller animals, and between them and each other, comes from our rebellion against god; and i dare not set one creature to destroy another, any farther than is necessary for my own safety, and the support of my family. still the cat is an interesting animal, beautiful, cleanly, graceful, and often very loving. a kitten is even more engaging than a puppy. its fun and frolic are more diverting because of its light, active movements. a grave old cat, sitting in the sunshine, with her eyes half shut, and a merry little kitten, playing with her tail, bounding over her back, and comically boxing her ears, is a sight that i cannot help stopping to admire. but how much to be pitied is a kitten in the hands of children too young to know, or too cruel to care what pain they may put it to! as to setting dogs to hunt and worry cats, or tormenting them on purpose, as some will, i do not wish to think that anybody who can read the bible, or hear it read, is capable of such wickedness; nor should i like to believe that anybody born in this free country, among a brave people, could be so mean a coward. a boy may fancy himself very courageous, if he is able and willing to fight anybody who doubts his being so; but if he is capable of wantonly hurting one of god's creatures, when he gets it into his power, he is a real coward. he alone is truly brave who fears none because he would injure none, but would use all the strength and all the influence that he has, to protect the weak from those who are too powerful for them. i have seen wild cats abroad: most terrible-looking they are, and more dangerous than many larger animals. nobody would offer to play any unfeeling tricks with them; a single look from their fierce, fiery eyes, glaring from the branches of a tree, round which they twist their long tails, would send the boldest of you scampering away. they grow larger, and their fur becomes much richer, when in a wild state. the good providence of god supplies them with very warm, thick coat, when they have no longer the benefit of a corner by the fireside. oh that we would learn lessons of tender mercy by seeing how compassionately the lord cares for the meanest creature that he has made! but about young kittens: there are two things, often done through thoughtlessness, which are both very cruel indeed. one is to kill all her little ones, which not only causes great distress, but severe pain too, to the poor mother. god gives her milk to nourish the little creatures, and if one is not left to draw it off, the animal suffers much torment and fever from it. the other thing is one that no kindhearted person could do, or allow to be done, after being once told how exceedingly inhuman it is: i mean, putting the young ones to death in the mother's sight. the agonies of a bitch, when she sees her puppies drowned, are really a call for divine vengeance on the wretch who could purposely be guilty of such an outrage on the tenderest feelings of nature. the cat, though inferior to the dog in many points, is a most loving mother, and very sagacious in protecting her young. she will often hide them so cunningly, that nobody can reach them; and i have seen a family astonished by the return of a cat which they had supposed was lost, with four or five wild-looking, lean kittens behind her, all their faces being well scratched by the sticks or other rubbish among which they were hidden. the dog never does so: its confiding character leads it to commit its young to its master's care, little as he sometimes deserves such a trust. [illustration] have you a cow? people who live in cities very seldom indeed have one; but in the country, many, who are not rich, contrive to keep one; and a more gentle, quiet, patient animal is not to be found. jack's mother was a poor irishwoman, but she had two cows, and sold their milk to support her family. i have often met her, stepping so stately and steadily, because she had a brim-full pail of milk balanced on her head, and never even put up her hand to support it. jack was very fond of his mother; and next after his parents, brother, and sisters, he certainly loved the cows. it was his business, when quite a little fellow, to serve up to them the pail of hot potatoes in winter; and many a walk he took to the green fields where they pastured in summer, to see that all was safe and right about them. three years after his leaving home, we also kept a cow; and jack insisted on having the care of it, and milking it himself. it was quite a lesson to see how kind and thoughtful the dumb boy was about the poor cow: and what a happy life she led under his management might be easily known by her being always good-tempered and fearless. often, when standing on the lawn, feeding my chickens, i have been surprised by finding her gently rubbing her horns against my shoulder, and asking to be petted, as every animal will ask when encouraged. she gave a great deal more milk than any one expected--for kind usage is a wonderful help in making any creature thrive; and i never shall forget the joyful looks of jack, when, one morning, he came jumping and skipping to me, spelling as fast as he could, "cow baby--cow baby." he did not know the right name for a calf, and our cow had a very pretty one, born in the night. then jack's sweet disposition showed itself farther in the care that he took not to distress the poor creatures more than was necessary. he did not ill-use the cow for being unwilling to leave her young one, and very eager to return to it again; nor did he frighten or hurt the tender little calf for crying and struggling to get to its mother. in all these things there is opportunity for being merciful and kind: and because satan knows that the lord hates cruelty, and will punish those who afflict his helpless creatures, there he chooses these occasions to tempt people into the wanton wickedness of offending the most high by the abuse of such power as he has intrusted them with. jack knew it. i have seen the colour rise to his face, with the effort that he made to overcome the impatience that was provoked by the eagerness of the animals to break through the fence which separated them; but he did overcome it, and said with a smile, "poor baby cow! jack not hurt--no; god see!" ah, it is a happy and a blessed thing to be able to rejoice that god sees us! less than three years after that, jack was called to appear before the lord; and i am sure the recollection of having purposely given pain to others never disturbed the quietness of his death-bed. he felt the blessedness of having been merciful. for my own part, i never can see a man or boy driving cattle with sticks and goads; torturing the poor creatures for being tired, and lame, and thirsty, and faint; and cruelly punishing them for wishing to rest, or do drink, or to crop the green grass; or for being confused and frightened in the noisy, crowded streets of a city, after the quiet country places that they were reared in; i say, i never see such things without a feeling of horror and dread: for the lord god will surely call to a terrible account those who act as if there were no just, holy, and merciful creator, to hear the cry of his tormented creatures, and to prove before men and angels that they did not cry to him in vain. [illustration] the next animal that i shall talk to you about is the sheep. people call them "silly sheep," because they are so easily frightened, and show very little sense of judgment when running away. this is owing to their being driven about. we seem to think it right to make every creature afraid of us, and by that means we weaken their faculties; or, to speak in common words, we frighten them out of their wits. in eastern countries it is quite different. there the flocks are not driven, but led. you will remember that beautiful description in the tenth chapter of john, where our blessed lord jesus christ compares himself to a shepherd, and his people to sheep. it is now above eighteen hundred years since he spoke those words; but travellers tell us that it is exactly the same at this day. speaking of the shepherd, our lord says, "the sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. and when he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him: for they know his voice. and a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him: for they know not the voice of strangers." only fancy what a different sight it must be from what we often witness! instead of a poor, frightened, agitated crowd of panting creatures, running here and there, with perhaps a man or boy shouting after them, outspreading his arms to increase their terror, and a rough dog jumping and barking among them, to see a quiet-looking, happy flock walking after their shepherd, pressing forward to get near him, and each coming readily when called by its name. of course, not being taught to run away from man, they are not flurried and thrown into confusion so easily as ours are. but sheep are always timid, weak, defenceless creatures, and therefore the lord often speaks of his disciples as sheep; because we are all as little able to protest ourselves from our enemy, satan, as a flock of sheep is to defend itself from a wolf, or a lion; and he would have us keep close to him for protection as the eastern sheep do to their careful shepherd. there is nothing to prevent our sheep from being as manageable as any others. i once had a lamb given to me, because its mother could not nurse it; and i kept it in some nice hay in a large basket, and fed it with warm milk from the spout of a teapot. as it gained strength, i let it run about the house, and it was a droll sight to see the big lamb come bouncing and scampering into a room full of company, hunting the cat about, leaping over chairs, and playing just like a frolicsome kitten. if i walked out, it would, like the eastern sheep, follow me. i have taken it for miles along the public road, and never saw it appear frightened. it was stolen and killed before it became quite a sheep; but i have no doubt it would have continued as tame, and as bold, and as happy. if you look into the faces of a flock of sheep, you will see a great variety of countenances among them, and some are very intelligent. there is a field near me, where i often go to walk; and a number of young sheep in it have taken such a fancy to bronti, that when he stands still they will come almost close to him, the ram foremost, as if wishing to play with him; but if he goes towards them, off they trot, poor things, to the other end of the field. not long ago, i saw something that made me quite unhappy; and indeed it was one reason for my writing this little book. a boy was driving a few sheep, and he got them into a corner, on some very high ground, from which they could not possibly get away without jumping down where they must have broken their necks, or limbs. then this bad boy called another, and they both took up large stones that were lying about the road, and threw them at the innocent sheep--or rather lambs, for they were not full grown. i saw them hit on their heads and eyes, and nearly mad with pain and terror. i never saw a more cruel thing: i thought bronti would have seized the boys, he was so angry. i could not help thinking how awful would be the state of those boys, if they were cut off by death in such wickedness. alas! the agonies of one hour hereafter, would be worse than all the tortures that could be inflicted on god's creatures during their whole lives. but instead of an hour, it is for ever and ever that all who go to that dreadful place of punishment must remain. it made me very miserable to see the poor lambs so cruelly hurt, and to think what judgment those boys were bringing on themselves. i ran for bronti's master, and we met the bruised, bleeding little innocents limping along, and the inhuman boy, tired of his savage sport, following them. we stopped him, and that gentleman spoke very plainly to him of his sin, and god's anger. the boy looked alarmed, but sulky; and i sadly fear he was hardening his young heart against the lord. let us pray that we may be kept from hardness of heart, and made tender to keep a conscience void of offence towards god and towards man. it was a donkey-boy who had helped the other to throw stones at the lambs; and this reminds me that i have something to say about the ass; the most despised and the worst-used of all animals, and yet the one on which the greatest honour has been put, being chosen for its humble, gentle, patient character to assist in setting forth the wonderful humiliation of the redeemer, the lord jesus christ, who in the greatness of his everlasting majesty and power condescended to stoop low for our sakes. i think you will remember at once what i mean. in the ninth chapter of the book of zechariah, it is written, "rejoice greatly, o daughter of zion; shout, o daughter of jerusalem: behold, thy king cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass." and you know how this was fulfilled. when our lord jesus was about to enter, for the last time, into the holy city of jerusalem, before his enemies had laid their cruel hands on him, he sent two of the disciples, saying unto them, go into the village over against you, and straightway ye shall find an ass tied, and a colt with her: loose them, and bring them unto me. they did so; and this meek and lowly saviour, this king of heaven and earth, descended from the mount of olives, and rode into jerusalem, not as the monarchs of this world ride, on a fiery war-horse with proud trappings and surrounded by gleaming swords and spears. no, the blessed jesus chose no such pomp. he made choice of the humble, despised ass; her trappings were the outer garments of those poor men, fishermen and such like, who followed him; and who took them off, to make, as it were, a saddle and saddle-cloth for their beloved master; while others, seeing that no more were wanted for that purpose, spread theirs on the ground that he might ride over them. ah, the day will come when the king of kings and lord of lords shall ride in vengeance over the persons of his rebellious enemies, as he then rode in meek and lowly state over the garments of his loving friends. and, as you would avoid his wrath on that terrible day, provoke him not now by wanton cruelty to the creatures which he has made. he is very, very merciful to them, and to you. they do you no wrong; do no wrong to them. how often have i thought of that beautiful scene on the green side of the gently sloping mount of olives, which rises eastward of the city of jerusalem, with the brook kedron sparkling at its feet! you know the bible tells us, concerning the lord jesus christ, that by him god made the world; and again, "all things were made by him, and without him was not any thing made that was made." yet he, the maker of all things, took upon him the nature of man; and so you see, for once, a poor animal enjoyed even greater privilege and happiness than when the creatures were first brought to adam; and that animal was no other than the persecuted ass! the lord showed his tenderness in not separating the dam from her young one: he commanded both to be brought; and the little creature tripped so happily beside its mother, while both enjoyed the sheltering protection of him who made the worlds! yes, i very often think of this, when i see the cruelties committed on some overworked animal, in a cart, or ridden by an unfeeling person; and the mischief, the wicked mischief, that satan finds for idle hands to do, in the field, or by the way-side, where the poor ass is quietly nibbling at such coarse weeds as neither horse, nor cow, nor sheep would touch. the little foal too, with its innocent face, and broad forehead covered with shaggy hair, looking as if it longed to have a game of play with you. can you put it to pain? alas! it has a life of cruel labour and suffering before it: and you should not be so inhuman as to rob it of its very short time of freedom and repose. some boys are cruel on purpose. satan leads them captive at his will; and if they continue to do his wicked will, they must expect to be with him for ever in the place of fire. but many are cruel from thoughtlessness only; and i hope this little book will lead such to reflect, and to cease from what is a great sin against god, whether they think it to be so or not. i have said nothing about the wonderful story of an ass which you will find in the book of numbers, chapter xxii.: you can read it for yourselves. i will finish this subject by giving you a text from the wise and gracious laws which it pleased the lord god to lay down for his people israel, when he was himself their own king. it is a most beautiful precept: it teaches at once to overcome an evil feeling against a fellow-man, and to show mercy to a suffering animal. "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," ex. xxiii. ; and in the th verse we read a reason given for keeping holy and quiet the sabbath day, "that thine ox and thine ass may rest." this is a long chapter; but i had a good deal to say in it, and i hope you are not tired, and that you will think it over, and pray god to enable you to profit by it. [illustration] [illustration] chapter v. bears, monkeys, rats. now, i think, you are laughing at the heading of this chapter, and wondering what i can have to say about such creatures; but wait a little, and you will find i am not afraid to put in a good word for them. you must know that i once had a young bear, a mere cub, which was given to me by one of the wild indians, as they are called. these indians, by the way, are not half so wild as some boys of my acquaintance, who are a great deal better taught; and they were very fond of me--merely because it pleased god to keep me mindful of a gracious command which he has given us. you will find it in the first epistle of peter, chap. ii., verse : "honour all men." man, whether he be black, or white, or tawny; whether he be rich or poor, bond or free; man was at first made in the image of god, and would have kept the image if adam had not sinned and lost it; so that none of his posterity are now born in that holy, happy state in which adam was created. but then, lost as man is, and deprived of all honour, it pleased the eternal son of god to take upon him the name and the nature of man, free from all its sinfulness, though deprived of its first glory, and this he did that he might, by suffering death, atone for the sin of the world. so now, as there is no person so miserable, so despised, or even so sinful, that by coming to the lord jesus christ, and believing in him alone, he may not have his sins blotted out, and himself made an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, i am sure that every man ought to be treated with some respect, as one of that race whom god created, and for whom christ died. indeed, it would be enough for me, if only the bible said, "honour all men," without my being able to see why i ought to do so. it is my duty to obey every one of my lord's commands: but it is very pleasant to think about his gracious commandments, and to see, as we must then do, how very lovely they are. now you know why i treated the wild indians of the woods with gentle, kind respect; and they felt it, and loved me greatly, and used to bring me their little gifts. one day, two rough indian men came to me, in their very strange dresses, with their stiff black hair hanging down, never having been combed in their lives, i should think. they each brought a young bear into my large kitchen; and while i told them to sit down and eat something, the two cubs began to examine the place for themselves. it was a funny sight, so i will tell you about it. under a table, there lay a good long barrel on its side, and two very friendly cats had each got some kittens in it. they had made themselves little beds in the straw, one near the mouth of the barrel, the other farther in. so one young bear, (they were but a few weeks old, poor little animals!) in the course of his travels about the kitchen, poked his nose into this barrel, and out flew the old gray cat, in a great rage, or fright, i hardly know which, and began to spit most furiously at the cub, who ran away as fast as he could, into a distant corner, followed by puss. she did not choose to go too near such an odd-looking creature; but sat watching him, to prevent his leaving that corner. meantime, the other cub, thinking, i suppose, that, "as the cat was away, the bear might play"--at least with the kittens, went boldly close to the barrel, when lo! out sprang the tortoise-shell cat from the farther end, and this master bruin was not slower than his brother in scampering away, the cat following him also. no harm was done; none of them had any wish to fight, and the scene was so droll that the servants were in fits of laughter; while the indians, who i must tell you are very grave, and even sad-looking people, and seldom seen to smile, for once laughed heartily too. i took pity upon the frightened cub, at whom the gray cat was still growling and spitting, and took him up my arms; for which he seemed so thankful, that i continued to stroke his shaggy coat, until one of the indians, with a grin, offered to give him to me. i accepted him, making a present in return; and for some days i took delight in my bargain; for he was a most innocent little creature, and played merrily with a puppy dog: but those who understood the nature of a bear better than i did, persuaded me to give him up; because they had known a young lady who was killed by a tame bear in a sudden passion. but i want to convince you how wrong we are in treating any animal as if it could not feel attachment to us. some soldiers' wives used to pet my little cub, even with tears in their eyes; and they told me the reason. they said, that a short time before, the regiment to which they belonged was quartered in canada, and the soldiers had a bear, which they brought up tame. this creature had a strange office--he was nurse to all the babies in the barrack. so great was his love for them, that whenever the mothers wanted to have their infants well taken care of, they would place them under this animal's charge, who was delighted to smooth for them the clean soft straw that they gave him; and whose tender care over the babes was, they told me, the most beautiful thing ever seen. the poor bear was always trying to help and oblige his friends; and on washing days he had plenty of babies to mind, when the weather was mild enough to have them out of doors; but one cold day they were all left within, and the bear had nothing to do. so, seeing a woman leave her washing-tub, which she had just filled with boiling water, he thought he would do some of her work, and put his paws into it: the pain made him snatch them out, and in so doing he upset the tub--all the scalding water fell over him--and his agonies were such that, in mercy, some soldier shot him dead at once. the women, when they told me this, sobbed with grief, saying, "he was so kind to our babies! he would have died in their defence, poor fellow!" i assure you, that when i see a poor bear led through the streets, chained, beaten, and made to dance, as they call it, which it is taught to do by cruel tortures, i always remember this story; and think, how much love and gratitude might that miserable sufferer feel, and how happy he might be made, if those who have taken him from his native woods, and made a slave of him, would only show mercy now instead of such barbarity! we often hear the expression, "as savage as a bear;" but, i fear, in general, the man is the greater savage of the two. [illustration] monkeys are diverting creatures; and if you saw their fun and frolic where they have liberty among the boughs of a tree, you would not know how to leave off laughing. it is a different thing, however, to see them also chained, and beaten, and with their limbs confined in unnatural clothing, forced by fear, and hunger, and pain, to play the antics which they would do of their own accord if treated differently. i never could understand how people can be amused by any thing that causes pain to the creature doing it. they must either be very stupid, or very hard-hearted. want of thought is a great cause of needless cruelty, i know; and i am trying to put some kind thoughts into your heads, which you may be thankful for when you are older. i can tell you one thing, which is, that it is impossible for a cruel man to be happy: it is entirely impossible. he may laugh and shout, and sing, and dance, and tell you that he is very happy; but it is not so. there is in his heart something always whispering, "your turn will come. the great god, the holy, just, merciful god, whose creatures you now torment, sees it all, knows it all; and he will punish you. every one of us must appear before the judgment-seat of christ, to give an account of the things done in the body; and you will be forced to own all your cruelties, before angels and men: and then what follows? 'he shall have judgment without mercy who hath shown no mercy!'" a bad man will never confess to you that such is his feeling: for bad men always will try to make you as bad as themselves: but now, mind, after what i have told you, if you have not the same terror of god's vengeance coming over you when you do a cruel thing. if not, it is because you are already hardened by satan; but i should grieve to think it was so with you. oh! remember that the blessed jesus came to destroy the works of the devil; and pray to him now to deliver you from the power of that evil one. he will hear, and help, and save. even as to animals that we may destroy when they injure us, we should not forget the good they also do: as an instance, the rat may be mentioned. it is, indeed, a very troublesome and sometimes dangerous creature: it will kill and carry off young chickens, pigeons, and other defenceless things; besides making sad havoc among the grain and eatables of every sort. it is often more than a match for a grown kitten, or even a weak cat: and where they are in numbers, they have been known to overpower a man. i confess, the rat is a very disagreeable enemy, whom we may fairly get rid of when we can. but when it is necessary to kill them, we should do it mercifully; do not put them to needless pain. why should you? is it manly? is it generous? is it what you think god will approve? will it make you wiser, or better, or happier to feel that you are giving pain to a poor creature? [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. birds. having now, i think, mentioned all the "four-footed beasts" about which i had any thing particular to say, i will pass on to another and still more beautiful portion of god's handy-work--the birds. the account of their creation is thus given: "and god said, let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven. and god created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and god saw that it was good. and god blessed them, saying, be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth. and the evening and the morning were the fifth day." the beasts were not made until the sixth day; so that, if i had been writing a history of the creation, i should have put the birds and fishes first. notice these expressions, "god saw that it was good; and god blessed them." every thing when it came from his glorious hand was very good; and man was the only being who became bad by his own fault, despised the blessing, and brought the curse on himself, with all its sad consequences to the whole earth and every creature. "god blessed them;" and what right have we to make their little lives miserable? this thought has often come over me when i have seen any cruel thing done. god said, that the fowl were to "fly above the earth, in the open firmament of heaven;" but he has made some fowls that are very useful to man, willing to stay upon the earth. if hens and ducks were to lay their eggs in high trees, and among rocks, as many birds do, we should get very few of them; and as they lay many more than they can hatch, it would be a great and wasteful loss. by this we are sure that poultry was intended for our use; and if you take care not to frighten or tease them, you may bring up chickens to be as tame and familiar as dogs or cats. i remember a droll proof of this. once, out of a great many fowls, belonging to a dear friend in whose house i lived, there was only one that would not be friends with me. she was a fine old speckled black and white hen, very wild; and her running away from me vexed me; for i cannot bear that any one of god's creatures should think i would be so cruel as to hurt it. well, i set myself to wheedle this hen into being on better terms; taking crumbs to her, and persuading her by degrees to feed from my hand, like the rest. this was very good: but it did not stop here. whether mrs. hen was flattered by so much attention, or whether she was desirous of making up for her former rudeness, or how it was, i don't know; but she became so unreasonably fond of me, that if a door or window were opened she would pop in to look for her friend, running up and down stairs, into the parlour, the drawing-room, the bed-rooms, and making no little work for the servants. at first, every body was amused at it; but, after a time, the poor hen became so troublesome that we were obliged to give her away. jack, the dumb boy, would put his hands to his sides, and laugh till he lost his breath, to see "my fat hen," as he called her, waddling after me, without minding either dogs or strangers, and he was in great trouble when she was sent away. jack's care of the poultry, and his anxiety to prevent their being hunted, or hurt, would have delighted you. nothing pleased him better than to see that fine fellow, the cock, when he had scratched up or found any nice thing, calling the hens and chickens about him, bidding them take it, and never seeming even to wish for it himself. jack used to say, "good; beautiful! god made poor bird." when he was a little boy, he had seen some cock-fighting; and he used to tell me of it, in his way, with so much grief and anger. he said, "god see bad man hurt poor birds--make birds fight." the tears would come into his eyes, when he thought how the birds were tortured; but he always ended by pitying the men and boys who suffered satan to tempt them into such wickedness, for which they would be dreadfully punished at last. jack was very fond of small birds: i suppose you think, then, that he had some in a cage; and that he caught them in traps, for he was very ingenious. no; jack would as soon, and sooner, have gone to prison himself. he could not bear the idea of imprisoning a bird. canaries, indeed, and such others as could not live in our cold climate, and which, having been hatched in a cage, would not have known how to use their liberty, he did not object to, but took great pleasure in giving them pans or saucers of clean water, to bathe themselves in; and plenty of fresh sand, and nice food: but most birds he could not bear to see within the bars of a prison. the robin, the thrush, the blackbird, the linnet, the sparrow, he knew it was a sin to deprive of their liberty. i have seen him persuade other boys to break their traps, or to let the poor frightened captives go: and i have seen him clap his hands with joy as they spread out their pretty wings, and flew "above the earth, in the open firmament of heaven," as they were made to do; but i do not believe that a whole pocket full of silver and gold would have tempted jack to catch and sell a bird. indeed, i am sure it would not; for he knew that neither silver nor gold, nor any thing that is to be bought with them, would make a person's heart feel happy; and that the commission of a sin would make him feel very unhappy; for nothing was so dreadful to jack as the idea of offending his gracious god, or grieving the holy spirit, who dwells in the heart of every true believer. now, perhaps, you will say, "i would not catch and sell birds to put money in my own pocket; but may i not do it to earn a little for those who really want it?" but robbing is not earning. if you catch a bird, or a fish, not belonging to another person, to kill and eat it, or to sell or to give it to others for food, you do what god has permitted; and if it is done for this purpose, and not for sport, nobody can blame you. but, though the lord has given you the bodies of his creatures for food, he has never given you their natural liberty, either for your amusement or profit. as for keeping birds in a cage to sing, if you look at the hundred and fourth psalm, you will find that they were made to "sing among the branches." go into the fields, and listen to their happy little songs of liberty, and take from them a lesson of thankful joy: or, if you want them at home, put crumbs and grains of corn on the windows, and they will learn to come and pick them up, and thank you with their merry notes. only do not be so mean and treacherous as to draw a snare or close a trap over the poor things when they come, as they think, to be fed by your bounty. people who love music so well as to make an innocent creature miserable that they may enjoy its songs will wish, some day, that they had been born deaf. but there is one thing that i am sorry to see many boys doing every spring, and which they cannot defend by any such excuses. i often wonder who was the first to begin such a disgraceful custom, the most cruel, senseless, and babyish piece of folly: i mean what is called bird-nesting. god said to the creatures, "be fruitful and multiply,"--"let fowl multiply in the earth." at the same time, he gave them a wonderful instinct and skill, such as man's reason cannot imitate. the birds must keep their eggs very warm for a certain number of days, to bring to life the little creatures that are forming within them; and the eggs being so very delicate and brittle, they must also have a soft place to lie in, close enough for the bird's body to cover them all; and be out of reach of rats, and other enemies. so, when the bird is going to lay, she and her mate set to work, and what wonderful work it is! these little creatures, without any hands, or even paws like four-footed animals, to help them, and with only the bits of stick, hay, grass, dead leaves, wool, hairs, and moss, that they can pick up with their bills, presently form a soft, snug, warm, strong apartment, as round as a tea-cup, and exactly of the proper size; placed, too, where it will be little seen, sheltered above from the wet, yet airy enough to keep it fresh and wholesome, and so smooth on the inside that even the delicate naked body of a bird just hatched cannot be made uneasy by a rough point. it costs the parent-birds a great deal of trouble; and if you leave a nest untouched from one year to another, neither disturbing the eggs nor the nestings, you will find it the next spring nicely repaired and new lined, and a new family in it. oh! i do wish that boys, remembering how, by the goodness of our equal laws, a poor man's house is his castle, would let a poor bird's little nest be its castle too! he is the bravest boy who will defend the weak from the strong; and he is the best boy who loves and is kind to the least of god's creatures for the sake of the glorious creator. but perhaps you may say, "well, i will not spoil the nest; i will only take the eggs." no, pray do not take the eggs. what pleasure in the world can a parcel of little eggs afford you, compared with the delight that the poor harmless mother takes in them as she sits in her warm house, of her own making, listening for the first faint chirp of the tiny creature within? birds only bring up one family in a year; and if you take from them the eggs that are to produce that one, you rob them of all the happiness for which they took so much trouble. you are not enough of a hen to hatch the eggs, though you may be enough of a goose to try: then think, and be too much of a man to do such a silly, cruel thing. you like, perhaps, to blow the inside out, and string the shells in a row. oh you thoughtless child! you must certainly be a very little child to take pleasure in such a babyish thing; and you are very, very thoughtless and wrong to do it at the expense of a poor innocent bird which never injured or wished to injure you, though you can rob it of all its delight, to please such a silly fancy. if you want a pretty thing to ornament your room, go and pick up some round, clear pebbles, of different colours, and give one side of them a polish at the grindstone; then get some pieces of brick, and join them together in the shape of an arch, or any thing you fancy, with a little mortar; spread more mortar, thick and rough, over the front, and, while it is wet, stick in your pebbles, with the shining side outmost, with bits of glass, moss, sealing-wax, and any gay thing that comes in your way. i have seen such pretty contrivances, and have said to myself, "the boy who made this is skilful, and may come to be a good builder, or other artisan, some day;" but when i see bird's eggshells hung up, i turn away with a feeling of pain, because i know that somebody must be there, either idle and cruel, or encouraging their children to be so. [illustration] but there is something far worse than this. when the mother bird has made her nest, and sat long days and nights on her eggs, and heard the little ones chirp within, and helped them to break the thin shell, and felt their little warm bodies cuddling themselves among her soft feathers, and seen their yellow beaks open to ask her for the food that it gives such joy to her affectionate heart to put into them; oh, then, can you turn all her honest happiness into misery and mourning, and kill those baby-birds with a miserable death, by cold and hunger, if not by other tortures. if ever you have done this, pray to the lord god to forgive your sin, for jesus christ's sake. do you think he will forgive you? yes, you say, because he is very merciful. indeed he is and for that very reason he hates cruelty: but while you look to the lord's mercy for pardon, you must steadily resolve to offend no more by doing what he hates; else you only mock him. i do not myself understand how anybody can bear to hurt little birds, they are such endearing creatures; but i have seen it with my own eyes, and am obliged to believe it. bad example will go a great way. boys, and men too, will do what they see others do, without stopping to think of the great truth that god sees them too. but, then, good example goes far also; and the person who is careful not to do wrong has the comfort of knowing that he is showing others the right way. while i write this little book, i am praying to the lord to make it the means of persuading many young readers to be merciful; and that their good example will persuade many more, who may not see the book; and so good will be done, greater than you now think. i have a cockatoo. a friend brought him from india, and a funny bird he is, but terribly noisy. he soon began to bark like fid, and to growl like bronti; to cackle like the hens, and to imitate every loud noise that he heard. we hoped, if he had a good teacher, he would learn to sing, instead of making such a riot, as he whistles uncommonly well after his master. so we went to buy a canary bird, and you may be sure we bought two; for it is very cruel to shut up a bird alone in a cage. the cockatoo is not in a cage, but on a stand, dancing and chattering all day. we put our canaries into a very large cage, with a good-sized pan of fresh water every day, clean gravel, and plenty of seed. nothing could be happier, or tamer, than these little things; but one day the hen got at some green paper, which she pecked at through the wires, and the stuff that coloured it killed her at once. we got another directly in her place, and there they are in the sunshine, on a table close by me, splashing the paper on which i write with the water; for they delight to plunge into it, till they are wet in every feather. nothing is more necessary to animals and birds than plenty of fresh water. my pigeons have a pan of it to wash in, and it wants changing several times a day; and you do not know how much birds in confinement suffer if that is neglected. a glass hung outside, if always kept full, is good to drink out of; but a bath _in_ the cage is the great luxury. perhaps you will ask, has the cockatoo learned to sing? no, i am sorry to say, he is as noisy as ever, and not at all musical. we keep him quiet by giving him sticks to break, and knotted cord to untie; and when he has been good i take him on my lap, and rub his head and wings, which he greatly likes. i never yet saw the animal, down to a little mouse, that would not be fond of those who treated it tenderly; and the pleasure of being loved is so great, that i only wonder how anybody can neglect to win the love of the creatures which were made for man's use and benefit. there is a wonderful deal of happiness among them, showing how, as the psalm says, the lord's "tender mercies are over all his works;" and a little kindness makes them so familiar, that we are always reminded how sociable they were with adam in the garden of eden; and how happy they and we should all be together now, if sin had not entered into the world to destroy the beauty and blessedness that were upon every thing when god first made them, and saw that they were all "very good." [illustration] chapter vii. fishes--insects. a story about jack. when he was a little fellow, soon after he came to me, and before he knew many words, he made me understand that he wanted a very long, slender stick. i asked a gardener of a friend, and he cut him a fine one from a particular sort of tree. then jack laid out a penny, all that he had, on a coarse bit of line, such as fishermen use; and, lastly, he came to me for some large pins: one of which he bent like a hook; explaining to me that he was going to dig for worms to put upon it, that he might fish. i shook my head, saying, "no." jack nodded his head, and said "yes." i said "bad;" jack said "good;" and then i took up his little red hand, and pretended i was going to run the hook through the flesh. he snatched it away in a fright, saying "bad, bad!" but i nodded, and said "good, good!" he said, "bad mam, hurt jack!" and i answered, "bad jack, hurt worm: god made jack--god made worm." he shook his head, and said, "no;" and what do you think was the reason he gave? he reminded me that god is high up above, and that the worms come from below, under the ground. the little fellow did not know that the world is round; he thought it was flat: still less did he then understand that god is everywhere, and made all things, above and beneath. then i told him that the lord did so; and that worms and other things were put into the earth by him, even as we were made to walk upon its surface. jack considered a little; and then said the worms were rolled up in the world as apples were in a dumpling, and that they eat their way through the crust. it was an odd idea, and made me smile; on which he said, "good," and told me he would fish with a piece of meat or bread for a bait. [illustration: the tadpole or young frog.] next morning, jack came to me, and after reminding me of this, he asked me if god also made the little newts, tadpoles, and frogs, and other things that he had seen in the muddy ditches? i replied, "yes, all." "did god make fishes?" "oh yes," i answered, "he made fishes and every thing." then, in a very lively manner, he made me understand, that if god did not like to have him hurt the worms, neither would he like to have him hurt the fish. "poor fish!" he said, showing me how its mouth would be torn by the hook; and then, to my surprise, he got a small hatchet, and chopped up his fine fishing-rod into walking-sticks; and from that day he could never bear to see anybody angling. he used to tell him, if they wanted to fish to eat or sell, to catch them with a net, and to kill them at once; and i believe that the sight of the deaf and dumb boy, taking such pains to plead for the creatures which are not only dumb, but have no way of pleading for themselves, was the means of checking many persons in cruel practices. he knew very little compared with what you, perhaps, know; but he knew one blessed truth--he knew that "god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life;" and by always thinking on this great mercy of god to man, and the exceeding love of our lord jesus christ, in dying for poor sinners like us, jack came to hate whatever he knew to be displeasing to that gracious lord and heavenly father; and the happiness that he felt in his own soul made him delight in seeking the happiness of every creature around him. jack died of a slow decline. he had much pain, but i never saw him look impatient or unhappy. he felt what david so beautifully describes in the twenty-third psalm: "though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil: for thou art with me." he knew quite well that he was going to die; but it never made him uneasy. he knew that god was at peace with him, through the merits of the redeemer; and he was at peace with all the world. his dying pillow was not made a pillow of thorns by the remembrance of having made any living thing suffer torment; nor were his short sleeps disturbed by terrible dreams of what he had forgotten until the time drew near to appear before god. i could tell fearful stories of some who died as young as jack, and whose death-beds can never be forgotten by those who saw them. they had been cruel to god's dumb creatures, and never gave a thought to what they had done; but when death was near, when the poor weak body could not rise from the bed, nor the soul be any longer deceived with the thought of years to come, it was horrible to hear the cries they uttered, and the wild things that they said about beasts, and birds, and insects tortured by them in the days of their health and strength. there was one in particular, a butcher's boy, who could not be comforted: he said, the calves, the sheep, and the lambs, had provoked him by their unwillingness to be caught and driven into the slaughter-yard, and he had revenged himself by making their deaths as painful as he could; and that he saw them then--whether his eyes were open or shut, he always saw them--all bleeding, and torn, and struggling, as they used to do: and whatever was said to him, or whatever noise was made, he heard their cries of agony louder than all. when he was told that god was merciful, he answered, "yes; but i had no mercy, and there is no mercy for me." i wish i could tell you that he died praying for pardon; but, alas! he died shrieking out that he must go to hell. at that time, i was asked to write a book about it, to warn others; but i was so much shocked that i could not write about it. i mention it now, to show you that sometimes, even in this world, the dreadful work of judgment is begun--judgment without mercy, to those who show no mercy. but you must not suppose that jack's happiness and peace, and confidence in god, came from any thing that he had done, or any thing that he had refrained from doing. no, it was all from believing with his whole heart that god loved him for the sake of his dear son, the lord jesus christ. now, if jack has said, or fancied, that he loved god, and had at the same time been cruel, or lived in any other sin, it would have proved that he was mistaken, and he would have had no real peace. if you pass by a garden and see clusters of fine ripe grapes hanging from the boughs of a tree, and anybody should say to you, "that's a fine vine," you would agree with him at once; but if he pointed to a tree where horse-chestnuts were growing, and called it a vine, you would laugh at him; you know the difference between a sweet juicy grape, and a hard, bitter, uneatable horse-chestnut. yet you would not say that the grapes made the vine, would you? no, they did not make it a vine, but they proved it to be one. if a boy were to tie bunches of grapes to a horse-chestnut tree, and tell you it was a vine, you would say no, it is not a real vine--the fruit did not grow upon it. in this way, i may say that i knew jack to be a true child of god: because the fruit of good works grew upon him. it was not in look only, but really and indeed, that he was the character i have described; and if you read carefully, very carefully, the fifteenth chapter of st. john's gospel, you will see what i mean. in that beautiful chapter, our lord jesus christ compares himself to a vine, his people to the branches, and the good works that they do to the grapes; and he shows us that if we do not really belong to him, and keep close to him, (which we can only do by believing and praying,) then we are like the branches cut off from the vine, which cannot possibly bring forth any grapes. you may think little of this now; but you must think of it, whether you will or no, when you come to die. perhaps you say to yourself, "ay, but when i come to die, i will pray, and make my peace with god." do not deceive yourself with such a vain hope: there is a very terrible warning given in the first chapter of proverbs, which you must not forget. the lord is addressing such as mean to put off repenting and praying, and serving him, to another time, when sickness or some other calamity shall frighten them into calling on him for pardon and help. these are the words: "because i have called, and ye refused; i have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded; but ye have set at nought all my counsel, and would none of my reproof; i also will laugh at your calamity; i will mock when your fear cometh, when your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon you. then shall they call upon me, but i will not answer; they shall seek me early, but they shall not find me: for that they hate knowledge, and did not choose the fear of the lord: they would none of my counsel: they despised all my reproof." does not this alarm you? then do not be found a day longer among those who refuse to hear the gracious voice of the lord jesus, who invites you to come to him for eternal life; and who will, if you ask it in his name, send the holy spirit to guide you in the good way, and make you real branches of the good vine, as he made the dumb boy. when jack was eleven years old, he became a true servant of the lord; and he died at nineteen, and went to live in heaven with the blessed master whom he had delighted to serve upon earth. his religion made him so happy, there was not a merrier boy to be found. some people will tell you that being religious makes a boy feel dull and melancholy. ask them if they think you so silly as to believe that walking in the summer sunshine will make you feel dark and cold? true religion is to man what the bright sunshine is to the little insects that sport upon the wing, and who find in it not only their light but their life. [illustration: the woolly bear caterpillar.] does any boy's conscience smite him at my naming the insects? i hope not. i hope you have not been tempted by satan to do any harm to the little harmless, and often useful, creatures that cross your path. a butterfly, a cockchaffer, a house-fly, a snail, a caterpillar, a worm--these, and all others, are god's handy-work; and if you could see them through a glass that magnifies very much indeed, you would be more astonished than i can tell you. the small powder, scarcely seen on your finger's end, from the wing of a butterfly, is a lump of the most beautiful feathers, so delicate that the gentlest touch will rub some of them off: the wing itself is made of lovely net-work, like silver threads, stretched on strong wires; and all the skill of all the most skilful men in the world could make nothing to equal the coarsest part of the plainest insect. but it is not their beauty--though we ought to see and to glorify the creator's hand in that--it is their delicate sense of feeling that should keep us from hurting them. the common worm is very useful in dividing the clods of earth, which would otherwise become so hard as to prevent the fine fibres of the roots of plants from forcing their way, and then the plants would die. man has not discovered all the uses of the different insects; but god has made nothing in vain: and though, for our own safety and comfort, we must destroy some sorts, still we are bound to do it in the quickest and most complete manner, or else we must give an account to their creator and ours for the cruelty we commit. i have killed insects myself, for no reason but because i saw that they must fall into the hands of boys, or others, whom i knew to be so dreadfully wicked as to take pleasure in torturing them; but i did it sorrowfully; feeling that i could not give life to the meanest reptile, and that i must be able to render to god a reason for taking it away. i have found poor harmless insects alive, most cruelly maimed, with their wings or legs torn off, or their bodies pierced through; and i shuddered to think how the eye of god was fixed on those who did it, never losing sight of them; and i have prayed that he would change their wicked hearts before it was too late. and now i have finished my book. while i was writing it, more than a few funerals passed my window, the coffins being those of very young people; and this made me more anxious to go on; for i thought to myself, "perhaps some boy or girl will read it who has never thought rightly about these things, and will presently determine not to go on in sin, but to become merciful and obedient, and all that they ought to be." if they try to do this of themselves, they will soon find that the sinful nature of adam is too strong in them; and the more they try to mend themselves, they will find satan is the more busy, leading them into more wickedness. then, perhaps, they will mind what i have said about the need not only of pardon, but of help from the lord jesus christ. they will pray to god, for his sake, to give them a new heart, holy, humble, obedient, and merciful. this prayer will be heard; for our gracious god hears and answers the prayer of the poorest child as readily as that of the mightiest king. then they will know what it really is to love god, and to keep his commandments, because they love him; and what a sweet example they will set to others, and how happy they will be themselves, and what a blessing to all belonging to them! perhaps, too, they will make a little party among the kindest-hearted of their playmates, all giving a promise to each other not willingly to hurt any of god's creatures; but to do the best they can to persuade every one to be merciful to the dumb animals, birds, fishes, and insects. if they live, they will grow up to be such men and women as we want, to bring a blessing on this land; and in their own children they will reap the reward of having shown tenderness to the helpless. if they die young, they will be like my happy boy jack, not afraid of death; but willing and rejoiced to go to the saviour, whom they sought and found so early. oh, may the lord grant this blessing to my little book, that at the great day of judgment i may meet with some happy spirits to tell me that it was not written in vain! "blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." matt. v. . [illustration: finis] images generously made available by the palmm project (http://palmm.fcla.edu/) and the university of florida note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the florida board of education, division of colleges and universities, palmm project (preservation and access for american and british children's literature). see http://fulltext .fcla.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=juv&idno=uf &format=jpg or http://fulltext .fcla.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=juv&idno=uf &format=jpg cat and dog; or, memoirs of puss and the captain. a story founded on fact. by the author of "the doll and her friends," "letters from madras," "historical acting charades," etc. fifth edition. with illustrations by harrison weir. [illustration: captain and the looking-glass. page ] london: griffith and farran, late grant and griffith, successors to newbery and harris, corner of st. paul's churchyard. mdccclviii. note. the author begs to assure her young readers that the principal circumstances on which this little story is founded are true. the friendship between the two animals, the dog's journey home, and return in company with his friend, are facts which occurred within her own knowledge. london: savill and edwards, printers, chandos street. cat and dog; or, puss and the captain. i am going to relate the history of a pleasant and prosperous life; for though a few misfortunes may have befallen me, my pleasures have far exceeded them, and especially i have been treated with such constant cordiality and kindness as would not fail to ensure the happiness of man or beast. but though i have no reason to complain of my destiny, it is a remarkable fact, that my principal happiness has been produced by conforming myself to unfavourable circumstances, and reconciling myself to an unnatural fate. nature herself did well by me. i am a fine setter, of a size that a newfoundland dog could not despise, and a beauty that a blenheim spaniel might envy. with a white and brown curly coat, drooping ears, bushy tail, a delicate pink nose, and good-natured brown eyes, active, strong, honest, gentle, and obedient, i have always felt a conscious pride and pleasure in being a thoroughly well-bred dog. my condition in life was peculiarly comfortable. i was brought up in an old manor-house inhabited by a gentleman and his daughter, with several respectable and good-natured servants. my education was conducted with care, and from my earliest youth i had the advantage of an introduction into good society. i was not, indeed, allowed to come much into the drawing-room, as my master said i was too large for a drawing-room dog; but i had the range of the lower part of the house, and constant admittance to his study, where i was welcome to share his fireside while he read the newspapers or received visitors. i took great interest in his friends; and by means of listening to their conversation, watching them from under my eyelids while they thought i was asleep, and smelling them carefully, i could form a sufficiently just estimate of their characters to regulate my own conduct towards them. though a polite dog both by birth and breeding, i was too honest and independent to show the same respect and cordiality towards those whom i liked and those whom i despised; and though very grateful for the smallest favours from persons i esteemed, no flattery, caresses, or benefactions could induce me to strike up an intimacy with one who did not please me. if i had been able to speak, i should have expressed my opinions without ceremony; and it often surprised me that my master, who could say what he pleased, did not quarrel with people, and tell them all their faults openly. i thought, if i had been he, i would have had many a fight with intruders, to whom he was not only civil himself, but compelled me to be so too. i have often observed that it appears proper for human beings to observe a kind of respect even towards persons they dislike; a line of conduct which _brutes_ cannot understand. however, i was not without my own methods of showing my sentiments. if i felt indifferent or contemptuous towards a person entering the room, i merely opened one eye and yawned at him. if he attempted any compliments, calling me "good captain," "fine dog," and trying to pat me, i shook off his hand, and rising from my rug, turned once round, and curling my tail under me, sank down again to my repose without taking any further notice of him. but occasionally my master admitted visitors whom i considered as such highly improper acquaintances for him, that i could scarcely restrain my indignation. i knew i must not bite them, though, in my own opinion, it would have been by far the best thing to do; i did not dare so much as to bark at them, for my master objected even to that expression of feeling: but i could not resist receiving them with low growls; during their visit i never took my eyes off them for a moment, and i made a point of following them to the door, and seeing them safe off the premises. others, on the contrary, i regarded with the highest confidence and esteem. their visits gave almost as much pleasure to me as to my master, and i took pains to show my friendship by every means in my power; leaving the fireside to meet them, wagging my tail, shaking a paw with them the moment i was asked, and sitting with my nose resting on their lap. but i took no unwelcome liberties; for i was gifted with a particular power of discriminating between those who really liked me, and those who only tolerated me out of politeness. upon the latter i never willingly intruded, though i have been sometimes obliged to submit to a hypocritical pat bestowed on me for the sake of my young mistress; but a real friend of dogs i recognised at a glance, whether lady or gentleman, so that i could safely place my paw in the whitest hand, or rest my head against the gayest dress, without fear of a repulse. the person i loved best in the world was my master; or rather, i should say, he was the person for whom i had the highest respect. my love was bestowed in at least an equal degree upon my young mistress, his daughter lily, in whose every action i took a deep interest. she was a graceful, gentle little creature, whom i could have knocked down and trampled upon in a minute; but though my strength was so superior to hers, there was no one whom i was so ready to obey. a word or look from lily managed me completely; and her gentle warning of "oh, captain," has often recalled me to good manners when i was on the point of breaking out into fury against some obnoxious person. willing subject as i was, i yet looked upon myself in some manner as her guardian and protector, and it would have fared ill with man or beast who had attempted to molest her. as i mentioned before, i was not allowed to come much into the drawing-room; but lily found many opportunities of noticing me. i always sat at the foot of the stairs to watch for her as she came down to the breakfast-room, when she used to pat my head and say, "how do you do, good captain? nice dog," as she passed. then i wagged my tail, and was very happy. i think i should have moped half the day if i had missed lily's morning greeting. after breakfast she came into the garden, and brought me pieces of toast, and gave me lessons in what she considered clever ways of eating. i should have preferred snapping at her gifts and bolting them down my own throat in my own way; but, to please lily, i learned to sit patiently watching the most tempting buttered crust on the ground under my nose, when she said, "trust, captain!" never dreaming of touching it till she gave the word of command, "now it is paid for;" when i ate it in a genteel and deliberate manner. having achieved such a conquest over myself, i thought my education was complete; but lily had further refinements in store. she made me hold the piece of toast on my very nose while she counted _ten_, and at the word _ten_ i was to toss it up in the air, and catch it in my mouth as it came down. i was a good while learning this trick, for i did not at all see the use of it. i could smell the bread distinctly as it lay on my nose, and why i should not eat it at once i never could understand. i have often peeped in at the dining-room window to see if my master and mistress ate their food in the same manner; but though i have sometimes seen them perform my first feat of sitting quietly before their plates, i never once saw them put their meat on their noses and catch it. however, it was lily's pleasure, and that was enough for me. she also taught me to shut the door at her command. this was rather a noisy performance, as i could only succeed by running against the door with my whole weight; but it gave lily so much satisfaction, that she used to open the door a dozen times a day, on purpose for me to bang it. another favourite amusement of hers was making me look at myself in the glass. i grew used to this before long; but the first time that she set a mirror before me on the ground, i confess that i was a good deal astonished and puzzled. at the first glance, i took the dog in the glass for an enemy and rival, intruding upon my dominions, so i naturally prepared for a furious attack upon him. he appeared equally ready, and i perceived that he was quite my match. but when, after a great deal of barking and violence, nobody was hurt, i fancied that the looking-glass was the barrier which prevented our coming to close quarters, and that my adversary had entrenched himself behind it in the most cowardly manner. determined that he should not profit by his baseness, i cleverly walked round behind the glass, intending to seize him and give him a thorough shaking; but there i found nothing! i dashed to the front once more; there he stood as fierce as ever. again behind his battlements--nobody! till after repeated trials, i began to have a glimmering of the state of the case; and feeling rather ashamed of having been so taken in, i declined further contest, and lay down quietly before the mirror to contemplate my own image, and reflect upon my own reflection. lily took great pains with me; but after all, hers were but minor accomplishments, and i was not allowed to devote my whole attention to mere tricks or amusements. i was not born to be a lap-dog, and it was necessary that i should be educated for the more important business of life. under my master's careful training, my natural talents were developed, and my defects subdued, till i was pronounced by the best judges to be the cleverest setter in the country. my master himself was a capital sportsman, and i was as proud of him as he was of me. when i had become sufficiently perfect to be his companion, we used to range together untired "over hill, over dale, through bush, through brier," he doing his part and i mine, and bringing home between us such quantities of game as no one else could boast. this was my real business, but it was no less my pleasure. i entered into it thoroughly. to point at a bird immovably till my master's never-failing shot gave the signal for my running to fetch the foolish thing and lay it at his feet, was to my mind the greatest enjoyment and the first object in life. and if anybody should be inclined to despise me on that account, i would beg them to recollect that it was the work given me to do, and i did it well. can everybody say as much? the causes or the consequences of it, i was not capable of understanding. as to how the birds liked it, that never entered my head. i thought birds were meant to be shot, and i never supposed there was any other use in them. the only thing that distressed me in our shooting excursions was, that my master would sometimes allow very indifferent sportsmen to accompany us. i whined, grumbled, and remonstrated with him to the best of my power when i heard him give an invitation to some awkward booby who scarcely knew how to hold his gun, but it was all in vain; my master's only fault was his not consulting my judgment sufficiently in the choice of his acquaintances, and many a bad day's sport we had in consequence. once my patience was tired beyond what any clever dog could be expected to bear. a young gentleman had arrived at our house whom my master and mistress treated much better than i thought he deserved. at the first glance i penetrated into his state of mind, and should have liked to hear my master growl, and my mistress bark at him; instead of which they said they were glad to see him, and hoped he had had a pleasant journey. he immediately began a long string of complaints, blaming everything he mentioned. he was cold; there never was such weather for the time of year; he was tired; the roads were bad, the country dull, he had been obliged to come the last twenty miles cramped up inside a coach. such a shame that the railroad did not go the whole way! he was very glad to get to his journey's end, but it seemed to be more for the sake of his own comfort than for the pleasure of seeing his friends. his troubles had not hurt his appetite, as i plainly perceived, for i peeped into the room several times during dinner to watch him, and listen to his conversation. it was all in the same style, some fault to be found with everything. even lily could not put him in good humour, though she seemed to be trying to talk about everything likely to please him. after the failure of various attempts to find a fortunate topic, she asked if he had had much shooting this season. "plenty of it," he answered; "only so bad. my brother's dogs are wretched. there is no doing any thing with such brutes." lily coloured a little, and said that she thought rodolph's dogs beautiful, and that it was very unlike him to have any thing wretched belonging to him. "oh," replied the other, "he is the greenest fellow in the world. he is always satisfied. i assure you his dogs are good for nothing. i did not bring down a single bird any time i went out with them." "well," said my master, "i hope we shall be able to make amends for that misfortune. to-morrow you shall go out with the best dog in the country." i whined, for i knew he meant me; and i did not like the idea of a sportsman who began by finding fault with his dogs. i suspected that the _dogs_ were not to blame. but nobody listened to me. next day, while lily and i were playing in the garden, my master appeared at the usual time in his shooting-jacket. "where is craven?" he inquired of lily; "i told him to be ready." "he is dressing again," answered she, laughing; "his boots had done something wrong, or his waistcoat was naughty; i forget which." "pshaw!" exclaimed my master; "he will waste half the day with his nonsense. i cannot wait for him. tell him i am gone on, and he must follow with john. go back, captain," continued he, for i was bounding after him in hopes of escaping my threatened companion; "go back. you must do your best this morning, for i suspect you will know more about the matter than your commander." most reluctantly i obeyed, and stayed behind, looking wistfully after him as he strode away. i consoled myself with lily's praises, which i almost preferred to the biscuits she bestowed upon me in equal profusion. after various compliments, she took a graver tone. "now, captain," she said, "listen to me." i sat upright, and looked her full in the face. "you know you are the best of dogs." i wagged my tail, for i certainly did know it. she told me so every day, and i believed every thing she said. "here is another biscuit for you: catch!" i caught, and swallowed it at one gulp. "good boy. now that is enough; and i have something to say to you. you are going out shooting with craven. he is not his brother, but that cannot be helped. i hope he will be good-natured to you, but i am not sure. now mind that _you_ behave well, and set him a good example. do your own work as well as you can, and don't growl and grumble at other people. and if you are angry, you must not bark, nor bite him, but take it patiently." what more she might have added i do not know, for her harangue was interrupted by old john the groom, who was, like myself, waiting for the gentleman in question. john's wife had been lily's nurse, and he himself taught her to ride and helped her to garden, and had a sort of partnership with me in taking care of her; so that there was a great friendship between us all three. he had been listening to our conversation, and now observed, while he pointed towards the house with a knowing jerk of his head, "there are those coming, miss lily, who need your advice as much as the poor animal; and i guess it wouldn't be of much more use." the last words he said to himself, in an undertone, while lily went forward to meet craven, who now appeared in full costume. he was so hung about with extra shooting-pouches, belts, powder-flasks, and other things dangling from him in all directions, that i wondered he could move at all. old john shook his head as he looked at him, and muttered, "great cry and little wool." lily began to explain her father's absence; but craven did not listen to what she said, he seemed intent upon making her admire his numerous contrivances. lily said he had plenty of tools, and that he would be very clever if he did work to match, but that in her opinion such variety was rather puzzling. "of course, girls know nothing of field-sports," he answered; "i can't expect you to understand the merits of these things." "oh, no, to be sure," answered lily, good-humouredly; "i dare say they are all very clever; only papa sometimes tells _me_ that one wants but few tools if one knows one's work; but perhaps he only means girls' work. very likely you are right about yours." old john now came forward very respectfully, but with a particular twinkle in his eye which i understood. said he, "as you are encumbered with so many traps, master, maybe i had best take your gun. you can't carry every thing useful and not useful." craven handed him the gun without any objection, and we set off. from the moment that i saw him relinquish his gun, his real weapon, for the sake of all those unnecessary adjuncts, i gave up any lingering hope of him, and followed in very low spirits. once in the fields, the prospect of rejoining my master a little revived me; but even in this i was disappointed: he had gone over the open country, while craven preferred remaining in the plantations. still, old john's company was a comfort to me, and when the first bird was descried, i made a capital set at it. craven took back his gun; but while he was looking in the wrong pocket for the right shot, john brought down the partridge. "a fine bird," said craven. "if it had not been for this awkward button, i should have had him." "you'll soon have another opportunity," said john; "suppose you get loaded first." craven loaded; but something else was wrong about his contrivances, and before he was ready, john had bagged the pheasant. at last craven got a shot, and missed it. he said it was john's fault for standing in the way of his seeing me. "well, i shan't be in the way any longer," said john; "for i was to go back to my work if i was not wanted, after having shown you the plantations. so good morning, master, and good luck next time." the next time, and the next, and the next, no better success. bird after bird rose, and flew away before our noses, as if in sheer ridicule of such idle popping, till i felt myself degraded in the eyes of the very partridges. half the morning we passed in this way, wasting time and temper, powder and shot; and the birds, as i well knew, despising us for missing them, till my patience was quite exhausted, and i longed to go home. still, i remembered lily's parting injunctions, and resolved to be game to the last myself, even if we were to have no other game that day. i also reflected that no one was born with a gun in his hand, and that craven might not have had opportunity of acquiring dexterity; that there was a beginning to everything, and that it was the business of the more experienced to help the ignorant. so i continued to be as useful to him as i possibly could. suddenly, after a particularly provoking miss, craven exclaimed: "it is all your fault, you stupid dog; you never turn the bird out where one expects it. if you knew your business, i could have bagged dozens." highly affronted, i now felt that i had borne enough, and that it was hopeless to attempt being of use to a creature as unjust and ungrateful as he was ignorant and conceited. i, therefore, turned round, and in a quiet but dignified and decided manner took my way towards home. craven called, whistled, shouted, but i took no notice. i was too much disgusted to have anything more to do with him; and i never turned my head nor slackened my pace till i arrived at my own kennel, when i curled myself round in my straw, and brooded over my wrongs till i went to sleep. i kept rather out of sight during the rest of the day, for more reasons than one. an inferior creature cannot at once rise superior to an affront, and clear it off his mind like a man; we are slaves to our impressions, and till they are forgotten we cannot help acting upon them; and i am afraid i rather took pleasure in nursing my wrath. then i did not wish to see craven; and perhaps i might feel a little ashamed of myself, and not quite sure what my master and mistress might think of my running away. but i happened to hear john chuckling over the affair, and saying that my master had been very much amused with the story; so i regained confidence enough next morning to present myself once more, though in rather a shy way, to lily at the foot of the stairs. "oh, come in to breakfast, you capital dog," exclaimed she; so i followed her, delighted to find that i was in the same favour as ever. but, alas! how little did i foresee the misfortune that was coming upon me! i had better have stayed in my kennel and fancied the whole world affronted with me for a few days longer. craven and i met on the rug, _my_ rug, as i considered it; for it was one of my principal pleasures to sit on that rug with my feet on the fender, warming my nose. i sometimes toasted myself all over, till my coat was so hot that lily squeaked when she touched me. she would have barked, i suppose, if she had known how. now craven stood in my place, with one of his hind paws on my fender. he looked scornfully at me, and i returned his glance with one of equal contempt, though i longed to snap at his shining heel, and teach him sense and manners. but lily, who never was angry with any body, did not perceive how much we disliked each other, and exclaimed in her innocent way, "craven, here is captain come to make friends with you, and to beg pardon for deserting you yesterday. shake a paw, captain." shaking a paw with craven was a thing i would not do; and my master, a good sportsman himself, entered into my feelings. "the dog was thoroughly provoked by your bad shooting, craven," said he, "and you will never make either him or me believe it was his fault. but try again. there is no necessity for you to be a sportsman; but if you choose to do a thing at all, you had better do it properly; and you may learn as well as any body else, if you will not fancy yourself perfect. we will all go out together to-day." and so we all went out together on that fatal day. i did myself credit, and my master did me justice, and i was happy in my ignorance of coming events. craven shot and missed, and shot and missed again; but my master's laugh stopped him whenever he was beginning to lay the blame on dog or gun. "bad workmen always find fault with their tools, craven," said my master. "take better aim." john tried to teach him, but he would listen to no advice. it is seldom that a person's fault or folly injures himself alone, and, alas for me! i was the victim of craven's conceit and obstinacy. at his next fire i felt a pang that i never can forget. his ill-directed shot had entered my shoulder, and i sank down howling with agony. my companions instantly surrounded me, uttering exclamations of alarm, regret, and pity, craven himself being the foremost and loudest. he never should forgive himself, he said; it was all his awkwardness and stupidity; he was never so sorry for any thing in his life. he ran to a neighbouring cottage for a shutter, while my master and john bound up the wound. they then placed me carefully on the shutter, and carried me home, craven reproaching himself and pitying me every time he opened his lips. i scarcely knew him for the same person who had been so conceited and supercilious half an hour before; and even my master, who was extremely angry with him, grew softened by his penitence. they carried me two at a time, in turn; and when craven was walking by my side, he stroked my head, saying, "poor captain, how i wish i could do any thing to relieve you! if you could but understand how grieved and ashamed i am, i think you would forgive me." though suffering greatly, i could not but be touched by his sorrow; and when i heard the kind tones of his voice, and saw tears standing in his eyes, my anger quite melted away, and i licked his hand to show that i bore no malice. my accident confined me to the kennel for a considerable time, but every care and attention was paid me. my master and john doctored my wound, and lily brought me my food every day with her own hands. as long as craven remained in the house, he never failed to accompany her, repeating his regret and good-will towards me; and after he had left us i heard old john observe: "i always thought there was some good in master craven; and his brother is as fine a fellow as ever lived, and won't let it drop. the boy is quite changed now. between captain and miss lily, i reckon he has had a lesson he'll not forget." in due time i recovered, and was as strong and handsome as ever; but, strange to say, i no longer felt like the same dog. my own sufferings had suggested some serious reflections as to whether being shot might not be as unpleasant to the birds as to me; and i really began quite to pity them. so far the change was for the better; but it did not stop there: not only was my love for field-sports extinguished, but it had given place to a timidity which neither threats nor caresses could overcome. i shuddered at the very sight of a gun, and no amount either of reward or punishment could induce me again to brave its effects. under all other circumstances i was as courageous as before: i would have attacked a wild beast, or defended the house against a robber, without the slightest fear; but i could not stand fire; and the moment i saw a gun pointed, there was no help for it, i fairly turned tail and ran off. "the poor beast is spoilt, sir," said john to my master. "it is cruel to force him, and he'll never be good for any thing again." "it is of no use taking him out," replied my master; "but he is far from good for nothing. he has plenty of spirit still, and we must make a house-dog of him." so i was appointed house-dog. at first i certainly felt the change of life very unpleasant; but i reflected that it was my own doing, though not exactly my own fault; and i determined to make the best of it, and adapt myself to my new employments. at the beginning of that summer, if any body had told me that i should be content to stay in the court and garden, sometimes even tethered to a tree on the lawn,--that my most adventurous amusement would he a quiet walk over the grounds, and my most exciting occupation the looking-out for suspicious characters,--i should have sneered, perhaps even growled at the prediction; but so it was, and before long i grew reconciled to my new station, and resolved to gain more credit as a guard than even as a sporting dog. we were not much troubled with thieves, for we lived in a quiet country place, where we knew every body and every body knew us, and no one was likely to wish us any harm; but it did once happen that my vigilance was put to the proof. there was a fair in our neighbourhood, attended by all the villages near. during the morning i amused myself by watching the people in their smart dresses passing our gate, laughing and talking merrily. i had many acquaintances among them, who greeted me with good-natured speeches, which i answered by polite wags of my tail. john, and others of our servants, went to the fair, and seemed to enjoy themselves as much as any body. they returned home before dark, and all the respectable persons who had passed our gate in the morning re-passed it at an early hour in the evening, looking as if they had spent a pleasant day, but perfectly quiet and sober; and i was much pleased at seeing them so well behaved. but among the crowd of passengers in the morning, i had noticed several men whose appearance i highly disapproved. some of them scowled at me as they passed, and i felt sure they were bent upon no good; but one, the worst-looking of all, stopped, and whistled to me, holding out a piece of meat. i need scarcely say that i indignantly rejected his bribe--for such i knew it was--meant to entice me in some way or other to neglect my duty; so i growled and snarled, and watched him well as he passed on. no fear of my not knowing him again by sight or smell. several of these ill-looking men returned intoxicated, to my great disgust; for i had a peculiar objection to persons in that condition, and never trusted a man who could degrade himself below my own level. i watched them all, every moment expecting the one who had tried to curry favour with me, for i had an instinctive assurance that i had not seen the last of him. night drew on while i was still on the look-out, and yet he did not appear. the rest of the family went calmly to bed, taking no notice of my disquietude; but nothing could have induced _me_ to curl myself round and shut my eyes. i was sure danger was near, and it was my part as a faithful guardian to be prepared for it. so i alternately paced cautiously round the court, or sat up in my kennel with my head out listening for every sound. by degrees the returning parties of revellers dwindled to now and then a solitary pedestrian; and the hum of voices gradually subsided, till all was silent, and the whole country seemed asleep. still i watched on, with unabated vigilance, deep into the night. at last i thought i heard outside the wall a very cautious footstep, accompanied by an almost inaudible whisper. i pricked up my ears; the footstep came nearer, and a hand was upon the lock of the courtyard-gate. i sniffed the air; there was no mistake; i smelt the very man whom i expected. others might be with him, but there was _he_. without a moment's delay, i set up an alarum that might have wakened the whole village; at any rate, it woke our whole house. down stairs came my master in his dressing-gown; down came old john, lantern in hand, and red nightcap on head. lily peeped out of her bedroom window, with a shawl over her shoulders; and seeing her papa in the court, ran down to help him,--as if she could have been any help against robbers, poor little darling! the servants assembled in such strange attire, that they looked to me like a herd of animals who had got into each other's coats by mistake. but the maids had kept their own voices at any rate, for they screamed almost as loud as i barked. it was a proud moment for me; and the greater everybody's fright, and the more noise and confusion they made, the prouder i was. it was all _my_ doing. it was _i_ who had called them all in the middle of the night. their confidence in me was such, that at the sound of my voice they had all left their beds, and assembled in the courtyard in their night-gowns. how clever and careful they must think me! and how clever and careful i thought myself! i danced round lily, and bounded about in all directions, till i knocked down the sleepy stable-boy, and got into every body's way. i never was in such glee in my life. but my master and john were quiet enough, and they examined the gate, and the footsteps outside, and decided that there certainly had been an attempt to break into the house, but that the robbers had been frightened away by me. "it has been a narrow escape for them, sir," said john; "for if they had succeeded in getting in, the dog would have pinned them." "captain has done his duty well," said my master, "and no one can call him useless any more." "it is a good thing no one was hurt," added lily; "but i am glad they were frightened. perhaps the fright will cure them." after this adventure i was treated with great respect. by night i watched the house, and by day i was lily's constant companion. we were allowed to take long rambles together, as her father knew she was safe under my care. i learnt to carry her basket or parasol for her, and to sit faithfully guarding them while she scrambled up banks or through bushes, looking for flowers. i was also an excellent swimmer, and could fetch sticks which she had thrown to the very middle of the stream. i could not make out why she wanted the sticks, as she never took them home with her; but we were quite of one mind about fetching them out of the water. often i accompanied her to the village, and lay at the cottage-doors while she paid visits to the people inside. then the little children used to gather round me, and pat me, and pull my ears; and even if they pulled a little too hard, i scorned to complain, or hurt them in return; and when lily came out, i was rewarded by her praise of me as the best and gentlest dog in the world. at other times she used to establish herself to read or work under a tree on the lawn, while i lay at her feet, or sat upright by her side. i was careful not to interrupt her when she was busy, but she often left off reading to speak to me, and sometimes let me keep my front paw in hers as we sat together. these were happy days, and i should have liked them to last for ever. but this state of tranquillity was to be disturbed, and i am sorry to say by my own folly. i had insensibly imbibed a notion, or rather a feeling, that i was lily's only pet and favourite, and that nothing else had a right to attract her notice. of course i allowed her to pay proper attention to human beings; i knew that i could not come into competition with _them_, and therefore i never was jealous of them; but a word or a look bestowed upon an inferior animal appeared to me an affront which proper self-respect required me to resent. one day lily appeared in the garden carrying a little white kitten in her arms. i should have liked to have it to worry, and as lily was very good-natured, i thought she had brought it for that purpose; so i sat watching ready to snap at it the moment she should toss it at me. after a time, i began to think she ought not to tantalise me by keeping me waiting so long, and i tried to show my impatience by various signs that she could understand. but to my surprise she was not only insensible to my hints, but took upon herself to reprove me, saying, "no, captain, that is not being a good dog; you must not want to hurt the poor little kitten. go farther off." if ever i was affronted in my life it was then. i turned round, and shaking my ears, sat down with my back to lily and her disgusting kitten, and absolutely refused even to look round when she spoke to me. this was the beginning of a period in my life to which i always recur with shame and regret. i continued in a state of unmitigated sulks. even lily could not appease me. if she came to see me by herself, indeed, or with only human beings in her train, i brightened up for the moment; but if she appeared with the kitten in her arms, my surliness was disgraceful. nobody knows how i detested the kitten. i thought it a misfortune to the universe that that kitten should exist. on thinking it over at this distance of time, i honestly confess that i had no right to be jealous; lily remitted none of her kindness, and gave me every proof of much higher regard and esteem than she bestowed on the kitten. she fed me, patted me, took me out walking, and talked to me just as usual; and as soon as she perceived my objection to her new pet, she left off bringing it with her, and was careful to keep it out of my sight. but i saw it in spite of all her pains. it was incessantly intruding itself upon my notice, sometimes on the roof of the house, sometimes jumping from a window-ledge; now perched upon a paling, now climbing the pillars of the verandah; and always looking clean and white and pretty, with a bit of blue ribbon which lily had tied round its neck, as if on purpose to provoke me. even when i did not see it, i heard it mew; and when i did not hear it, i thought about it. i was miserable. to be sure i had no right to expect lily to like nobody but me, and i had nothing to complain of; every pleasure and comfort in life was mine. indeed, i think a real grievance would have been rather pleasant to me. i should have liked an injustice. i was determined to sulk, and should have been glad to have something to sulk at. but no; people would persevere in being kind to me. i might be as ill-tempered as i pleased; nobody punished, or even scolded me; and whenever i chose to be in good humour, my friends were always ready to meet me half-way. indeed, i never was quite sure whether they noticed my ill-temper or not. but i did not try to come round, though certainly sulking did not conduce to my comfort. i once heard my master remark, in reference to some disagreeable human being, that ill-tempered people made themselves more unhappy than they made others; so i suppose sulking does not always agree even with men; i know it does not with dogs. it was a wretched time. i continued to brood over my imaginary grievances, little thinking how soon they would be exchanged for real troubles. i had been discontented while every enjoyment was at my command, and now i was to wish in vain for the happiness i had neglected. and yet, in the point which i considered most important, i had my own way. i one day thought that if i were never again to see lily caressing that kitten, i should be quite happy. i never again saw lily caressing the kitten, and from that day my real sorrows began. there was a bustle in the house. every thing seemed in confusion. every body was doing something different from usual. furniture and trunks were carried up and down stairs. my master's study was full of great chests; and he and lily, instead of reading the books, spent all their time in hiding them in these chests. next, my friend john came and nailed covers on the chests. after the first was nailed down, i jumped upon it, and sat watching john while he hammered the others; switching my tail, and winking my eyes at every stroke of his hammer, rather surprised at all that went on, but yet liking the bustle. "ah, poor old boy," said john, "i wonder how you'll take it." "take what?" thought i, and wondered too. one day, john and another man went out with the horses, each riding on one and leading another. thinking they were going to exercise them, i followed as i often did; but when we came to the end of the village john ordered me home, saying, "good bye, captain. don't forget us, old fellow." i returned according to his command, but felt very much puzzled, as john had never before sent me home. on arriving at the house, a waggon was standing at the door, piled up to a great height with chests and packages; and on the top of all was perched an ugly cur, barking as if he considered himself the master of everything. i was willing to make a civil acquaintance with him, but the little mongrel had the audacity to bark at _me_,--me in my own dominions! i did not think he was worth touching, besides which, i could not get at him; but i growled fiercely; and his master, who was loading the waggon, desired me to "get out of the way." thus rejected on all sides, i betook myself to the court, and rolled myself round in the straw of my own kennel, where nobody could affront me. there i remained till i heard lily's sweet voice at a distance calling, "captain, captain!" i bounded forth once more at the sound, and met my pretty mistress in her walking dress, with the basket in her hand which i had so often carried. but she did not invite me to accompany her. "poor captain," said she, "i am come to bid you good bye. i am afraid you will miss us sadly; but i hope they will take good care of you. good bye, best of dogs." "come, lily, make haste," i heard my master call from the gate, and lily and i ran towards him. he was standing by a carriage, with the door open and the steps let down. the gardener and his wife were near; he with his hat in his hand, and she wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. lily jumped into the carriage, her papa followed her; the gardener wished them a pleasant journey, "and a happy return," added his wife, and they drove off, lily keeping her head at the window, and kissing her hand to us till she was out of sight. at first i had no idea that they were not coming back. though i heard the gardener say that they were "gone for good," it did not occur to me that that meant harm to us. they often went out for a day and returned in the evening; so at the usual time i expected their ring at the bell, and went to the gate to meet them. but no bell rang; no carriage drove up; no sound of horses' hoofs was to be heard in the distance, though i listened till the gardener came to lock up for the night, and ordered me to the court, where it was my business to keep guard. next morning there was a strange stillness and idleness. no master taking his early walk over the grounds. no lily gathering her flowers before breakfast. no john to open the stable door, and let me in to bark good morning to the horses. no horses; a boy sweeping the deserted stable, and rack and manger empty. no carriage; the coach-house filled with lumber, and the shutters closed in the loft. no servants about. i rather congratulated myself upon the disappearance of lily's maid, who had a habit of making uncivil speeches if i crossed her path in running to meet lily. that maid and i had never been friends since i once had the misfortune to shake myself near her when coming out of the water. i confess i did wet her, and i did dirty her; but i did not know that water would hurt her coat,--it never hurt mine; and she need not have borne malice for ever; i should have forgiven her long ago if she had dirtied me. but whenever she saw me she took the opportunity of saying something mortifying, as, "out of the way; don't come nigh me with that great mop of yours!" or, "get along with you! i wonder what miss lily can see to like in such a great lumbering brute." i kept out of her way as much as i could, and it was now some consolation that she did not come in mine. but it was a dull day. in due time the gardener's wife called, and gave me my breakfast, setting it down outside the kitchen door. it was a comfortable breakfast, for she was a good-natured woman, not likely to neglect lily's charge to take care of me. i wagged my tail, and looked up in her face to thank her, but she was already gone without taking farther notice of me. she had done her work of giving me the necessaries of life, and my feelings were nothing to her. how i remembered my pretty lily, and wished for her pleasant welcome. after breakfast i went on an expedition to the flower-garden, thinking i might have a chance of finding some trace of my mistress in that favourite haunt. the gate was shut, but i heard steps, and scratched to be let in. i scratched and whined for some time; lily would not have kept me half so long. at last the gardener looked over the top of the gate: "oh, it's you," said he; "i thought so. but you had best go and amuse yourself in places proper for you; you are not coming to walk over my flowerbeds any more." he did not speak unkindly, and i had often heard him tell lily that i was "best out of the flower-garden;" so i could not reasonably grumble; but his speech showed the change in my position, and i walked away from the closed gate with my mind much oppressed, and my tail between my legs. i intended to go and meditate in the boat, but here again i was disappointed; the boat-house was locked; i had no resource but to jump into the water and swim to a little island in which lily had a favourite arbour. there in a summer's day she often rested, hidden in jessamine and honeysuckle; and there i now took refuge, attracted to the spot by its strong association with herself. i scarcely know whether i sought the arbour with the hope of finding her present, or the intention of mourning her absent; but i went to think about her. alas! that was all i could do. she was not there. a book of hers had been left unheeded on the ground, and i laid down and placed my paws upon it to guard it, as i had often done before. in this position i fell asleep, and remained unconscious of fortunes or misfortunes, till i was awakened by dreaming of dinner. _that_ dream could be realised. i jumped up, shook myself, and yawned more comfortably than i had done all day. on moving my paws from lily's book, it struck me that it would be right to carry it home to her; and then once more the hope revived of finding her at home herself. it was the most likely thing in the world that she should come home to dinner. everybody did, i supposed; i was going home to dinner myself. with the book in my mouth, i swam across the water. perhaps i did not keep it quite dry, but i carried it into the house, and laid it down before the gardener and his wife, who were the only persons i could see on the premises. "well, that is sensible, i must confess," said the gardener. "the dumb animal has found missy's book, and brought it back. miss lily would like to hear that." "ah, she always thought a deal of the creature," replied his wife; "and for her sake he shan't be neglected. here's your dinner, captain." "give him that bone," said the gardener; "that's what he'll like." so they gave me a charming bone, quite to my taste; and for a time i forgot all my anxieties in the pleasure of turning it round, sucking, biting, pawing, and growling over it. i cared for no other dinner; indeed i never could understand how people could trouble themselves to eat anything else as long as there was a bone to gnaw. but it is fortunate there are various tastes in the world; and the strange preference of men for other food is convenient for us dogs, as it leaves us in more undisputed possession of the bones than if our masters liked gnawing them too. but the pleasure of a bone does not last for ever, and among the nobler races of animals thought cannot be entirely kept under by eating. i have heard that greedy human beings sometimes reduce themselves to the condition of pigs, who are entirely devoted to cramming; but _i_ should not choose to degrade myself to that level. so i soon began meditating, and cogitating, and speculating again. my life now grew every day more and more dismal. dinner-time brought its bone, but bones soon failed to comfort me. the gardener said i was "off my feed," and his wife feared i should mope to death. all day i wandered about looking for lily, and at night retired to my kennel, under the sad impression that she was farther off than ever. the gardener himself once invited me into the flower-garden in hopes of amusing me, and i explored all the gravel-walks, carefully avoiding the borders; but there was no trace of my lost lily, and i never cared to visit it again. one day i thought i would search the house. it was thrown open to me. there were no forbidden drawing-rooms now; i prowled about as i pleased. if the doors were shut, i might scratch as long as i liked; nobody answered. if open, i walked round and round the room, brushing the wainscot with my tail. there were no china ornaments to be thrown down now, and i might whisk it about as i would. formerly i had often wished for free entrance to those rooms; now i should have welcomed a friendly hand that shut me out of them. in passing before a large mirror, i marvelled at my own forlorn and neglected appearance. once, i was worth looking at in a glass; now, what a difference! sorrow had so changed my whole aspect, that i stared with dismay at the gaunt spectre which stared at me in return, and we howled at each other for company. [illustration: captain's dream. page ] lying down before the blank mirror, which had formerly thrown back so many pleasant images, and now reflected only my solitary figure in the deserted room, i silently pondered on the past. in a half-wakeful, half-dozing state, my eyes alternately opening and shutting, now winking and blinking at the glass, now for a moment losing sight of every thing, the events of my life seemed to pass before me in a dream; the persons with whom i had been connected rose up again as shadows, and i myself seemed another shadow gliding about among them, but a shadow whose behaviour i had acquired a new faculty of observing. i saw myself now as others saw me,--an uncommon condition either for dogs or men,--and i watched my own deportment in all my states of mind and stages of life. i saw myself first a mere puppy, not worth notice. the puppy grew, and i saw it as a dog; a fine, well-bred, and certainly a fortunate dog. then as a clever, knowing, useful dog; a gentle, patient, obedient dog. sometimes perhaps an awkward or foolish dog; but those were pardonable faults, while i was certainly a brave, honest, and faithful dog. but at last i saw myself as a _jealous dog_; and i paused, startled at the strange light in which my conduct appeared. how silly, unreasonable, and fractious i had been! i plainly perceived that what i had taken for injured dignity and wounded affection was nothing but pride and envy; that i had not a single ground of complaint, but that my own ill-temper might have justly given offence to my best friends; and while i had fancied myself setting so high a value upon lily's regard, i was recklessly running the risk of losing it altogether. happily i had been spared _that_ punishment, however well deserved. lily's friendship had never failed me. she had either excused or not perceived my faults, and we had parted on the best possible terms. now that i could view matters more justly, i was quite out of patience with myself for fancying that i should be happy if i no longer saw lily nursing that kitten. happy indeed! there was no chance of my being troubled with such a sight, and i was miserable! i would have put up with all the cats and kittens that were met coming from st. ives; i would have tried to settle the quarrel between the kilkenny cats who ate each other up, all but the tips of their tails;--any thing to see lily once more, even if she chose to nurse all the kittens of "catland." but it was too late; my regrets were all in vain; and the only course that seemed left for me now was to give up the rest of my days to brooding over my sorrows and my faults. but before i had quite devoted myself to this line of life, i gave a glance at my shadow in the glass doing the same. there i saw him moping away all his time; making no amends for his bad conduct, no attempts at behaving better; utterly useless, sulky, and disagreeable; in fact, more foolish than ever. "no," thought i, as i jumped up and shook myself all over, "i will not have this distressing experience for nothing; i will make good use of it; i cannot recall the past, but i will act differently for the future;" and down i lay again to make plans for the future. coming events cast no shadows before, either in the glass or in my dreams. i knew nothing about what i might, could, would, or should do. the past i had lost, the future was not in my power; and what remained to me? perhaps i might never have an opportunity of behaving well again. i was fast relapsing into despondency, when suddenly i was aroused from my dreams by a sound once odious to me. i raised myself upon my front paws and listened. there was no mistake, i heard it again; a thin and timid _mew_, dying away in the distance, and sounding as if it proceeded from the mere shadow of a cat. but faint and shadowy as it was, i recognised it; it recalled me to realities, and the conviction of my right line of conduct flashed across my mind. the present--the present moment was mine. i could only take warning by the past, and hope for the future, but i must act _now_. i have but to take every opportunity when it offers itself, and there would be no fear of not having opportunities enough. here was one ready at hand. instead of worrying that kitten, who was now in my power, i would magnanimously endure her existence. i would do more; i would let her know that she had nothing any longer to fear from me; and in pursuance of this kind intention, i walked about the room in search of her. i soon descried her, perched upon the top of a high bookcase, not daring to come down for fear of me. she was altered by recent events, though not so much as i. she looked forlorn and uncomfortable, but not shaggy, haggard, or dirty. the regard to her toilette which had characterised her in better days still clung to her, and made her neat and tidy in misfortune. the blue ribbon round her neck was indeed faded, but in other respects she looked as clean and white and sleek as lily herself. she had evidently licked herself all over every day, instead of moping in the dirt. she and lily had always been somewhat alike in point of cleanliness. indeed, i once imagined that lily must lick herself all over in order to look so clean; but on further consideration i had reason to believe that she commonly attained her object by plunging into cold water, more after my own fashion. but to return to the kitten. there she stood, the very picture of fear; her legs stretched, her tail arched, her back raised, trying to assume the best posture of defence she could, but evidently believing it of no use. she mewed louder at every step i took nearer. even if i had been inclined to harm her, she was safe enough on the top of that high bookcase; but she did not know that. in her inexperience, she fancied me able to spring about the world as she did, and expected every moment that i should perch on the carved oak crown, and seize her in my mouth, jump down again and crunch her as she would a mouse. she began running backwards and forwards on the top of her bookcase, mewing piteously at every turn. i understood her language: it meant, "oh, what shall i do? mew, mew! pray, my lord, have pity upon an unfortunate kitten! mew, mew, mew! if you will let me run away this time, i will keep out of your lordship's sight all the rest of my life. mew, mew, mew! oh dear, i had not the least intention of intruding on your highness; i thought your majesty was in the stable. i wish i was in the coal-cellar myself. oh, oh, pray! oh, mew!" so she went on for a long time, in too great a fright to observe the encouragement and condescension which i threw into my countenance and manner. i sat down in front of the bookcase, and holding my head on one side, looked up at her with an expression of gentle benevolence, which i thought must re-assure the most timid spirit. it had some effect. she ceased running from side to side, and stopped opposite me, her yellow eyes fixed on mine. i returned her gaze, and wagged my tail. she lowered hers, which bad been held up like a peacock's, and reduced to its natural dimensions. after a sufficient amount of staring, we began to understand one another, and pussy's mews were in a very different tone, and one much more satisfactory to me. [illustration: puss and the captain. page ] though every animal makes use of a dialect of its own, so different as to appear to men a distinct language for each race,--for instance, the barking of a dog, the mewing of a cat, the bellowing of a bull, &c.,--still, a general mode of expression is common to all, and all can understand and be understood by one another. the reason of this is, that the universal language is that of _feeling_ only, which is alike to every one, and can be made evident by the most inarticulate sounds. moans, murmurs, sighs, whines, growls, roars, are sufficient to express our _feelings_: our _thoughts_, when we have any, we must keep to ourselves; for they cannot be made intelligible by mere sound without speech, and speech we know belongs to man alone. in fact, i suppose it is the power of thinking and speaking which makes him our master; without it, i am not at all sure that he would have so much the upper hand of us, for we are often the strongest. but a man can always know what he means to do, and why he means to do it; and he can tell others, and consult them about it; which, of course, gives him an immense advantage over us, who only act upon the spur of the moment, without knowing whether we are right or wrong. good-nature was all that pussy and i wanted to express just now, and _that_ is always easy to show, with or without words. mews in various tones from her were met by small, good-humoured half-barks and agreeable grunts from me, till at last she fairly left off mewing, and began to purr. much pleased with my success so far, i now lay down, stretching out my front paws to their full length before, and my tail behind, brushing the floor in a half-circle with the latter. then i yawned in a friendly way, and finally laid my head down on my paws to watch my little protégée quietly, in hopes of enticing her from her fortress. this last insinuating attitude decided her. she gently placed first one little white paw, and then another, on projecting ornaments of the bookcase, one step on the lion, and the next on the unicorn; and without hurting either herself or the delicate carved work which she chose to use as her staircase, she alighted harmless and unharmed within my reach. then she mewed once more; but that was her last expression of doubt or dread. i soon reassured her; and that moment was the first of a confidence and intimacy seldom seen between our uncongenial races. we had now, in our way, a long conversation, during which we became pretty well acquainted with each other's dispositions; and in due time we descended the stairs together in perfect amity; i gravely walked step by step, and looking up benignly at the gambols of little pussy, who, now in high spirits, had no idea of coming down in a regular way, but must scramble up the banisters, hang by her claws from the hand-rail, recover herself instantaneously when within an inch of falling headlong into the hall, and play a hundred other wild tricks. a short time before, i should have thought all this a most despicable waste of time and strength; but now i could see that it did her good and made her happy, and i looked on rather with approbation. i shall never forget the surprise of the gardener's wife when puss and i entered the kitchen side by side. she screamed as if we had been a couple of wild beasts. "oh," cried she, "there's that poor little kitten just under captain's nose! he'll be the death of her. what shall i do?" she seized a broom, and held it between us, ready to beat me if i ventured to attack the kitten. but i wagged my tail, and puss jumped over the broomstick. "well to be sure!" said mrs. gardener, letting fall the broom, and holding up her hands; "did any body ever see the like of that!" she placed a saucer of milk on the floor, and i sat quietly and let the kitten drink it. the kitten herself was a little surprised at this, and hesitated before beginning, not knowing exactly what it might be proper for her to do; indeed, i could scarcely expect her to understand the etiquette of so unusual a circumstance; but she had a great deal of tact, and soon perceived that i wished her to go on naturally; so she began lapping, though looking round at me between every two or three mouthfuls, to make sure that she was not taking a liberty. but meeting with nothing but encouragement, she finished her repast with great satisfaction, and we both laid ourselves down by the kitchen-fire, as if we had been friends all our lives. "well to be sure!" exclaimed the gardener's wife again. it was her favourite phrase; she seemed never to tire of it, and to have little else to say; but i understood what she meant, and took a comfortable nap in consequence. by and by came dinner, and a pleasant little meal it was. instead of flying at the kitten for presuming to eat at all, i quite enjoyed having a companion. my platter stood, as usual, in the yard, and pussy's in a corner of the kitchen; but by mutual consent we began dragging our respective bones along the ground to eat in company; and the gardener's wife seeing the proceeding, carried our plates for us, and placed them side by side outside the door, and we finished our meal in the most sociable manner. times were now altered: but i need not give a detailed account of every day. the good understanding between pussy and me continued to increase, till it ripened into the warmest friendship. uncongenial companion as she appeared, i grew by degrees fonder of her than i had ever been of any of my own tribe; and although our habits were by nature totally dissimilar, we learned to understand, and even to take pleasure in accommodating ourselves to each other's little peculiarities. i confess this was not done in a moment. at first i certainly was occasionally annoyed by pussy's inconsistencies. she would profess to be so refined, that a speck of dirt on her white coat made her unhappy; so delicate, that she could not endure to wet her feet; so modest, that she could not bear to be looked at while she was eating; while at the same time she would scamper into the dirtiest hole after a mouse, and then devour the nasty vermin with a satisfaction quite disgusting to a well-bred sporting dog like myself. i wished to educate her in the sentiments and habits of my own nobler race, but i found it a hopeless task. if i took her out for a walk, and tried to impress her with the pleasure of a good healthy swim in the pond, she listened politely; but in spite of all my arguments, when we arrived at the water's edge, and i plunged in, she never could be induced to follow; there she stood, mewing and shivering on the brink, not daring even to wet her claws. if i objected to her mice, she argued that they were her natural food, and agreed with her; and so on through all my attempts to reform her. the little creature had generally an answer ready; and what was peculiarly provoking to a person unused to contradiction, like myself, she often disputed points upon which i had supposed there could be but one opinion. when i was trying to shame her into being more like a dog, she actually told me that she doubted whether mine really was the nobler race, for that the lion was her chief, and she challenged me to show his equal. this was the more irritating because i could not answer it; and i take some credit to myself for having kept my temper on the occasion, as i did feel tempted to give her a shake. luckily it occurred to me that quarrelling with people for being in the right would not put them in the wrong, and that shaking them might not be the way to shake their opinions. so i was silent, and pretended to be indulgent. after all, the little cat had received an education extremely suitable to her character and circumstances. lily had made an in-door companion of her, as she had made an out-door one of me, and had taken great pains to cultivate her natural talents. her manners were perfect. it was impossible to be more gentle, graceful, and courteous than puss. always at hand, but never in the way; quick in observing, but slow in interfering; active and ready in her own work, but quiet and retiring when not required to come forward; affectionate in her temper, and regular in her habits,--she was a thoroughly feminine domestic character. she had her own ideas about me, which she communicated to me when we were sufficiently intimate for her to speak openly. perhaps she did not admire me quite so much as i admired myself; but perhaps she was right--who knows? i have heard that even among men, lookers-on are sometimes the best judges. she did full justice to my strength and courage, and applauded my daring way of rushing upon an enemy, without regard to his size or position, instead of running into a corner and spitting at him. she admitted, without hesitation, that mine was the superior proceeding; but she suggested, that perhaps it might be as well not to be quite so ready to attack other dogs before they had given me any offence: also that it was unnecessary to suppose that every man who came to the house _must_ have bad intentions, whether he gave me just cause for suspicion or not. in fact, she hinted that it was good to be brave, but bad to be quarrelsome. then as to my personal appearance, she acknowledged that i was larger and handsomer than she, and that my rough, shaggy coat was far from unbecoming; but when i laughed at her finical cleanliness, and called her affected for not keeping her own white fur as rough and muddy as mine, she reminded me that it was that very neatness, so despised by me, which had procured her entrance into lily's drawing-room, while i, with all my good qualities, was never allowed to come up stairs. i had always thought it rather grand to bang about in a careless manner; and if i knocked any thing down, i supposed it was the thing's fault. i once swept down with my tail a whole trayful of crockery; and when i was scolded for doing mischief, i thought it quite sufficient excuse to say to myself, "i did not do it on purpose; what is the use of making such a fuss?" but i now saw clearly that pussy's care not to do any mischief at all was both more agreeable to others and more advantageous to herself. for instance, the gardener's wife turned me out in the cold while she was washing the china, whereas she let pussy walk about on the very table among the cups and saucers, stepping so carefully with her soft little paws that there was no danger of any breakage. i have seen her walk along the edge of every shelf on the dresser, without disarranging a single plate. then, while i was despising puss for catching mice, i heard the gardener's wife giving her the highest praise for being an excellent mouser; and to my surprise, i found out that it was the regular work for which she was kept in the house. so, as time went on, we learnt to understand each other better and better, and our companionship was useful in teaching us to be less narrow-minded in our estimation of each other and things in general. i discovered that it was not necessary for every body to be exactly alike; that cats and dogs, and perhaps also men and women, had a right each to his own character; and that people must be mutually accommodating, every body giving up a little, and no one expecting to make his own way the rule for every body. and pussy learnt herself, and taught me another lesson, that every body is one's superior in something, so that any body may improve by taking pattern by any body else; i mean, by looking for and imitating their good qualities, instead of picking out and snarling over their faults. time slipped away very happily and imperceptibly. there were few changes in our mode of life; though pussy, from a kitten, in due time became a full-grown cat, who left off running after her tail and climbing up the banisters, and walked up and down stairs as steadily as i did myself. in other respects our relations remained the same; i was the patron and protector, she the friend and companion, sharing the same kennel and the same platter, and both metamorphosed from the bitterest enemies into the comfort and delight of each other's lives. one day while we were basking in the sunshine, with our eyes half shut, and pussy purring pleasantly, i heard the sound of wheels at a distance. supposing it to be the baker's cart, i roused myself, and ran to the gate, according to custom, to see him give in the bread. but long before the vehicle came in sight, i smelt the difference between it and the baker's cart. it came nearer; i felt in a state of uncommon agitation; old recollections and associations returned with extraordinary vividness, and my eagerness was intense till the carriage stopped at the door. no wonder i had been so much excited; for who should be on the box but my old friend john? and who should get out of the carriage but my master himself. was i not in raptures! and did i not jump and tear about the court in my joy! pussy sat at the window watching my vagaries with astonishment. when she understood the state of the case, she was very glad to see our master, but expressed her pleasure in a more moderate way than i. my master and john were cordial in their greetings to every body, but they seemed very busy, and spent the rest of the day in walking over the place and giving a number of orders. i followed close at their heels, very happy to be in their company once more. the gardener and his wife made many inquiries about lily, as i would have done myself if i could; and i listened eagerly to my master's replies, though i was rather puzzled by some of them. he said she was quite well and very happy, but that he missed her sadly. "i can understand _that_," thought i, as i looked up at him in sympathy. i believe he understood me, for he patted my head, saying, "poor captain, she was very fond of you." the gardener and his wife said that they had been "quite proud to hear the news, for that if any body deserved her it was sir rodolph;" and my master answered, "true, true; i must not complain of giving her up to _him_." although i could not make out her history very accurately; but on discussing it with puss, and putting together everything that we heard my master say in the garden, and john say in the kitchen, we came to the conclusion that lily was gone to live at some distance in a home of her own; that craven's good elder brother was her companion there; and that her papa was much pleased with the arrangement, though he lost her company. it seemed an odd affair to pussy and me, and we purred and pondered over it. puss confessed that she could not understand a person's leaving the house in which she was born. my views were larger. i could imagine being contented in any place, provided my friends were there too; but the separation from friends seemed an unnatural proceeding. however, john had distinctly said that her papa was very much pleased; so we decided that human beings were gifted with greater powers than ourselves of bearing change, and making themselves happy and useful under a variety of circumstances. for we had no doubt of lily's being happy and useful wherever she might be. i could as soon have fancied myself encouraging my thieves, or puss neglecting her mice, as lily idle or out of spirits. in the course of the next day, john brought the carriage to the door again, and invited me to take a drive. much flattered, i scrambled to the box, and sat by his side as steadily as i could, though the movement of the carriage was not much to my taste. several times i could not resist trying to get down and run by the side; but john scolded me and held me fast, only indulging me with an occasional scamper when we were going up hill. i had not omitted a good-humoured bark to pussy when we started, by way of farewell; for she came to see us off, though she was too humble to expect an invitation to join the party. i fully supposed that we should return in an hour or two, and that i should have the pleasure of telling her my morning's adventures. but we travelled up hill and down hill, through strange villages and an unknown country, and still we went on and on, without any symptoms of turning. in time we stopped at an inn, where my master had his dinner; and i went with john to the stables, and saw him feed the horses, and then followed him to the kitchen, where he too ate his dinner, and gave some to me. then we set off on our journey again. now i thought we were surely going home; but no; still straight on through new roads all day till the sun went down and the evening grew so dark that i could not see the country; and yet no talk of returning. john stopped the carriage, and lighted the lamps; and then on again, at the same steady pace, through the unknown land. tired of travelling in the wrong direction, as it appeared to me, and without any object, i curled myself round at john's feet and took a long nap. on waking, i found myself in a scene altogether strange to me. we were passing through the streets of a city. i sat up and turned my head from side to side, quite bewildered by the difference between such a place and the country villages in which i had passed my life. "ah, you may well look about you," said john; "you are not the only one that hasn't known what to make of london." the noise and confusion were astonishing. though it was now so late that every body ought to have been asleep in their kennels, the innumerable lights in the houses made the night as bright as day. the streets were swarming with people; men and women, carriages and horses, even dogs and cats, met us every moment. i supposed they must be a kind of savages, who came out in the night like wild beasts, and i tried barking at them to frighten them back to their dens; but it had no effect, and john bade me be quiet. indeed, i myself perceived that it would be a hopeless task to bark at everybody that went by. their numbers were like the autumn leaves falling from the trees in our avenue during a high wind, and i could only suppose that next day i should find them all swept up in heaps at the side of the road. at last we stopped before a house; and very glad i was to be ordered to jump down and go in, and not at all sorry for the good supper that was presently given me. i was too tired even to wonder where i was, or to do or think of anything that night except going to sleep; and that i did thoroughly, after my long journey. but next day i was myself again, and up early to explore the premises. what i saw at first was not much to my taste. i did not admire my kennel; it was decidedly dull, fixed in the corner of a small courtyard surrounded by high walls. no trees, no river, no garden; nothing to be seen but a square patch of sky above the walls; nothing to be heard but a continual heavy rumbling outside. i soon grew tired of watching the clouds, and pacing round the little court; and as soon as the house was open, i found my way to the street door. _there_ i could certainly not complain of being dull. if london had seemed bustling the night before, what was it now by broad daylight, with the full sun shining on the countless passengers! i could scarcely keep still myself, with the excitement of watching such incessant movement. to my great disappointment, before long, john called me in, fearing that i might stray from the house and be lost or stolen. of course, i obeyed him directly; but he perceived my vexation, and good-naturedly showed me a locker under the hall-window, where i might sit and study the humours of london at my pleasure. i thought i should never be tired of looking out of that window. the scene was so new and charming, that it reconciled me at once to my present situation, and even to the hours which might necessarily be passed in my ugly kennel. i really preferred it to the manor. there, even while my master and lily were living with me, we were a good deal left to ourselves. a few foot passengers and carts might come by in the course of the day, carriages and horses perhaps once in a week. visitors, if they came, stayed for hours, so that i had ample time to make myself master of their characters, as well as those of their horses and dogs. every body whom i knew at all, i knew intimately; and notwithstanding pussy's hints about rash judgments, i doubt whether i was ever really in danger of mistaking an honest man for a thief. but if my old home was more favourable to tranquil reflection, certainly this place had the advantage of amusement and variety. here there was no time for studying character, nor doing anything else _leisurely_. i scarcely caught a glimpse of any one, before he was out of sight. a quiet nap was out of the question; if i so much as winked, i lost the view of something. the stream of comers and goers was ever flowing. nobody stood still, nobody turned back; nobody walked up and down, as my master and his visitors used on the terrace, while i observed their manners; here, as soon as one had passed, his place was taken by another. i watched for hours, expecting that some time or other they would all have gone by, and the street be left to silence and to me. but nothing of the sort happened; they were still going on and on, crossing each other in every direction; and for as many as went by, there seemed always twice as many yet to come. in time i grew less confused, and i went out walking with my master or john until i knew my way about the streets, so that i could be trusted to go out by myself and come safe home again. the care of the house also devolved once more upon me; and it was a more responsible charge than at home, on account of the immense variety of characters which i was obliged to understand. as to bribery, whether in town or country, i was always incorruptible; but i found it necessary to quicken my powers of observation, in order to be up to my duty in london. i used sometimes to single out a suspicious individual in the crowd, and follow him through two or three streets, till i had thoroughly smelt out his character; and before long, i saw all i wanted so quickly and accurately, that john himself was ready to submit his judgment to mine. i learned to know my man, and to make him know me too; and it would have required a daring thief to attempt our house. i own i soon thoroughly enjoyed london and its ways, and quite left off wishing to return to the monotony of the manor. but though my life was pleasant, let nobody do me the injustice to imagine that either its novelty or its occupation could banish from my memory the dear little companion who had formed my happiness at home. forget my pussy i never did, though for a time i seemed contented without her. but, for the first few days, i constantly expected to see her arrive. i took it for granted that she would be brought to london just as i had been myself; and every evening, at the hour of our own arrival, i went to the hall-door, and sat patiently on the mat for a considerable time, fully expecting every moment that a carriage would stop, and that i should be the first to welcome my friend. but day after day passed without bringing her. plenty of other cats were clambering about the roof of the house, or showing themselves against the sky on the top of the wall; but they were all cross and spiteful, setting up their backs and snarling at me if i only looked at them. i had no wish to make their acquaintance, for there was but one cat in the world that i cared for. my love was for the individual, not the race. dogs were numerous in the neighbourhood, and among them were several intelligent, cultivated animals with whom i could be on pleasant barking terms; but friendship is not made in a day, and these new acquaintances could not make up for the want of my cat. as i grew weary of watching for her in vain, i left off waiting at the hall-door, and passed my evenings in thinking about her, sometimes by the kitchen fire, sometimes in the study, on the rug at my master's feet. but the more i thought about her, the more i missed her, till at last i quite lost all my spirits. i could not eat my food without her to partake of it; i scarcely cared to growl, and took no pleasure in barking. in short, i pined for her as i had once done for lily; and john and my master asked each other every day what could be the matter with me. at last, finding it impossible to bear such a life any longer, i began to consider whether there was no remedy in my power. i knew that if my master objected to any thing, he did not lie on the rug and mope, but he worked hard to set it to rights. the more i thought about it, the more i perceived that mere thinking would not do; i must set to work and help myself. so i took my resolution, and determined to risk every thing rather than go on in this dawdling way, fretting my heart out. but how? why, how did i come here myself? people had tried to bring me, and succeeded; why should not i try to bring pussy? i might not succeed, for i did not conceal from myself the difficulties of the undertaking; but what great enterprise was ever accomplished without danger or difficulty? at any rate, it was worth the trial; and if i _did_ succeed, pussy was worth every thing. so, as she would not come, i would go and fetch her. this once decided, it was evident that the sooner i set off the better; because the road not being familiar to me, it was important that i should travel it again before all traces of our former journey were lost. as yet, we had not been so long in london but that i had reason to think i should recognise the principal turnings, besides various objects on the road. i had been asleep during part of the journey, it is true; but i hoped that my acute sense of smell would come to my help when eyesight failed. and here i reflected with satisfaction upon the many advantages i had over my master in travelling. first, what a much better nose mine was! his seemed of very little use to him up in the air, out of reach of the ground. if he had not been able to ask his way, i am sure he could never have found it out by smelling. then, how inconvenient to be obliged to carry so many things with him! he could not move without a portmanteau or a carpet-bag full of strange clothes, instead of being contented with one good coat on his back. i never could understand why any body should want more than one coat. mine was always new, always comfortable, suited to all seasons, and fitting beautifully, having adapted itself to my growth at all stages of my life, without any attention from me. _i_ never had any trouble with tailors, snipping and measuring, trying on and altering. my coat would dry on me too, whereas my poor master could not even jump into the river without taking his off; if it so much as rained, he wanted an umbrella. then, he never seemed able to run any distance. for a few hundred yards it was all very well, but after that he began to walk; and if he made a single day's journey, he was obliged to be helped by a horse. poor man! i pitied him; and yet i never for a moment hesitated to acknowledge him as my master; for, with all his detects, i felt that he was in possession of some faculty incomprehensible to me, but which overpowered a thousand and a thousand times the utmost animal superiority. but to return to my own adventures. i determined to find my way to my native village as a dog best might, without delay. so the next morning i set off, following my nose, which was my best guide, through the intricacies of the london streets. more than once i took a wrong turn; but after going a little way up the street, i always discovered my mistake, and retraced my steps. once i met two gentlemen whom i knew. one asked the other if i was not my master's dog; the other looked round and called, "captain! captain!" i was very near wagging my tail and looking up at the familiar sound, but i fortunately recollected myself in time. as he was not my master, i was not bound to be obedient; so i held my ears and tail still by a strong determination, and trotted on, taking no notice. another time, as i was sniffing the ground where several streets branched off, i heard an ill-toned voice say, "there's a dog that has lost his master." "fine dog, too," said another; "there will be a good reward advertised for him." "humph, there's more to be made by him than that," replied the first; and as i looked up at him, i recognised the very man whom i had formerly prevented from breaking into my master's country house. i growled fiercely; and if he had attempted to approach me, i was prepared for a spring at his throat. "he seems to have a spite against you; best leave him alone," said the other. and the two turned away, evidently aware that it would not be safe to meddle with me; and i once more pursued my journey in quiet. having my own reasons for not wishing to attract attention, i jostled against as few passengers as possible, and did my utmost to keep clear of inquisitive dogs or arrogant horses, so that i met with few obstacles, and before mid-day arrived safely at the outskirts of london. then my way became much plainer; a country road, with hedges and fields on each side, was easily tracked; and i could hold up my head in comfort as i ran along at a good pace, instead of keeping my nose close to the ground for fear of losing my way. i came to a place where four roads met, and there, though but for a few moments, i was perplexed. there was a sign-post, but that was nothing to me; it might have been useful to my poor master, but to me it was only one of his many encumbrances, which were superseded by my nose. so i followed my nose up one of the roads; it would not do. up a second and a third; still my nose refused assent. as there was but one road more, i had no further choice; so i troubled my nose no more, but galloped joyfully ahead without any difficulty on the subject, wondering whether my master would have found the way by his reason as surely as i by my instinct. as the day went on, i began to grow uncommonly hungry; that is to say, hungry for _me_, who had never yet known what it was to want a meal. accustomed to regular daily food as often as i required it, i do not suppose that in my comfortable life i ever knew what real hunger was, such hunger as is felt by poor creatures with but scanty food for one day, and uncertain even of _that_ for the next. but i felt that i should like my dinner; and, for the first time in my life, was called upon to find it for myself. and, really, when a person has been accustomed to see set before him every day, at his own hour, on his own platter, a supply of bread and meat nicely mixed, with perhaps some pudding to finish it, and no trouble required on his part but to eat it tidily, and say "thank you" after his fashion, it is no small puzzle suddenly to be obliged to provide his own dinner from beginning to end--catching, cooking, and serving it up. there are more in the world than i who would know how to do nothing but eat it. if i had been a wild dog, used to the habits of savage life, i might have hunted down some smaller animal as wild as myself, torn it to pieces, and devoured it raw; but i was a civilised creature, so altered by education, that in my hunting days i always brought the game to my master instead of eating it myself; and here, on the london high road, there was not even game to be caught. i really was quite at a loss what to do. in course of time i came up with a traveller sitting under a hedge, eating a lump of bread and cheese. i would not have accepted bread and cheese at home if it had been offered me, but now i stopped in front of the eater and began to beg for some, licking my lips, and wagging my tail in my most insinuating manner. he threw me a scrap of coarse bread, saying, "there's for you; but i dare say you are too well fed to eat it." his supposition would have been true enough the day before; but hunger cures daintiness, and now i was glad of such a mouthful. i bolted it in an instant, and looked for more. he threw me one other crust, saying that was all he could spare; and, finishing the rest himself, went on his way, leaving me as hungry as ever. by and by, in passing through a village, i came to a butcher's shop. the butcher was not in sight, and meat was spread in the most tempting manner on the board. "how easily," thought i, "i could steal that nice raw chop, and run away with it! nobody could see me, and i do not believe any body could catch me." _steal it_--the thought startled me. brought up from my earliest puppyhood in the strictest principles of honesty; able, as i imagined, to see the best-stocked larder, or the most amply-supplied table, without even wishing to touch what was not my own;--was i now, on the very first temptation, the first time in my life that i had ever been really hungry, to forget all i had been taught, and to become a _thief_? was it only the fear of blows that had kept me honest? was my honesty worthy the name, if i was only honest when i had no temptation to be otherwise? i was ashamed of myself, and turning from the shop, passed on with drooping ears. presently i met with a dog so extra fat as to show plainly that he had never gone without his dinner, and yet he was growling over a bone as if he had been starving. on looking more closely at him, i perceived that he was in possession of two bones, either of them enough for one dog; but he was unable to make use of one, for fear of the other's being taken from him. so there he lay, with his paws upon both, growling instead of enjoying himself. he was a larger dog than i, but not nearly so strong, being grown helpless and unwieldly through long habits of greediness and laziness. i saw that i could easily master him and take one of his bones by brute force, and at first i felt inclined to help myself by this means. i thought i had a good right so to do. i actually wanted the necessaries of life, while he was revelling in superfluous luxury. was i not justified, nay more, was i not bound in common sense and justice to take from him what he did not want, and give it to myself who did want it? even if i robbed him of one of his bones, i should leave him as much as i took away. _robbed_--another awkward word! i paused again. assault and robbery were perhaps not so mean as sneaking theft, but were they more allowable? the bones were his own, his property; given to him by some one who had a right to dispose of them; and though at this moment i might wish for a more equal distribution, i had sense enough to know that it would be a bad state of things if every dog were to seize upon every neighbouring dog's bones at his own discretion. it might suit me at this moment, but to-morrow a stronger dog might think that _i_ had too much, and insist upon my relinquishing half of _my_ dinner. who was to be the judge? every dog would differ in opinion as to how much was his own fair share, and how much might be left to his neighbour. no large dog would allow another to dine while he himself was hungry; and it would end by the strongest getting all the bones, while the poor, inferior curs were worse off than ever. so i determined to respect the rights of property, for the sake of small dogs as well as for my own. after all, starvation was not inevitable. it might be possible to get a dinner without fighting for it. i sat down opposite my new acquaintance, and entered into civil conversation with him. i found him much more friendly than i expected. he had certainly been accustomed to more indulgence and idleness than was good for him, but his natural disposition was not entirely spoilt. he was the peculiar pet of a lady, who thought it kindness to cram him from morning till night with food that disagreed with him, to provide him with no occupation, and to deprive him of healthy exercise, so that no wonder he had grown lazy and selfish; but his native spirit was not entirely extinguished, and he assured me that a bare bone to growl over, and a little comfortable rain and mud to disport himself in like a dog, were still the greatest treats that could be offered to him. his temper had been farther soured by the spite and envy of dogs around him, who, less petted themselves, and not aware how little his petting contributed to his comfort, grudged him every thing that he possessed, and lost no opportunity of snapping and snarling at him. when i reflected on the difference between his circumstances and my own, i felt more inclined to pity than to blame him; but though i condoled with him kindly, and whined in sympathy, i took care to give him the best advice in my power, and to suggest such changes in his own conduct as might tend to better his lot. he listened with patience and candour, and showed his gratitude by treating me with the most cordial hospitality. he gave me an excellent bone, and offered to share his kennel with me; but after my dinner and a nap i was so thoroughly refreshed, that i preferred continuing my journey. he pressed me to call on him in my way back, provided i returned alone; but honestly confessed that if i was accompanied by a cat, he feared that the force of habit might be too strong to allow of his being as polite to her as he could wish. remembering my own early prejudices, i had no right to blame him; and we parted excellent friends, though i declined his invitation. i met with no more adventures or difficulties. even my night's lodging gave me no trouble; for when it was growing dark, and i felt too tired to run any farther, i espied a heap of straw thrown out by the stable-door of a roadside inn, and i soon scratched and smoothed it into as comfortable a bed as dog need wish. by break of day i was on my travels again; and being now near my native village, in a road of which i knew every step, i had no further perplexity, and by breakfast-time arrived at my old home. it had never occurred to me that any body would be surprised to see me. having always met with a hearty welcome, i expected one as a matter of course; but i certainly never anticipated being received with a shout of astonishment, and to this day i cannot understand why they were all so amazed. but so it was. when the gardener opened the gate and saw me sitting outside, he started as if i had been a strange dog going to fly at him; and instead of speaking to me, began calling as loud as he could to his wife: "peggy! why, peggy, make haste, i say. here's the dog! how did he ever come here?" the old lady came bustling along at double her usual speed, and i thought she would immediately explain my appearance; but she seemed even more surprised than her husband; she fairly screamed. "well to be sure!" exclaimed she as usual, as soon as she had recovered her breath; "well to be sure! did any body ever see such a thing? how can he have come? do you think master is on the road?" "i'll run down to the turnpike and see," answered her husband; and off he set, without bestowing a word upon me; his wife meanwhile, with her apron thrown over her head, straining her eyes to look after him. i wagged my tail, and patted her with my paw, and did my best to make her understand that i was there on my own account; but her head was too full of fancies to attend to the reality, and she persisted in looking out for my master who was not coming, and neglecting me who was there under her eyes. so i left her to find out the state of the case as she could, and turned my steps towards the house, where i hoped to meet a friend, who would think nothing so natural as my being at her side. i peeped in at the kitchen window, and there sat my pussy, in her old place before the fire, looking just as when i left her--the neatest, whitest, softest, and gentlest of creatures. _she_ was not surprised to see me. she winked and blinked a little, as if she was dreaming of me at that moment, and was afraid to open her eyes more than half-way, lest the dream should vanish; but at last she opened them altogether, and the dream turned to reality. then, had we not a happy meeting! there was much to tell on both sides before we could properly discuss the grand object of my coming, and our time was a good deal taken up by a constant succession of visitors; not dogs or cats, as might have been expected, but boys and girls, men and women, friends of the servants, all pouring in to see _me_. from the time that the gardener and his wife had satisfied themselves that my master was not coming with me, they seemed to consider my arrival stranger than ever, and to think it necessary to inform every body of the circumstances,--though i should certainly have supposed there would be more wonder in seeing two persons than one. pussy did not approve of so much company, as she always disliked to be stared at; i, being of a less retiring turn of mind, was perhaps rather flattered by the notice; but, by the time evening came, even i was glad to have the house quiet. then we lay by the fire, and explained all our feelings to each other. i described to my friend how unhappy i had been without her, and how amidst all the pleasures of london i had languished for her company, till i could bear my loneliness no longer; and i entreated her, for my sake, to relinquish all her present habits, and to try a new life and a new home. she heard me with much sympathy, and owned that she too had been unhappy; and that, notwithstanding the placid exterior which she had thought it right to keep up, she had missed me quite as much as i missed her. but she did not at once, as i hoped, agree eagerly to my proposal of accompanying me to london. she hesitated. the journey seemed an arduous undertaking. what strange dogs she might meet! what showers of rain! what obstacles of all kinds, that had never suggested themselves to me! i strenuously combated all her objections, trying to convince her that the journey which seemed so formidable would turn out a mere pleasure-excursion. i did not mind getting wet myself; but as she did, i was glad to assure her that there was plenty of shelter in case of rain. indeed, one might suppose that the whole road had been laid out for the express convenience of cat travellers; there were such hedges, trees, stiles, sheltered nooks, and sunny banks in every direction. then as for strange dogs, was i not there to protect her? was i not a match for any dog? and did she not know that i would gladly shed the last drop of my blood in her cause, besides enjoying a fight on my own account? she sighed, but her sigh was a nearer approach to a purr than before, though her objections were far from being finished. she owned that she dreaded change. she had her own habits and her own duties; she had been used all her life to that same house, with its cellars and its pantries under her especial charge, and she was afraid that in a new place she might be idle and uncomfortable. this seemed to me a most unreasonable punctilio. i allowed that she might fairly prefer the country, but i could not for a moment admit that a town life need be idle. did she suppose there were no mice in london? i could answer for the contrary. the servants were perpetually complaining not only of mice, but of rats; and only the day before i started, i had heard them declare that they could not do without a cat any longer. a most active life was open to her. the only danger was, that she might find too much to do, and that her love of neatness and comfort might be revolted by the dark crannies and gloomy cellars in which she had to seek her work. but as for being _useless_, that was indeed an idle fear any where for any body who wished to work. she listened attentively, and began to purr in a more decided manner. "still," said she, "i am afraid they will miss me here." "no doubt," i replied; "but their loss can be remedied. a house like this can be kept in order by a very inferior cat to yourself; and after all, you are cherished here chiefly because it was lily's wish. peggy can easily find another kitten; and you know she has often said that white cats were not to her taste, and she should much prefer a tabby." "true, true," murmured puss; and seeing that she was gradually softening, i continued to place every inducement before her in the strongest light. i represented the present unguarded state of the sugar, candles, preserves, &c., in a manner to touch the feelings of any domestic cat, and dwelt at some length on the improvement that must take place in the house under her vigilant superintendence. and i finally crowned my persuasions with the tenderest appeal to her affection for me, drawing a vivid picture of the difference to me and to my happiness that would result from her companionship. pussy had for some time been wavering, and before i had finished my harangue she purred a full consent. i need not describe my delight at thus gaining the great object of my life. some feelings should not be made public property. my happiness was not of a nature to be boisterous, but it was such as to satisfy pussy that she had decided aright. at break of day we began our grand adventure, as we were anxious to lose no time; and we had been so well fed over-night, that we could defy hunger for the next twenty-four hours. when i had set out on my solitary journey, i had felt very easy about my accommodations and mode of travelling; but now that i had my less hardy companion, many cares crowded on my mind, and i pondered so profoundly over every arrangement, that puss seemed the most cheerful and courageous of the two. indeed, from the moment she agreed to my request, she generously gave to the winds all her former objections, and thought of nothing but helping me, and giving as little trouble as possible herself. we passed through our native village quietly. all curious observers had visited us the night before; and our friendship was so well known, that the sight of us together attracted no notice beyond a few kind words; but on emerging into the great world of the london road, we were obliged to hold a consultation upon our proceedings. though our object was the same, our views of the best means of attaining it did not quite agree; pussy's idea being to avoid fighting, mine to be prepared for it. doubtless a combination of both principles was our true policy. we reconnoitred our route. fields on each side were divided from the road by hedges, and there was a raised path between the hedge and the road. we decided that i should run along the open path, looking out for every danger, while pussy, as much out of sight as possible, crept along the field on the other side of the hedge. though this arrangement separated us, it was by far the safest; the thick green hedge hid the cat from observation, and there were plenty of gaps through which we could take an opportunity of peeping at each other, unmarked by any one else. moreover, the fields had attractions for pussy besides mere security; she could catch birds and field-mice, and thus secure a comfortable meal at any moment. in this manner we proceeded pleasantly for many miles; i trotting steadily onwards, and puss creeping behind the hedge at her usual stealthy pace. when prudence permitted, we enlivened our journey by various agreeable diversions. sometimes on coming to a paling or a wall, puss jumped up with her usual activity, and ran along the top. occasionally we made a halt, while she climbed a pleasant tree, and i reposed on the grass under its shade. or she would rest on a sunny bank, while i amused myself by watching any passing carriages and horses in the road. once or twice we left the beaten path in search of water, but we were careful not to wander far out of our way. in going through one village, we observed some trellis-work on the gable end of a house, affording facilities of ascent quite irresistible to a cat of spirit. puss was on the perpendicular wall in an instant, climbing hand over hand, or rather paw over paw, till she reached the roof. there she revelled in her favourite exaltation, and enjoyed herself thoroughly in darting over the slates, and making excursions up and down the chimney stacks. as there were several houses adjoining, she had the opportunity of a considerable promenade along the gutters, very satisfactory till she came to the end of the row; but there, unfortunately, she found no means of coming down again. there was no trellis; and a blank wall, without a single projection to afford a footing, was beyond even her dexterity. there was nothing to be done but to retrace her steps, i meanwhile running along the footpath, and looking up with some anxiety. but we were not obliged to go back very far. the middle house was an inn, with a sign-post before it, from which hung a picture of a red lion rampant,--an ugly beast, and far from royal. i thought i would have shaken him to pieces if he had been alive, but under present circumstances i was very glad to see him. puss sprang from the roof to the cross-beam which supported him, and from thence easily scrambled down his post to the ground. very glad i was to have her at my side again, and to make our way through the village unmolested. [illustration: the journey to london. page ] all these freaks had rather hindered us, as people cannot go out of their way for amusement without wasting more time than they reckon upon; and i now urged puss to resist such temptations, and to keep up a steady walk on her side of the hedge. not being able to climb myself, i had no sympathy with her great love of the art; and, in fact, i had sometimes considered her power of ascending heights, and finding footing in places inaccessible to me, as a fault in her character. but as i did not wish to be ill-natured and disagreeable, i indulged her taste, though believing it to be useless, if not dangerous, and often persuading her to keep to the beaten path in every thing. but i thought myself wiser than i was, and i had to learn by experience that every different nature and endowment may have its peculiar advantages. before we were out of sight of that village, the very talent which i had despised was the means of saving pussy's life. the hedgerow, which had hitherto been our safeguard and screen from impertinent observation, had come to an end; the fields were separated from the road only by an open ditch, and young trees enclosed in palings were planted at regular intervals along the path. we were trotting leisurely, thinking of no mischief, when at a turn in the road there suddenly darted out upon us a fierce and powerful mastiff. to leap the ditch and be at pussy's side was the work of a moment both for him and for me, though with very different intentions; he to assail, i to defend her. the attack was so sudden, that puss had not time to use her weapons to any purpose; she just managed to give one spirited claw at his nose with a loud hiss, and then sprang faster and higher than i had ever seen her spring before, and gained the top of the paling just in time to escape his seizure. if she had not been able to jump, she would have been a dead cat. even then she was not quite out of his reach, and he flew after her; but i threw myself upon him while she bounded to the little tree, and climbed its branches till she gained a place of safety. then the mastiff and i had a battle royal. the very recollection of it at this day does me good. we were all in the highest state of excitement. puss in the tree, her back showing high above her ears, and her tail swelled to the size of a fox's brush, puffing and spitting at her enemy like a snake or a steam-engine; the mastiff running round the paling on his hind legs, banging up against it on every side, and barking and howling with rage; i, no less furious, howling and barking at him in return, and galloping round the tree as wildly as he did. determined to try every thing, he turned to dash round the other way, and we came full upon each other. i need not describe the consequences. "greek" may "meet greek," and i leave the result to the learned; but if any body had ever doubted whether when dog meets dog, "then comes the tug of war," now was the time to convince themselves. we certainly did tug at each other most decidedly. our strength and courage were so nearly equal, that for some time the victory was doubtful. again and again each hero, bitten, scratched, and bruised, rolled in the dust, and rose up again shaking ears and coat, ready to rush upon his adversary with undiminished spirit. the final issue seemed to depend entirely upon the power of holding out longest. as i scorn to boast, i candidly confess that i was many times ready to ask for quarter and own myself beaten: indeed, if i had only been fighting on my own account, i must have yielded; but the goodness of my cause supported me, and in defence of my friend i performed exploits of valour that i did not know to be in my nature. at last i had the satisfaction to see my enemy fairly turn round, and with drooping head, and tail between his legs, sneak off to his own home in a very different state of mind and body from that in which he left it. i sent after him a bark of triumph that made the woods re-echo; but my best reward was in my pussy's thanks and praises, and the happy consciousness of being her successful champion. i required a little rest after my exertions; but before long we were on the move again, and met with no further impediments till we arrived at our resting-place for the night. this was under the shelter of an empty barn, rather infested by rats, so that puss found both food and lodging. tastes differ: i was glad of a comfortable roof and a warm corner; but though puss pressed me to partake of her provision, i preferred going without a meal for once in my life to sharing a rat. we were up and dressed time enough for the rising sun to meet us on our road. i have few more "incidents of travel" to recount; indeed, beyond a little difficulty in crossing a puddle or two without wetting my comrade's feet, or dirtying her white stockings, we arrived at the outskirts of london without hindrance. but i feared that it would not be so easy to creep unobserved through the busy streets, and i grew very uncomfortable when i found myself and my companion in the midst of the throng. i was anxious to conceal my fears from puss, lest i should alarm her also; but her penetration saw through my forced cheerfulness, and obliged me to confess my apprehensions. true to her determination of making the best of every thing, she was more courageous than i. with her usual good sense, she pointed out to me that the greater the surrounding numbers, the better the chance of any individuals passing unnoticed; that it was the idle who hindered or molested others; and that this multitude of people, intent upon objects of their own, would have neither time nor inclination to annoy us. "i know by experience, my dear captain," continued she, "that when i am properly occupied with my own rats, i have no temptation to interfere with my neighbour's mice. it is when i have been sitting too long purring in the sunshine with nothing to do, that i am in danger of being mischievous or troublesome." "true," i answered; "i can bear witness to that myself: and i am not afraid of the industrious people, if they noticed us, it would be kindly. but these are not _all_ busy,--some may be at leisure to worry us; and i scarcely know how we are to pass unobserved; i fear we are very remarkable. at home you know how much was said about us." "yes, _at home_," she replied, with a significant curl of her whiskers, "but at home we stood alone; there was no one to compare us with. i fancy that many are thought great personages in their own little village, who would be quite unnoticed elsewhere. i hope that may be our case." "you _hope_!" exclaimed i, almost with a bark; for in spite of my fears, i by no means admired pussy's modest style of consolation. mortification got the better of prudence, and i felt that i would rather fight every day and all day long than not be thought worth fighting with. "i hope it for myself," she answered; "but i do not expect you to be of the same opinion. i am content to shun danger and avoid blame; but it is your nature to meet peril and to court praise." "you are rather inconsistent," interrupted i, somewhat nettled: "one of your objections to coming with me was, that you thought you could be of no use in london; and now you are wishing to be altogether unnoticed." "i do not see any contradiction," she replied; "one may be useful without being conspicuous. if i can fill my own little post quietly, so as to please you and my master, i am content that no one else should even know of my existence. my climbing exploits are only for my own pleasure, as you know. i have no ambition." "such a life would not satisfy me at all," i answered. "so much the better," said puss; "there would be few great things done in the world if no one were more energetic or daring than i. it is a capital thing that there should be such as you, able and willing to defend the weak, and to stand up for the right without fear of consequences. it is your proper part, and i am truly grateful to you for acting it so nobly as you did yesterday." this view of the matter soothed my feelings; and for the present, at any rate, i was glad that pussy's retiring disposition should have its way. the more she crept through by-ways and slunk into corners, the better i was pleased, for i was too fond of her to wish to see her in danger for the sake of my own honour and glory. so with care and caution we went on our way, taking every means to avoid not only dogs and boys, but even older and wiser beings; and at last, under lamp-posts and door-posts, through kennels and gutters, now creeping along the ledge of a wall, now hiding under the shelter of a friendly porch, always watching each other at every step we took, we arrived at our own door. all necessity for caution being now happily at an end, i indulged myself in a bark loud enough to rouse the house, though too joyous to alarm it. presently our good friend john appeared in the area, talking to himself while going about his work. we heard him say in a hesitating manner, "i could not help almost fancying that i heard my poor captain's bark; but i know it is nothing but my folly, always thinking of him. he's been and got himself stolen by some of those london dog-stealers. _i_ shall never see him again, poor fellow." i barked again. john looked up, and there i stood, only too happy to be able to contradict him. extraordinary, that knowing me as he did, he should have thought me capable of deserting my best friends and letting myself be enticed away by a dog-stealer! i hoped i had more sense than that. john said not another word, but rushed up stairs and threw the street-door wide open. in my rapture at meeting him i forgot all ceremony; and standing bolt upright on my hind-legs, with my fore-paws on his shoulders, i licked his face all over. but he was too glad to see me to take offence at my familiarity, and patted my head and returned my caresses with cordiality equal to my own. at first he did not see my little fellow-traveller, who, in her modest reluctance to be intrusive, held back during the rough greetings between john and me. but in proper time she felt it due to herself to come forward and assert her presence; so, setting her tail bolt upright like a standard, she began pacing softly backwards and forwards, purring affectionately, and rubbing herself against john's legs at every turn. "well, pussy," said john, as he stooped to stroke her head, "it would take a good many human creatures to surprise me as much as you two dumb animals have done. but come in. come, captain, my boy; come, little puss." so saying, he ushered us across the hall to our master's study, and tapped at the door. "come in," called our master. john opened the door, and stood there without speaking a word, while puss and i walked forwards to our master's chair, she purring and i wagging my tail as usual, expecting him to say something civil, but not prepared for astonishment in our wise master. i thought we had left all that sort of thing behind with peggy. but my master looked up and down, at john and us, us and john again, several times in silence. at last he said, "it is the most extraordinary thing i ever saw. how and when did they come?" "not five minutes ago, sir," answered john; "both together, as you see; and to judge from their dusty look, they must have walked all the way." "no doubt," replied my master. "on what day did we miss the dog?" "four days ago, sir, after i told you how he was moping. he must have found his way all alone to the manor, and brought the other back with him. it beats every thing that ever _i_ heard." "he must, indeed. wonderful!" said my master. "to be sure i did," thought i. "where is the wonder?" but as we were very hungry, we left john and our master to express their surprise to each other, while we turned our steps towards the kitchen. even there, before we got any dinner, we were doomed to encounter a sharp fire of exclamations from the servants; and really such incessant expressions of amazement began to be almost mortifying. approbation is pleasant enough, but astonishment gives the idea that people had not thought one capable of even one's own little good deeds. however, we bore it all with good humour, and were soon caressed and fed to our complete satisfaction. the rest of our story may be told in a few words. puss was soon domesticated on her london hearth, and pursuing her avocations with her customary skill and spirit. she was a universal favourite, though just at first she had to endure a little gossip about her history and appearance; some pronouncing her to be very pretty, others seeing nothing particular in her worth so much trouble. but in due time her reputation was firmly established as the prettiest cat and the best mouser in the neighbourhood. while she made herself useful in her department, i was not idle in mine; and i think i may safely say that no house could boast of a more faithful and vigilant guardian. it was difficult to determine which of us was most useful to our master; puss in preserving his property from "rats and mice and such small deer," or i, in keeping off larger depredators. our joint business was to take care of the house, and thorough care we took, and thoroughly were our services appreciated and rewarded. welcome guests on kitchen hearthstone or on drawing-room rug, treated as pets by the servants, as friends by our master, and agreeable company by his acquaintances, no animals have ever passed a happier life. lily has often been to see us; and next to the pleasure of being once more caressed by her own hand, was that of hearing our story told to her husband by her own lips, and our friendship mentioned with approbation to her little son. * * * * * it may seem absurd to suppose that a human being can profit by the history of a dog; but i believe that no creature is too insignificant, and no event too trivial, to teach some lesson to those capable of learning it; and a moral to this little story may be found in the advantage of making the best of untoward circumstances, and of cultivating kindness and goodwill in place of prejudice and dislike. in short, to any, small or great, who have hitherto found or fancied their companions uncongenial, i would propose puss and captain as an example of a new and better method of "living like cat and dog." the end. savill and edwards, printers, chandos-street. original juvenile library. a catalogue of new and popular works. principally for the young. published by griffith and farran, late grant and griffith, successors to newbery and harris, corner of st. paul's churchyard. london. * * * * * a beautiful wedding gift. elegantly bound in a new white morocco cloth, price _ s._ the bridal souvenir; containing the choicest thoughts of the best authors, in prose and verse. richly illuminated in gold and colours from designs by mr. s. stanesby. *** in the preparation of this volume no expense has been spared to produce a gift book of the most appropriate character and permanent value. it consists of thirty-six quarto pages of elegant illuminated printing, presenting not only an ornamental accompaniment, but also an emblematical exposition of it in the language of flowers. elegant gift for a lady. with eight beautiful coloured groups from drawings by j. andrews. octavo; elegantly bound in cloth, gilt edges, price _ s._ trees, plants and flowers; their beauties, uses and influences, embracing a general and popular account of the vegetable world. by mrs. r. lee, author of "the african wanderers," etc., etc. "as full of interest as of beauty, and one of the most charming gift-books of the season."--_art journal_. "at once useful as a botanical work, and exquisite as the ornament of a boudoir table."--_britannia_. fred markham in russia; or, the boy travellers in the land of the czar. by w.h.g. kingston, author of "salt water," etc. with illustrations. fcap. vo. price _ s._ cloth, _ s. d._ gilt edges. 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 mo. price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. jack frost and betty snow; with other tales for wintry nights and rainy days. illustrated by h. weir. _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. old nurse's book of rhymes, jingles, and ditties. edited and illustrated by c.h. bennett, author of "shadows." with ninety engravings. fcap. to. price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s._ coloured. maud summers the sightless: a narrative for the young. illustrated by absolon. _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. clara hope; or, the blade and the ear. by miss milner. with frontispiece by birket foster. fcap. vo. price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ cloth elegant, gilt edges. the adventures and experiences of biddy dorking and of the fat frog. edited by mrs. s.c. hall. illustrated by h. weir. _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. home pastime; or, the child's own toy maker. with designs on cards, and a book of instructions for making beautiful models of familiar objects. price _ s._ in a neat case. historical acting charades; or, amusements for winter evenings. by the author of "cat and dog," etc. new edition. fcap. vo. price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s._ gilt edges. the story of jack and the giants: with thirty-five illustrations by richard doyle. beautifully printed. new and cheaper edition. fcap. to. price _ s. d._ in fancy boards; _ s. d._ coloured, extra cloth, gilt edges. w.h.g. kingston. salt water; or neil d'arcy's sea life and adventures, (a book for boys.) by w.h.g. kingston, esq., author of "blue jackets," "peter the whaler," "mark seaworth," etc. with eight illustrations. fcap. vo., price _ s._ cloth, _ s. d._ gilt edges. 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"a book that is sure to be read by a child with interest and delight."--_manchester examiner_. the martyr land; or, tales of the vaudois. by the author of "our eastern empire," etc. frontispiece by j. gilbert. royal mo; price _ s. d._ cloth. "a narrative of one of the noblest struggles in christian history, and with this history protestant youth cannot be made too early acquainted."--_london literary review_. "we must pronounce the authoress to be an exceedingly successful writer of books for children. while practical lessons run throughout, they are never obtruded."--_english churchman_. mrs. r. lee's last work. sir thomas; or, the adventures of a cornish baronet in western africa. by mrs. r. lee, author of "the african wanderers," etc. with illustrations by j. gilbert. fcap. vo; _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured. "the intimate knowledge of african customs possessed by mrs. lee, enables her to convey ample information in a most pleasing form."--_britannia_. alfred crowquill. 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 to.; price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. 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_. m. and e. kirby. the talking bird; or, the little girl who knew what was going to happen. by mary and elizabeth kirby, authors of "the discontented children," etc. with illustrations by h.k. browne (phiz). small to; price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. "with great good sense, and valuable moral teaching, much fun and amusement if wisely intermixed."--_britannia_. the discontented children; and how they were cured. by m. and e. kirby. with illustrations by h.k. browne (phiz.). small to.; price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. 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_. peter parley. faggots for the fire side; or, tales of fact and fancy. by peter parley. with twelve tinted illustrations. foolscap vo.; _ s. d._, cloth; _ 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_. words by the way side; or, the children and the flowers. by emily ayton. with illustrations by h. anelay. small to.; price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ colored gilt edges. "seldom have we opened a book designed for young people, which has afforded us greater satisfaction--it has our most cordial commendation."--_british mother's magazine_. "the simple and quiet manner in which the beauties of nature are gradually unfolded is so fascinating, and the manner in which everything is associated with the creator is so natural and charming, that we strongly recommend the book."--_bell's messenger_. caw, caw; or, the chronicles of the crows: a tale of spring time. illustrated by j.b. quarto; price _ s._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. the remarkable history of the house that jack built. splendidly illustrated and magnificently illuminated by the son of a genius. price _ s. in fancy cover_. "magnificent in suggestion, and most comical in expression!"--_athenæum_. 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 by eminent artists royal to., price _ s. d._, bound in an elegant cover; _ s. d._ coloured or mounted on cloth; _ s. d._ mounted and coloured. _fourth thousand, enlarged in size, with illustrations, s. d. cloth._ 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. "all is new, interesting, and admirably told."--_church and state gazette_. * * * * * a peep at the pixies; or, legends of the west. by mrs. bray. illustrated by h.k. browne (phiz), _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. 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_. ocean and her rulers; a narrative of the nations who have from the earliest ages held dominion over the sea. by alfred elwes. with frontispiece foolscap vo., _ s._ cloth, _ s. 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_. the day of a baby boy; a story for a young child. by e. berger. with illustrations by john absolon. price _ s. d._ cloth, plain; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. "a sweet little book for the nursery."--_christian times_. cat and dog; or, memoirs of puss and the captain. by the author of "the doll and her friends," "historical acting charades," etc. illustrated by h. weir. th edition. price _ s. d._ cloth, plain; _ s. 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. with illustrations by phiz. rd edition, small to., cloth, _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. alfred crowquill's comical books. _uniform in size with_ "the struwwelpeter." picture fables. written and illustrated with sixteen large coloured plates by alfred crowquill. price _ s. d._, or mounted on linen _ s. d._ the careless chicken; by the baron krakemsides; with sixteen large coloured plates, by alfred crowquill. to., _ s. d._, or on linen _ s. d._ funny leaves for the younger branches. by the baron krakemsides, of burstenoudelafen castle. illustrated by alfred crowquill. to., coloured plates, _ s. d._, or on linen _ s. d._ * * * * * scripture histories for little children. by the author of "mamma's bible stories," etc. with sixteen illustrations, by john gilbert. _ s._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. contents.--the history of joseph--history of moses--history of our saviour--the miracles of christ. the family bible newly opened; with uncle goodwin's account of it. by jefferys taylor, author of "a glance at the globe," "the young islanders," etc. frontispiece by john gilbert. fcap. vo., _ s. 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_. clarissa donnelly; or, the history of an adopted child. by geraldine e. jewsbury, with an illustration by john absolon. foolscap vo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "with wonderful power, only to be matched by as admirable a simplicity, miss jewsbury has narrated the history of a child. for nobility of purpose, for simple, nervous writing, and for artistic construction, it is one of the most valuable works of the day."--_lady's companion_. kate and rosalind; or, early experiences. by the author of "quicksands on foreign shores," etc. with an illustration by j. gilbert. fcap. vo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "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. the irish scenes are of an excellence that has not been surpassed since the best days of miss edgeworth."--_fraser's magazine_. good in everything; or, the early history of gilbert harland. by mrs. barwell, author of "little lessons for little learners," etc. illustrated by john gilbert. royal mo., cl. _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._, cold., gilt edges. "the moral of this exquisite little tale will do more good than a thousand set tasks abounding with dry and uninteresting truisms."--_bell's messenger_. stories of julian and his playfellows. written by his mamma. with illustrations by john absolon. small to., _ s. d._, plain; _ s. d._, coloured, gilt edges. tales from catland; written for little kittens by an old tabby. with four illustrations by h. weir. third edit. small to., _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. the wonders of home, in eleven stories. by grandfather grey. second edition. with illustrations. royal mo., price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured. contents.-- . the story of a cup of tea.-- . a lump of coal.-- . some hot water.-- . a piece of sugar.-- . the milk jug.-- . a pin.-- . jenny's sash.-- . harry's jacket.-- . a tumbler.-- . a knife.-- . 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_. works by mrs r. lee. anecdotes of the habits and instincts of animals. by mrs. r. lee (formerly mrs. bowdich), with illustrations by h. weir. second edition. fcap. vo., _ s._ cloth. anecdotes of the habits and instincts of birds, reptiles, and fishes. illustrated by h. weir. fcap. vo., _ s._ cl. "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_. playing at settlers; or, the faggot house. with illustrations by gilbert. _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured. "a pleasant story, drawn from the reminiscences of the author's own child-life."--_the press_. twelve stories of the sayings and doings of animals. with four illustrations by j.w. archer. nd edition, small to., cloth _ s. d._ plain; _ s. 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_. adventures in australia; or, the wanderings of captain spencer in the bush and the wilds; containing accurate descriptions of the habits of the natives, and the natural productions and features of the country. second edition. with illustrations by j.s. prout. fcap. vo., _ s._ cloth. "the work cannot fail to achieve an extensive popularity."--_art journal_. "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_. familiar natural history. with forty-two illustrations from drawings by harrison weir, small to., cloth _ s. d._ plain; _ s._ coloured gilt edges. the african wanderers; or, the adventures of carlos and antonio; with descriptions of the manners and customs of the western tribes, and the natural productions of the country. rd edit. with engravings. fcap. vo., _ s._ cl. "for fascinating adventure, and rapid succession of incident, the volume is equal to any relation of travel we ever read. it exhibits marked ability as well as extensive knowledge, and deserves perusal from all ages."--_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_. works by w.h.c. kingston. manco, the peruvian chief; or, the adventures of an englishman in the country of the incas. with illustrations by carl schmolze. fcap. vo., _ s._ cloth. "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. illustrated by j. absolon. second edition. fcap. vo. _ s._ cloth. "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. with illustrations. fcap. vo., _ s._ cloth. "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 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 her most gracious majesty queen victoria. post vo.; price _ s._ _ 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_. * * * * * rhymes of royalty. the history of england in verse, from the norman conquest to the reign of queen victoria; with an appendix, comprising a summary of the leading events in each reign. fcap. vo., with an elegant frontispiece. price _ s. d._ cloth. tales of school life. by agnes loudon, author of "tales for young people." with four beautiful illustrations by john absolon. second edition. royal mo., price _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. "these reminiscences of school days will be recognized as truthful pictures of every-day occurrence. the style is colloquial and pleasant, and therefore well suited to those for whose perusal it is intended."--_athenæum_. blades and flowers. poems for children. by m.s.c., author of "twilight thoughts," etc. with frontispiece by h. anelay. fcap. vo; price _ s._ cloth. kit bam's adventures; or, the yarns of an old mariner. by mary cowden clarke. with illustrations by george cruikshank. fcap. vo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "cruikshank's illustrations are worthy of his genius. there is a giant and a dwarf, which he never could have drawn, if he had not lived in fairy land."--_examiner_. every-day things; or, useful knowledge respecting the principal animal, vegetable, and mineral substances in common use. by a lady. mo., _ s._ cloth. "a little encyclopædia of useful knowledge, deserving a place in every juvenile library."--_evangelical magazine_. the history of a family; or, religion our best support. with an illustration by john absolon. fcap. vo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "a natural and gracefully written story, pervaded by a tone of scriptural piety, and well calculated to foster just views of life and duty."--_englishwoman's magazine_. facts from the world of nature; animate and inanimate. part . the earth. part . the waters. part . atmospheric phenomena. part . animal life. by mrs. loudon. with numerous illustrations on wood, and a beautiful frontispiece engraved on steel. fcap. vo., price _ s._ cloth. "a volume as charming as it is useful."--_church and state gazette_. the first book of geography; specially adapted as a text book for beginners, and as a guide to the young teacher. by hugo reid, author of "elements of astronomy," etc. second edition, revised. mo., price _ s._ sewed. "one of the most sensible little books on the subject of geography we have met with."--_educational times_. visits to beechwood farm; or, country pleasures, and hints for happiness addressed to the young. by catherine m.a. couper. four beautiful illustrations by absolon. small to., price _ s. d._, plain, _ s. d._ coloured. marin de la voye's elementary french works. les jeunes narrateurs; ou petits contes moraux. with a key to the difficult words and phrases. mo., price _ s._ cloth. the pictorial french grammar; for the use of children. with eighty illustrations. royal mo., price _ s._ illuminated cloth. works by the author of mamma's bible stories. fanny and her mamma; or, lessons for children. in which it is attempted to bring scriptural principles into daily practice; with hints on nursery discipline. illustrated by j. gilbert. second edition. mo., price _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. bible scenes; or, sunday employment for very little children. consisting of twelve coloured illustrations on cards, and the history written in simple language. in a neat box. price _ s. d._; or dissected as a puzzle, price _ s. d._ first series.--joseph. second series.--our saviour. third series.--moses. fourth series.--miracles of christ. mamma's bible stories, for her little boys and girls. ninth and cheaper edition. twelve engravings. _ s. d._ cloth; _ s. d._ coloured, gilt edges. a sequel to mamma's bible stories. third edition. twelve engravings. price _ s. d._ cloth. short and simple prayers, for the use of young children. with hymns. fourth edition. square mo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "well adapted to the capacities of children--beginning with the simplest forms which the youngest child may lisp at its mother's knee, and proceeding with those suited to its gradually advancing age. special prayers, designed for particular circumstances and occasions, are added. we cordially recommend the book."--_christian guardian_. aunt jane's verses for children. by mrs. crewdson. illustrated by h. anelay. second edition. fcap. vo; _ s. d._ cloth, gilt edges. "a charming little volume, of excellent moral and religious tendency."--_evangelical magazine_. early days of english princes. by mrs. russell gray. dedicated by permission to the duchess of roxburghe. with illustrations by john franklin. small to., price _ s. d._, tinted plates, _ s. d._, coloured. cloth. glimpses of nature; and objects of interest described during a visit to the isle of wight. designed to assist and encourage young persons in forming habits of observation. by mrs. loudon. second edition, with additional illustrations, and a new chapter on shells. mo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "we could not recommend a more valuable little volume. it is full of information, conveyed in the most agreeable manner."--_literary gazette_. home amusements. a collection of riddles, charades, conundrums, parlour games, and forfeits. new edition, with frontispiece. price _ s. d._ cloth. the celestial empire; or, points and pickings of information about china and the chinese. by the author of "paul preston," "soldiers and sailors," etc. with twenty engravings. fcap. vo., price _ s. d._, cloth. "this very handsome volume contains an almost incredible amount of information."--_church and state gazette_. the silver swan; a fairy tale. by madame de chatelain. illustrated by john leech. small to., price _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. "the moral is in the good, broad, unmistakeable style of the best fairy period."--_athenæum_. "the story is written with excellent taste and sly humour."--_atlas_. the young jewess and her christian school-fellows. by the author of "rhoda," etc. with a frontispiece by j. gilbert. mo., price _ s. d._ cloth. "peculiarly adapted to impress upon the minds of young persons the powerful efficacy of example."--_englishman's magazine_. rhoda; or, the excellence of charity. third edition. with three illustrations by williams. square mo., price _ s._ cloth. "not only adapted for children, but many parents might derive great advantage from studying its simple truths."--_church and state gazette_. stories from the old and new testaments, on an improved plan. by the rev. b.h. draper. with engravings. fifth edition. price _ s._ cloth. wars of the jews, as related by josephus; adapted to the capacities of young persons, and illustrated with engravings. fifth edition. price _ s. d._ cl. true stories from ancient history, chronologically arranged from the creation of the world to the death of charlemagne. by the author of "always happy," etc. eleventh edition. engravings. mo. price _ s._ cloth. true stories from modern history, chronologically arranged from the death of charlemagne to the present time. eighth edition. engravings. mo., _ s._ cloth. true stories from english history, chronologically arranged from the invasion of the romans to the present time. sixth edition. engravings. _ s._ cloth. trimmer's concise history of england, with a continuation to the reign of victoria, by mrs. milner, author of "life of dean milner," etc. with illustrations. new and cheaper edition. in one volume, fcap. vo., price _ s._ cloth. first steps in scottish history, by miss rodwell, author of "first steps to english history," etc. with illustrations by weigall. _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. the prince of wales' primer. dedicated to her majesty queen victoria. new edition, with engravings. price _ d._; or title, frontispiece, and cover printed in gold and colours, _ s._ anecdotes of kings. selected from history; or, gertrude's stories for children. new edition. with engravings, _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. bible illustrations; or, a description of manners and customs peculiar to the east, and especially explanatory of the holy scriptures. by the rev. b.h. draper. with illustrations. fourth edition. revised by dr. kitto, editor of "the pictorial bible." price _ s. d._ cloth. the british history briefly told, and a description of the ancient customs, sports, and pastimes of the english. with full-length portraits of the sovereigns in their proper costumes, and other engravings. price _ s. d._ cloth. facts to correct fancies; or, short narratives compiled from the biography of remarkable women. by a mother. with engravings, _ s. d._ plain; _ s. d._ coloured. key to knowledge; or, things in common use simply and shortly explained. by a mother, author of "always happy," etc. twelfth edition. with numerous illustrations. price _ s. d._ coloured. the mine; or, subterranean wonders. an account of the operations of the miner and the products of his labours. by the late rev. isaac taylor. sixth edition. with corrections and additions by mrs. loudon. new woodcuts and steel engravings. price _ s. d._ cloth. the ship; a description of different kinds of vessels, the origin of ship-building, a brief sketch of naval affairs, with the distinctive flags of different nations, and numerous illustrative engravings. by the late rev. isaac taylor. fifth edition. edited by m.h. barker, esq., "the old sailor." price _ s. d._ cloth. new illustrated series. _in super-royal mo., beautifully printed, price d. each plain, s. coloured._ . british animals, _first series_. } . british animals, _second series_. } . british birds. } illustrated by h. weir; . foreign animals, _first series_. } and descriptions by . foreign animals, _second series_. } mrs. lee. . foreign birds. } . the farm and its scenes. } . the diverting history of john gilpin, with six illustrations by watts phillips. . the peacock at home, and butterfly's ball. illustrated by h. weir. . the history of joseph. } . the history of moses. } by the author of . the history of our savior. } "mamma's bible stories," . the miracles of christ. } etc. the favourite library. _a series of works for the young, complete in twelve volumes, each with an illustration by a well-known artist, in fancy boards s., or extra cloth, gilt, s. d._ . the eskdale herd boy. by lady stoddart. . mrs. leicester's school. by charles and mary lamb. . the history of the robins. by mrs. trimmer. . memoir of bob, the spotted terrier. . keeper's travels in search of his master. . the scottish orphans. by lady stoddart. . never wrong; or, the young disputant. . the life and perambulations of a mouse. . trimmer's introduction to the knowledge of nature. . right and wrong. by the author of "always happy." . harry's holiday; or, the doings of one who had nothing to do. by jefferys taylor. . short poems and hymns for children to commit to memory. _the above may be had two volumes bound in one, at half-a-crown cloth, gilt edges, or s. plain edges._ * * * * * beautiful library edition. printed by whittingham, with eight illustrations from drawings by john absolon. square fcap. vo; price _ s._ cloth; _ s._ cloth elegant, gilt edges; or, _ s. d._ antique morocco. the vicar of wakefield; a tale. by oliver goldsmith. "we believe that it was old mr. newbery, the predecessor, in st. paul's church-yard, of messrs. grant and griffith, who first published this story. mr. absolon's graphic sketches add greatly to the interest of the volume: altogether, it is as pretty an edition of the 'vicar' as we have seen. mrs. primrose herself would consider it 'well dressed.'"--_art journal_. "this tale has long been a favourite subject with our artists; but we have never seen any designs more pleasing or more truthful than these."--_gentleman's magazine_. "a delightful edition of one of the most delightful of works: the fine old type and thick paper make this volume attractive to any lover of books."--_edinburgh guardian_. "this edition will find favour in the eyes of all those who admire this master-piece of goldsmith's easy and graceful pen."--_notes and queries_. wertheimer and co., printers finsbury circus friends and helpers compiled by sarah j. eddy preface. the object of this book is to teach children to treat all living creatures with considerate kindness and to appreciate the services of man's helpers in the animal world. in many homes this teaching is entirely neglected, and it is left for the school-teacher to arouse interest in the animals dependent upon us, and to encourage pity and compassion for their suffering. sir arthur helps says: "the great advancement of the world, throughout all ages, is to be measured by the increase of humanity and the decrease of cruelty." cruelty in any form is a species of savagery. civilization can be brought about only by education. the savage does not know that he is a savage. the child does not realize that he is cruel, until he is shown the ways in which the lower animals suffer and are made miserable. the thoughtless child makes the selfish man or woman, and selfishness lies at the root of crime. "evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart." children have tender hearts and quick sensibilities, but they sometimes lack imagination and sympathy through their ignorance of actual conditions. they are easily influenced by one whom they love and respect, and the teacher's power to make the world better by pointing out the great duty of humanity should find more scope than it has done in our educational systems. "the humane movement is a broad one, reaching from humane treatment of animals on the one hand to peace with all nations on the other. it implies a step beyond animal's rights. it implies character building. society first said that needless suffering should be prevented; society now says that children must not be permitted to cause pain because of the effect on the children themselves." mr. frank m. chapman has kindly written for the book the chapters on "our friends the birds," "feathered travelers," "when the birds return," "birds' homes," and "the robin." through the courtesy of messrs. houghton mifflin company several poems by celia thaxter and others have been used. the publications of the english humanitarian league, especially the pamphlets by mrs. florence h. suckling and some of the writings of miss edith carrington, have proved helpful and suggestive. the compiler has had the assistance of mrs. charles a. lane in editing and preparing material. contents. part i. rover and his friends .. adapted from an english story famous dogs how to take care of dogs .. anna harris smith stories of dogs forsake not an old friend .. plutarch cats and dogs famous cats kitty's christmas to my cat muff .. john owen how to take care of cats cat questions .. lucy larcom the cat family things to remember stories of cats a brave girl .. harriet beecher stowe aunt esther's rule .. " " lion stories the king of beasts the ship of the desert a heavy load famous horses how to treat horses catching the colt .. marian douglass a remarkable horse-trainer the arab to his horse .. bayard taylor "waiting for master" part ii. robert's dream .. anna harris smith robert on a farm .. anna harris smith april song .. mary e. wilkins earthworms and snakes. humanity .. t. gisborne ants, bees, and wasps a little black slave .. adapted from an english story a butterfly's wing to a butterfly .. jane taylor cunning bee .. anonymous grasshopper and cricket .. john keats patient weavers the woodmouse .. mary howitt a mouse's story wise rats the squirrel's story .. anna harris smith forbearance .. ralph waldo emerson the steel trap .. adapted from story by mrs. c. fairchild allen the rabbit david's story lines from cowper some ready helpers a triumph .. celia thaxter part iii. the canary's story the caged thrush .. r. f. murray how to care for a canary an indian story hiawatha's brothers .. henry w. longfellow to the cuckoo .. john logan our friends the birds \ feathered travelers | when the birds return > .. frank m. chapman birds' homes | the robin / robin rejoice .. garrett newkirk to a skylark .. percy bysshe shelley frightened birds don't rob the birds, boys .. anonymous a good shot .. adapted the goldfinch birds' trades the sparrow sparrows christmas in norway .. celia thaxter the crow the bluebird .. emily huntington miller the farmer's friend the wounded curlew .. celia thaxter the sandpiper .. " " the cost of a hat the halo .. rev. w. c. gannett the snowy heron winged fishers what the little seal thinks what the young seabird thinks what the birds do for us the bravest are the tendererest lines to a seabird .. m. a. stodart the true hero lines by susan coolidge selections from emily dickinson and s. t. coleridge what the children can do to the teacher illustrations. frontispiece, "loving playmates." from photograph by sarah j. eddy. "can't you talk?" by g. a. holmes "speak for it." from photograph by s. j. eddy group of sheep under tree. from photograph by t. e. m. and g. p. white the connoisseurs. from painting by sir edwin landseer odin. from painting by sir edwin landseer owney. from photograph by elmer chickering hearing. from painting by h. sperling "saved." from painting by h. sperling breakfast. from painting by h. w. trood alexander. from photograph by s. j. eddy kitty's christmas. from photograph by s. j. eddy gentle kitty gray. " " " cat's paw cat's eye a happy pair. from photograph by s. j. eddy the traveling basket. " " " "please give me some more. " " " driven out. from painting by m. stocks friends the lion at home. from painting by rosa bonheur portrait of rosa bonheur. from painting by rosa bonheur the king of beasts. from painting by rosa bonheur the ship of the desert at the watering trough. by dagnan-bouveret a norman sire. from painting by rosa bonheur three members of a temperance society. by j. f. herring natural and comfortable strained and miserable mare and colt. from painting by c. steffeck waiting for master a farm yard a group of friends. from photograph by s. j. eddy hen and chickens. " " " chickens drinking a happy family. from photograph by j. m. eldredge just arrived pig looking over a fence feeding the pigs old white horse a little songster pussy willows paper-makers a butterfly grasshopper and cricket. illustration by alice barber stephens spider and web a woodmouse little freehold. by s. j. carter an interesting family. by s. j. carter frog and lily-pads four little friends a bird's house feathered travelers over the nest a bird's nest swallows bird and nest. from photograph by s. j. eddy robin frightened bird mother bird feeding little one the goldfinch sparrows a wintry day the farmer's friend head-piece to "the cost of a hat" the snowy heron egret plumes sea-gulls birds on fence a band of mercy. from photograph by s. j. eddy making friends. " " " part i rover and other stories rover and his friends. why rover ran away. one morning rover was very hungry indeed. he had been going from place to place with his master, and now it was two long days since he had eaten a good dinner. his master was a poor tinker who traveled about the country and never stayed long in one place. rover would have liked this if his master had been kind to him, but the dog was used only to blows and kicks. rover was a rough, shaggy dog, and his tail curled down under him in a way that showed he had been ill-treated. but he had good, faithful, brown eyes, and the drooping tail was always ready to wag at a kind word. the tinker's breakfast was on the table. how good it smelt! rover looked at it with longing eyes. "please give me a bit, master," said rover. "i am so hungry!" the tinker did not seem to hear. at last he said roughly: "be still, rover!" rover waited patiently for a few minutes, but his master had no thought of feeding him. at last rover put out his long, red tongue and swept the meat and bread into his mouth. [illustration: caption: "can't you talk?" small child kneeling in front of dog, while kitten looks on.] then the angry tinker struck the poor dog and spoke sharply to him. an hour later rover had run away. rover's new home it was a hot day in summer, and rover stopped to drink some water out of a mud-puddle. how hungry and thirsty he was! he ran on for miles and miles. at last he saw a cottage with smoke coming out of the chimney. high hills were all around it, and a thick, dark wood was not far away. on the doorstep were two little children. when they saw the dog they shouted with delight. "it is rover!" cried sandy. "it is tommy tinker's dog. where have you come from, old fellow, and where is your master?" it was plain that rover was no stranger to them. he had been there with his master only the week before, and while tinker tom was mending the kettle, the children and the dog had made friends. the mother had given him a bone, and though some persons may forget a kindness, a dog never does. rover could not answer sandy's question. all he could do was to wag his tail faster than ever. the little girl put her arms about his shaggy neck. "poor doggie!" she said. "you shall have some of my supper." how rover was cared for. when the children's mother saw rover she brought him a large bowl of water, which he quickly lapped up. then she gave him something to eat and made a soft bed for him in a corner of the room. she said: "perhaps tinker tom may come for his dog, and we will keep him till then." rover hoped he would never come, but he could not say so. he curled himself up in his bed and, with a long sigh of happiness, went to sleep. rover was very happy in his new home. he had no wish to run away again. he had good brown bread to eat, which was better for him than white bread would have been. sandy learned to make for him a thick cake out of oatmeal, and sometimes he had a bone. fortunately for the dog, sandy's mother was too poor to be able to give him much meat. there was always a dish of fresh water ready for him, and a bit of cabbage with his food kept him well and strong. sandy would often talk to rover, and the dog soon learned to understand what was said to him. he was delighted when sandy said, "would you like to go for a walk?" but sandy never said this unless he was really going to take rover out, or the dog soon would have learned that the boy did not always mean what he said. one of the things that rover liked best to do was to run after a large ball of wool which sandy made on purpose for him. [illustration: caption: "speak for it!" photograph of boy approx. years old holding treat above head of dog sitting expectantly in front of him.] sandy often brushed and combed rover, and this made his coat glossy and clean. one would hardly have recognized the rough, neglected dog in the pet of the household. tinker tom comes back one day when rover was playing with the children on the hill, he suddenly ran away as fast as he could go. "oh, rover, come back, come back!" called little jessie; but rover kept on until he was lost to sight in the dark woods. in the distance he had seen a well-known figure. tinker tom was coming along the road with his pack on his back. when the tinker came to the house, sandy's mother told him about rover. "you may keep him and welcome," said the tinker, "if you will give me something to eat." so a good, hot dinner was spread for him, and at last he went away with his pack on his back. when he had been gone a long time and it was quite dark, rover appeared. he came in looking pleased and proud, as if he had done some very wise thing. he said as plainly as he could, "am i not a clever dog?" you may be sure that sandy and jessie were glad to see him again and to know that now nobody could take him away. rover learns to be useful. sandy's father was a poor man who had charge of a large flock of sheep. in summer he led them from one feeding-place to another over the high hills. often he was away for many days at a time. in winter the sheep were kept near the cottage and fed with food which had been laid up for them in the autumn. the sheep did not belong to sandy's father, but he took the best possible care of them. [illustration: caption: "rover learns to be useful." group of sheep standing around under a tree. several appear to be looking at something off to the right -- rover?] one day when he came home from the hills he said: "we must not let rover be idle all his life. he must learn to do something useful. i shall take him to the hills in the morning and teach him to look after the sheep. he will be a great help to me, and i will be a good master to him." so the next morning rover started off with his master, looking very proud and happy. at first it was hard to make the dog take care of the sheep in the right way. he thought it was great fun to run after them and bark at their heels, but he did not know when to bark and when to be quiet. however, he did his best to learn, and when the shepherd went home he said that rover would make a very useful dog. the lost sheep. soon the snow began to fall and it was pleasant to sit round the fire and watch the great logs crackling on the hearth. they were all very happy at the cottage and rover was sure that he had the best home in the world. one bitterly cold night the wind blew in great gusts. in some way the door of the sheep-shed blew open and in the morning not one of the sheep could be seen. the poor things were so tired of being shut up that they had wandered off in the cold. when the shepherd missed his sheep, he was in great trouble. "rover, my boy," he said, "the sheep have run away. what shall we do? i wonder if you are wise enough to help me find them." rover jumped up quickly and shook himself as if to say, "i am all ready!" and then ran to the door. first he ran round and round the sheepfold, smelling with his moist, black nose close to the ground, and looking very wise. then he ran a little way towards the hills and stood looking back, with one paw in the air. his ears were lifted, his eyes were bright, and he gave a low whine, as if to say, "i think those poor sheep have gone to the hills. are you coming with me, or shall i go alone?" the lost dog. rover trotted off towards the hills and his master followed, but he could not walk fast enough to please the dog. there was no snow on the ground at first, but before noon it began to fall thick and fast. the day passed and the father was still away; night came and he had not returned. sandy and jessie were very sad, for they could think only of their father and his faithful dog. it was very dangerous to be out on the hills in such weather. often men were lost in the snow and died from cold and hunger. at last, after hours of anxious waiting, a welcome footstep was heard and the happy children ran to open the door. their father came in, shaking the snow from his rough coat. he looked very grave and tired. "oh, father!" cried sandy. "where is rover? and have you found the sheep?" the poor man shook his head. "the sheep are not to be found," he said sadly. "and i have lost our good rover, too. it is a terrible storm. i fear they are all frozen. if the sheep are killed, it will take all i have in the world to pay for them." rover comes home. sandy and jessie began to cry. their mother, too, was crying. she was busy with the supper, but her thoughts were with the poor, hungry animals in the bitter cold. early the next morning, and for several days the shepherd went out to look for his lost sheep, but he could find no trace of them. "there is nothing for me to do now but to go to the owner of the sheep," he said, at last. "he is a very hard man. i am afraid he will turn us out of our home." suddenly, while he was speaking, there was a noise at the door, and in a moment a familiar voice was heard. "bow-wow-wow! bow-wow-wow!" "rover has come back!" shouted sandy, flinging himself upon the door in his hurry to open it. "rover has come back!" cried little jessie. "the sheep have come back!" said their mother, looking out into the yard. yes, there were the sheep,--every one of them safe and sound. and there beside them, wagging his tail with joy and pride, was poor, tired, cold, hungry rover. he was hoarse from barking and breathless from running, but he was the happiest dog in all the world. the unhappy sheep had paid dearly for their wish to get out. they were glad to go back into their warm shed and eat a good meal of turnips. as for rover, he was treated like a prince. he had the supper he liked best, and a soft bed was made for him near the fire. he put his curly head down on his paws and went to sleep, while sandy and jessie watched him lovingly. how far he had tramped over the hills or how he had found the sheep he could not tell. "he is tired out," said the shepherd. "he must have a long rest now, for he has earned it. good, faithful, grateful rover!" famous dogs. the story of the dog argus was told two thousand years ago by the great greek poet, homer. argus may not have been a real dog, but the poet must have known some dog like him or he could not have told the story so well. argus belonged to ulysses, king of ithaca. he was only a puppy when his master went away to the trojan war. the years went by and ulysses did not return. every one thought that he was dead. at last argus grew so old and feeble that he could not run about the palace. all day long he lay in the warm, sunny courtyard, too weak to move. it was twenty years since he had heard his master's voice. one day a beggar came into the courtyard. no one knew who he was. the queen looked at him coldly. there was no friendly face to greet him. but the old dog lifted up his head and whined and wagged his tail for joy. the beggar's rags could not deceive him. he knew his master had come back at last, and ulysses stooped to caress him with tears in his eyes. the most famous dog in the world was a mastiff of st. bernard's. his name was barry. he lived high up in the alps where it is winter the greater part of the year. he was trained, by the good monks with whom he lived, to go out and hunt for travelers lost in the snow. when he found a man lying half-frozen in the drifts, he would run back, barking for help. then the monks would follow him and bring the traveler to their warm house. [illustration: the connoisseurs. by sir edwin landseer.] barry knew all the dangerous places, and when there had been a snow slide he was sure to be on the spot as soon as he could, to see if any one were hurt. once he found a little, boy in the snow and in some way made him understand what he must do. the child climbed upon the dog's broad back and was carried safely to the fire and the good supper always waiting for the lost ones. barry lived with, the monks for twelve years, and saved forty lives. other st. bernard dogs have been brave and wise, but barry's name stands first among them all. many great men have had dogs whom they loved and trusted. sir walter scott, one of the most famous story-writers that ever lived, had several dogs. he used to take them with him whenever he went to walk. there was an old staghound named maida, and a black greyhound called hamlet, after one of shakespeare's heroes. then there was a beautiful setter with long ears and a silky coat. her name was finette. sir walter would often stop and talk to these four-footed friends and they seemed to understand what he said. in one of his best stories a dog plays a very important part. dr. john brown was another scotch writer who loved dogs. he gave an account of his pets in a book called "spare hours." he wrote the story of "rab and his friends," a tribute of which any dog might be proud. there was a great artist named landseer, who painted his dogs' pictures so wonderfully that we know he must have loved them very much. in one picture he shows his two dogs looking over his shoulder at his drawing. he gave them a very long name which means "those who know all about it"; but i am sure he did not laugh at them unkindly. dogs do not like to be laughed at any more than we do. odin was the name of one of sir edwin landseer's dogs, when we look at his portrait we can understand why the artist should have thus named him, for odin was the all-wise god of the old norsemen. [illustration: odin. by sir edwin landseer.] jack was a famous dog who was with the english soldiers during a great war in eastern europe. he was not a dog of fine breed or gentle training. he had been rescued by one of the soldiers from a cruel death, and he gave in return his love and gratitude. he fought in one of the battles and saved his master's life. when the fighting was over he used to go about the battlefield carrying a can of tea for the wounded men. mrs. browning had a dog named flush, to whom she wrote one of her poems. she was unable to leave her room for many long months of illness, but the little dog spent the weary days by her side, cheerfully giving up merrier company for her sake. lord byron's dog was named boatswain and he is buried in the garden of the poet's beautiful home. there is a monument to his memory and on it are these lines: near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man without his vices. this praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of boatswain, a dog, who was born at newfoundland, may, , and died at newstead abbey, nov. , . there was once a poor man in scotland, who, when he died, was buried in a graveyard in edinburgh, his only mourner being a little scotch terrier. on two mornings the sexton found the dog lying on his master's grave and drove him away, but the third morning was cold and wet and the dog was allowed to remain. from that time, for twelve years and a half, no matter how stormy the weather, the faithful animal made the graveyard his home, only leaving it once a day to get food. at last he died of old age, and was buried in a flower garden near by. a costly marble fountain was erected to the memory of the faithful little dog, and a bronze statue of "grey-friar's bobby" sits on top of it. the most famous dog in america was owney, the postal dog. he traveled with the mail-bags from one end of the country to the other. he even went to alaska and across the pacific ocean. owney first joined the post-office department at albany, n. y., and he always looked upon that office as headquarters where he must report himself after a long trip. when owney was ready for a journey he did not ask any one to go with him. he was quite able to take care of himself. he would follow the mail-bag to the station and jump into the postal car. having chosen the particular mail-bag which he wished to follow, he would stretch himself out upon it for a good nap. he had no further care, of course. when the mail-bag was taken out, owney went, too. owney was not a handsome dog, but he knew how to make friends. he was welcome wherever he went, and he often came back to albany cohered with checks and medals to show how far he had traveled and in what esteem he was held. his intelligence was very wonderful. many times a tired postal clerk who had fallen asleep, forgetful of the stations, was wakened by owney's barking. the dog had a fine saver collar of which he was very proud. one day a clerk had slipped it off to examine the medals which were hung on it and in the hurry of extra work it was laid down and forgotten. owney was too wise to leave his collar behind him, so putting his nose through it and rubbing his head against a post, he slipped it on for himself. after this he was often made to put on his collar to amuse his visitors. [illustration: owney, photographed by edward chickering. dog bedecked with ribbons and medals.] owney died a few years ago, to the grief of the largest circle of friends a dog ever had. in nearly every large city of the united states he was known and missed, and many years will go by before he is forgotten. how to take care of dogs. william and edward were two boys who lived in the same village. they were cousins, and they had a kind uncle who was always trying to give them pleasure. one day he gave to each of the boys a puppy. these puppies were so nearly alike that neither the boys nor their uncle could tell them apart. the boys were delighted with their new pets, and thinking that his dogs were in good hands, uncle frank went away for two years. when he came back he went to see william, and asked about his dog. "oh, he was very troublesome, uncle frank!" said william. "he cried and whined all the time, and after a while he was so cross that i did not like to go near him. i kept him chained to the kennel, but one day he broke his chain and ran away." "why did you chain him?" asked uncle frank. "we were going to train him for a watchdog," said william. "that is not the way to train a watchdog," said his uncle. "i am sorry that i gave him to you. how would you like to be tied to a kennel all day, with no chance to run about? did you take him to walk often?" "not very often," said william. "when i am playing i have no time to look after a dog. he would get into mischief if i let him go where he liked." [illustration: hearing. by h. sperling.] "of course," said uncle frank. "he was only a baby. i can remember when you needed looking after. now i am going to see edward." "edward's dog is different from mine," said william. "he is very kind and gentle. i wish i could have a dog like that." uncle frank walked away without a word. when he came to the house where edward lived, he saw a fine dog lying near the steps, looking very comfortable and happy. "is it possible this was once my little dog?" asked edward's uncle, when the first greetings were over. "how do you keep him in such good condition?" "when you first gave him to me," said edward," i fed him five or six times a day with boiled milk. after a few weeks i gave him oatmeal or indian meal porridge. sometimes he had bread or crackers in milk. "as he grew older, i gave him brown bread and corn cake, and once in a while i let him have a beef bone to play with. he liked that very much, and he did not object to being tied up sometimes, if he had a bone to gnaw." "did you keep him chained?" asked uncle frank. "oh, no!" said edward. "he soon learned not to run away, and now i never chain him. even when he was tied up, he had room to run about. i stretched a long wire across a corner of the yard, and on the wire was a large iron ring. when the dog's light chain was slipped through the ring, he could run back and forth for twenty feet, and could lie in the sun or shade as he liked." "where does he sleep?" asked edward's uncle. "he has a large, clean kennel," said the boy, stooping to pat the dog's silky head. "i wash the whole kennel every week. his bed is made of pine shavings, and in cold weather i put in a pile of them, so that he can have a blanket as well as a bed. the kennel is raised on blocks, so that it will not be damp, and there is a platform in front of it for hot nights. when it is chilly, i hang a piece of old carpet over the door, and on very cold nights he sleeps on his own rug in the laundry. he is a big, strong dog, and he doesn't like too warm a room to sleep in." "how often do you wash him?" asked uncle frank. "about twice a month," said edward, "i give him a bath in lukewarm water and with castile soap. i rinse the soap off with clear water, rub him dry, and let him have a good scamper in the fields. i comb and brush him thoroughly every day. that makes his coat clean and glossy. once when he had fleas i washed him with carbolic soap, and then took him in swimming. i have been told that for a small dog the yolk of an egg is better than any kind of soap, but i have never tried it for chum." "what does he have to eat, and how often do you feed him?" he has two meals a day now. sometimes he has dog biscuit soaked in water or soup. sometimes he likes his biscuit dry. nearly every day he has a few scraps of meat or a bone. he likes corn cake and brown bread and macaroni, too. sometimes i mix the meat and vegetables with mush made from some cereal." "i suppose you know," said uncle frank, "that a dog needs vegetable food, and that he cannot keep well without it?" "yes, indeed. i give him cabbage and potatoes very often." "is chum a good watchdog?" went on uncle frank. "he didn't bark at me when i came up the path." "it is just as well that you didn't try to open the door," said edward; "he would have barked loudly enough in that case. he barks at night when he hears a strange step, because i have praised him for that; but in the daytime he keeps his eyes open and lies still." "what is that yellow dish by the laundry door?" said the boy's uncle, looking about the pleasant yard. "that is chum's water dish," said edward. "it is hard to keep tin or iron clean, so mother gave me that. it is in the shade, you see. chum likes cool water as well as i do. you have always found it there, haven't you, old fellow?" the dog looked up gravely into the boy's face and panted a little from the heat. "why does a dog pant like that?" asked edward. "he perspires through his tongue," said his uncle. "that is why it is so cruel to put a muzzle over a dog's mouth. when he is overheated he suffers very much. i hope you never take chum with you when you ride on your bicycle." "no, sir!" said edward with emphasis. "chum knows that when the bicycle goes he must stay at home. i would never let him tire himself out by trying to keep up with me. but we have long walks together after tea." chum pricked up his ears at the word "walk" and laid his head lovingly on his master's knee. "there is another reason for not letting him follow your bicycle," said uncle frank. "it might seriously injure him to run so fast. i am glad his ears are not cropped. sometimes a dog is made deaf when his ears are cropped. they are very sensitive, and it hurts him to have them pulled or roughly handled in any way." "i wouldn't have his ears or his tail cut off," said edward indignantly, "and no one has ever struck him. he knows by my voice when i am displeased with him, and he will beg to be forgiven by wagging his tail as hard as he can. chum shall not be hurt if i can help it. "the other day a great bulldog got hold of him. we tried almost everything to make the fierce dog let go, but it was impossible to separate them. a man came out of a house with a pail of water, which he threw over the bulldog's head. the dog immediately let go and ran away. "a sudden dash of cold water," the man said, "will almost always break up a fight." "that is a good thing to remember," said the boy's uncle. "it is your thoughtfulness that has made chum such a fine dog. you have not overfed him; you have given him plenty of fresh water and a comfortable home; you have been patient with him and willing to teach him. best of all, you have never deceived him or been cruel and unkind to him. no one ought to have a pet unless he is willing to take some trouble to keep it well and happy. see how chum watches you when you talk! he has doubtless learned to understand much of what you say. he seems to think that he has a good master, and i think so, too." stories of dogs. one of the great men of history was william, prince of orange. he is to the little country of the netherlands what george washington is to us. one night he was asleep in his tent, and a small spaniel was lying on his bed. the guards, faithless to their trust, were sleeping. suddenly the dog sprang up, barking wildly. a small band of the enemy was approaching, unheard by any of the men. there was just time for the prince to escape, before the spanish soldiers were in his tent. to the end of his life, william of orange kept a spaniel of the same race in his room, and in the statues of the prince a little dog is frequently seen lying at his feet. a dog was once left in the room alone with a baby who was learning to creep. on the hearth an open fire was smouldering. suddenly there was a bright little flicker of flame and the logs blazed up once more. pleased with the sight, the baby began to creep towards the fire as fast as he could go. the dog saw the danger at once and seized the baby's dress tightly between his teeth. baby pulled and pulled, but the wise old dog held the tiny skirts firmly. then the baby cried and screamed, until his nurse came to see what could be the matter. the dog wagged his tail and looked up as if to say: "i'm glad you have come. you ought not to leave a baby near a fire. what would have happened if i had not been here, i should like to know?" there is a well-known painting called "saved," which tells its own story. a pet kitten has been chased by two lively little terriers, and the big, friendly dog has taken her into his care. she is not afraid of the little dogs now. they may bark as much as they like. the big dog looks as if he were saying, "run away, little dogs! you may not mean to hurt miss puss, but you are very rude to frighten her so. if you were as large and strong as i am, you would be ashamed to bark at a poor, helpless little kitten. come now; run away, and do not tease her any more." a large dog once hurt his leg, and a friendly surgeon bandaged it for him. one night, some months after, the surgeon received a call from his former patient, who brought with him another dog, suffering from a similar accident. the larger dog introduced his friend as well as he could, and then retired politely to a corner of the room until the operation was over. once there was a small fox-terrier named chip who hurt his foot in some way, and was taken to the doctor for treatment. not many weeks later he was found on the doctor's doorstep, crying to get in. when the doctor appeared the dog held up his swollen foot with a long thorn in it. "you helped me before," he must have thought. "do you suppose you can help me now?" [illustration: "saved" from a painting by h. sperling.] the most useful dog in the world is the collie, or shepherd dog. without him the scotch shepherds would need more men than they could possibly afford to hire. the collie has had very careful training. it is a dog's instinct to chase sheep, but the collie has been taught to take care of them. he drives the flock to pasture, watches them to see that none strays away, keeps them close together when any danger is near, and brings them home again in safety. not long ago a collie was brought from england to this country. in his new home there was a little girl, three years old. one day she wandered away through the fields to an open well at some distance from the house. her father was on his way home, when he heard the barking of the dog, and knew that something was wrong. springing over a stone wall, the man saw his little girl and the dog near the well. there was a light snow on the ground, and by the rows of tiny footsteps it could be seen that the child had walked round and round the well, and that the faithful dog had walked beside her, keeping always between the edge of the well and his little charge. when the collie is kindly treated he is the most faithful and devoted of dogs, but he feels very keenly any neglect or harsh words. unkindness makes him sullen, and sometimes cross. every book about dogs is full of stories of their faithfulness, their intelligence, and their unselfishness. we have made the dog dependent upon us, and he is too often the victim of our thoughtlessness and cruelty. dogs are made happy or unhappy in very much the same ways that children are. if you are kind to your dog and willing to learn how to take care of him properly, he will probably give you very little trouble. he will grieve when you scold him, but he will love you faithfully through all kinds of trouble and pain. "forsake not an old friend." goodness moves in a larger sphere than justice;... kindness and beneficence should be extended to creatures of every species.... a good man will take care of his horses and dogs, not only while they are young, but when old and past service. thus the people of athens, when they had finished the temple called hecatompedon, set at liberty the beasts of burden that had been chiefly employed in the work, suffering them to pasture at large, free from any other service. it is said that one of these afterwards came of its own accord to work, and, putting itself at the head of the laboring cattle, marched before them to the citadel. this pleased the people, and they made a decree that it should be kept at the public charge so long as it lived. many have shown particular regard in burying the dogs which they had cherished and loved, and among them xantippus of old, whose dog swam by the side of his galley to salamis, when the athenians were forced to abandon their city, and was afterwards buried by him upon a promontory which is still called the dog's grave. plutarch. cats and dogs. cats and dogs seem to be natural enemies, but it is quite possible to make them very good friends. the easiest way to do this is to bring a kitten in your arms to your dog and explain to him that he must never chase her, or bark at her. he will listen, looking very wise, and if, in his presence, you are careful not to pet her too much, he will try to please you. if you make him jealous, or if you think it is fun to see him run after the kitten, you can never succeed. a bull-terrier named teddy lives in the same house with fluff, an angora cat of great beauty. teddy has been carefully taught, and his manners are delightful. often when passing the chair where fluff lies asleep, teddy will put up his black nose and give her face a friendly lap. fluff stretches out her fore-feet sleepily, but she does not object in the least. sometimes teddy is too rough in his play, and fluff taps him gently with her soft paw to remind him that she is not as strong as he is. it is not easy to teach an old cat to be very friendly with a dog. she has too good a memory for that. she remembers the times when she has scrambled up the tree-trunk, panting and frightened, with a dog barking at her heels. she remembers that the children have often cheered and praised the dog, and have made no effort to help her. on the whole, she would rather arch her back and wave her tail than try to be agreeable. it is quite possible that if you were in her place you would feel very much as she does. [illustration: breakfast. by h. w. trood] famous cats. cats were household pets in egypt more than two thousand years ago. the egyptians worshiped them as beings superior to men, and would suffer no harm to come to them. if, by accident, an egyptian killed a cat, the punishment was death. once a persian king named cambyses was fighting against the egyptians. knowing how cats were cherished by his enemies, cambyses gave to each of his soldiers a cat to carry, instead of a shield. not one of the egyptian soldiers would hurt a cat, and so the persian army was safe. probably the first cats lived in egypt, and though they are no longer worshiped in that country, they are protected and cared for. in the city of cairo is a cats' hospital, where sick cats are nursed, and where stray or homeless cats may come every day for their dinner. when the romans conquered syria and palestine, they found in nearly every house a kato or kitt. from these eastern names we get our words cat and kitten. the romans were so much pleased with the little animals that kitts soon were carried to italy and western europe. the roman goddess of liberty was pictured with a cat lying at her feet. it is quite true that it is easier to make a slave of any other animal than it is of a cat. your cat will love you, in his own way, but he holds himself free to do as he likes. cats, as well as dogs, have been the pets of great men. the arabian teacher mahomet; the founder of the mohammedan religion, was very fond of cats. one day his pet kitten went to sleep upon the wide sleeve of his robe, and he cut off the sleeve rather than disturb the comfortable pussy. richelieu, the great french statesman, kept several kittens in his house to amuse him when tired and discouraged. as kittens will grow into cats, richelieu must have changed his friends often. cowper, the english poet, mentions his favorite cat in more than one of his poems. the famous dr. johnson had a cat named hodge, who was treated with the greatest kindness. when hodge was not well, the doctor would go out himself to buy oysters, lest the trouble of waiting upon so dainty a pet should cause it to be disliked by the servant. charles dickens's favorite cat was old and deaf, but she had a warm corner in her master's heart. one evening he was so busy reading that he did not notice her when she jumped into his lap. pussy's feelings were hurt. she purred gently, but the reader did not seem to hear. suddenly the candle went out. dickens lighted it again to go on with his reading. in a minute the light grew dim again, and, looking up, he saw the cat putting out the candle with her paw. then she looked at him in such a pleading way that he laid down his book for the rest of the evening. perhaps the most famous american cat was agrippina, who belonged to miss agnes repplier of philadelphia. she is famous because of the charming essay which her mistress wrote in her honor. madame henrietta ronner is known as one of the most successful painters of cats and kittens. her pictures are wonderful reproductions of cat life. mrs. olive thorne miller says: "we may safely assume that madame ronner is a cat lover, for no one really knows a cat who does not love him." [illustration: alexander.] the intelligence and good breeding of the cat in this picture are so apparent that it is no wonder he made hosts of friends. his picture once adorned a humane calendar, and thus became familiar to many persons in the united states and in europe. rev. j. g. wood, in describing his own pet cat, said: "his gestures and actions are full of that spirited yet easy grace, which can never be attained by any creature, be it man, beast, or bird, who has once learned to crouch in terror, and to fear a harsh tone or an uplifted hand." in spain it is the custom to store grain in garrets, and there the cats are treated very kindly. there is a small door in each attic for their use; food and drink are given to them; and they may walk where they like over the roofs of the city. many of them never care to come down to the ground. if there were no cats in america, we should be seriously disturbed and inconvenienced. it is said that the government of the united states keeps an army of more than three hundred cats for use in the post-office department. their duty is to guard the mail-bags against the attacks of rats and mice, and this they do very thoroughly and well. before they were employed valuable letters and mail matter were often destroyed. the government cats are fed well, some postmasters being allowed forty dollars a year for "cat meat." the work that this army does proves that well-fed cats make the best mousers. as the postal service is known for its high standards, we may be sure that these workers are industrious and satisfactory, or they would not be allowed to stay. kitty's christmas. "mew! mew! mew! why don't they let me in? i have been here on these cold steps for three days. i am very hungry and unhappy. why do they shut me out in the cold? "ethel said she was going to the city for the christmas vacation. she said i could catch mice till she came back. but the mice are in the barn and i can't get in. "the house, too, is shut up. no one is there to give me any milk. my warm bed is in the kitchen, by the stove. i can't sleep on these cold stones. "this is a dreadful christmas! last year i had a pitcher of cream and a string of popcorn from ethel's christmas tree. she is very good to me when she is at home. i wish she would come back. i am so frightened and hungry! mew! mew!" to my cat muff. thou art not "dumb," my muff; in those sweet pleading eyes and earnest look language there were enough to fill, with living type, a goodly book, wherein who read might see what tones unheard, and forms of silent speech are given, that such as thee the eloquence of dumbness, men might teach. john owen. how to take care of cats. "mamma!" cried philip, coming in one day with something in his arms, "see this poor kitty i found in the street! a dog was barking at her and she ran straight into my arms. may i keep her for my own?" mrs. grant looked up from her work. such a rough-coated, dirty little cat as she saw! but there was something in the tired, frightened eyes that touched her. "are you willing to take a good deal of trouble, philip?" asked his mother. "if not, it would be kinder to kill the poor thing quickly." "i am willing; indeed i am!" cried the boy. "please tell me what to do." "you should give her a saucer of warm milk, with a little bread crumbed in it first; for the poor kitten must be very hungry. then she will know you mean to be kind to her. after that she had better sleep. when she wakes up she will begin to feel at home, and then i think we must sponge her gently with warm water, because she is so very dirty. you must not do that alone, but you may hold her and stroke her softly, and if you think she will scratch you i will get you a pair of old gloves." "can we not put her in a little tub and bathe her?" asked philip. [illustration: gentle kitty gray.] "it is not best to do that if you can get her clean any other way. cats do not like water, and it frightens them very much, to be put into it. once in a great while we hear of cats that will be patient if put into a bath, but usually they will struggle and cry and act very much frightened. as soon as this kitten has been fed and begins to get over her fright at being homeless, you will see her wash herself. "then you must make her feel at home," said mrs. grant. "you can take her in your arms and carry her about the house, talking softly to her, so that she may feel that you will be good to her. it is fortunate that it is growing dark. she can see better in the twilight, and is not so easily startled." the kitten lapped up the milk hungrily, and then came purring about the boy's feet. "where may she sleep?" asked the boy, pleased to see that the kitten was not at all afraid of him. "a low, wide basket half full of shavings will make a soft bed," said mrs. grant. "over the shavings i will spread a piece of old flannel. cats like a warm, cosy bed, and it is always best to keep them in the house at night." to their delight, the kitten did not object at all to the warm bath. she stood quite still while mrs. grant washed her gently and dried her in an old blanket. "you can easily teach her to be clean if you are kind and patient," said mrs. grant. "she will not need a bath again, for she will learn to take care of herself; but it would be very good for her to be brushed every day, and i will give you a small brush for that purpose. if you put a pan of dry earth where she can always get at it, she will give no trouble when she cannot go out of doors." "i think she likes me already, mamma," said philip. "i am sure she will like you if you are kind to her," said his mother. "if you hurt her, she will never forget it. dogs forgive many cruel blows, but a cat's nature is different. she is very brave in bearing pain, and she rarely cries out when she is hurt; but she is very sensitive, and that ought to make us careful how we handle her. don't let the baby have the kitten to play with. he could not understand how his clumsy little fingers hurt her. he does not yet know the difference between a plaything and a playmate. but you can teach him to feed her and to be kind to her." "what else must i do?" said philip. "you must keep a dish of water where kitty can find it, and you must not forget to fill it every day with fresh water. cats are more dainty than dogs are. they like clean dishes and fresh food. they must have plenty of warm milk, and brown bread and milk." "may she eat meat and fish?" asked philip. "not yet," said his mother. "she is too young. when she is older she should have meat cut up and mixed with bread or vegetables. the fat and tough fiber should be removed. when raw meat is given, boiling water should be poured on it to cleanse it. fish may be given once a week. that should be boiled and all the bones removed, as cats have sometimes been badly choked with fish bones. meat and fish should be fresh. dogs and cats have been poisoned by eating pieces of old meat and fish." "i thought cats lived on mice," said philip. mrs. grant smiled. "i am afraid that your kitty will starve if she has no food but the mice she finds here," she said. "perhaps there are a few in the barn. never let her tease a mouse, philip. if you take the mice away from her when she plays with, them, she will learn, in time, to kill her prey quickly." "fred's cat eats asparagus," said philip. "yes; cats need some vegetable food. they usually like corn, string beans, boiled rice, potatoes, cabbage, and even carrots. oatmeal, very thoroughly cooked, is an excellent food for them. if you give your kitten corn to eat, you must scrape it carefully off the cob in such a way that she will get only the inside of the kernel. i cut it for you, you know, so that the empty hulls are left clinging to the cob." "may she have all the milk she wants?" asked philip. "i think so," said mrs. grant, "if you feed her regularly and not too often, and if you are sure that the milk is fresh and good. in summer it is well to scald the milk, and it is safer to do this in winter also, if there is any doubt about its freshness." "what else may she have, mamma?" "corn bread and graham biscuits will be good for her, and perhaps she will like them crisp and dry better than if they are soaked. you can raise some catnip next summer. kitty will like that dried quite as well as the green herb. it may be kept for a special treat or for medicine, although a cat that can find plenty of grass rarely needs medicine. in the winter you can have some grass growing in a pot or box of earth." "how much better she looks already!" said philip, watching the sleeping pussy. "i think she will be a beauty. when she is a fine, large cat i shall ask papa to take her picture." cat questions. dozing, and dozing, and dozing! pleasant enough, dreaming of sweet cream and mouse meat,-- delicate stuff! waked by a somerset, whirling from cushion to floor; waked to a wild rush for safety from window to door. waking to hands that first smooth us, and then pull our tails; punished with slaps when we show them the length of our nails! these big mortal tyrants even grudge us a place on the mat. do they think we enjoy for our music staccatoes of "scat"? to be treated, now, just as you treat us,-- the question is pat,-- to take just our chances in living, would you be a cat? lucy larcom. the cat family. our little house cat belongs to the same family as the lion, the tiger, and the leopard. they are known as the old and powerful family of cats, and though pussy is small, tame, and gentle, she is not unlike her fierce cousins in many of her ways. all cats have sharp claws which can be drawn back until quite out of sight. they walk softly because their feet are padded with soft, elastic cushions. not only is a cat one of the most sure-footed animals in the world, but she is also one of the most graceful. cats are restless creatures, and in a wild state they are prowling about, day and night, with only short periods of rest. yet, when they are hunting for food, they will patiently lie in wait for hours. it is the nature of all cats, big and little, to pounce upon their prey and not to chase it. no cat likes to run. she will hide from danger if she can, and she runs only when she must. the teeth of cats are sharp and pointed so that they can tear their food in pieces. their tongues are rough and are of great use in eating. the surface is covered with little prickly points which also serve pussy in the place of a brush and comb. a cat's whiskers are very sensitive. even to touch them lightly sometimes hurts her, and to pull them is to make her suffer intense pain. little children, who do not know what delicate nerves are bound up with their cat's whiskers, are often the cause of great suffering to their pets. have you ever looked at your cat's eyes? how well she sees in places that seem dark to us! in what way are her eyes different from ours? at noon, the black spot in a cat's eye is only a narrow slit, but as the light grows less bright, the pupil of the eye grows rounder and larger. in this way her eyes gather in more and more light as darkness comes on, so that at twilight she can easily find her way. when it is really dark, her sensitive whiskers help her to feel what she cannot see. pussy's tail is part of her backbone or spine, which is made up as carefully and delicately as our spines are. if we pull a cat's tail, we run the risk of giving her as severe pain as we should feel if our spines were hurt. dogs and cats have been seriously hurt by forcing their heads into empty cans that have contained meat or soup. sometimes they are not able to free themselves. their terror is pitiable, and if not found they may run into some hiding place and die a miserable death. it would be easy to see that a can, when emptied, is pounded out of shape, so that no animal can get its head into it. to do this might save great suffering. [illustration: a happy pair.] things to remember. it is a mistake to suppose that cats are unloving and selfish. when a cat loves no one, it is usually a proof that no one loves her. she responds warmly to gentle treatment, and often shows personal devotion in very striking ways. remember that it is unfair to call a cat cruel and to punish her for following out her own instincts. she knows nothing of the pain she inflicts, and is quite innocent of any cruel intention. often a word or two of reproof is effectual, but it is useless to strike her or frighten her. she knows no reason why she should not catch birds as well as mice. if something she likes to eat is given to pussy the last thing at night, she will get into the habit of coming into the house for it. if she is kept in at night, she cannot disturb the early morning songs of your feathered friends. care and watching will be needed to insure their peace and safety through the day. especially must she be well fed and have an early breakfast when she has kittens to care for, or she will bring birds for them to eat. remember that a half-starved cat makes a poor mouser. when she is exhausted with hunger she loses the sense of smell, and with it all interest in catching mice. cats grow very fond of places as well as of people, and dread to change their homes. when a cat is to be taken to another house to live, she should be carried in a cat-basket with openings in the top so that she can have fresh air to breathe and can see what is going on. holes may be made in a common basket, but the cover must be firmly fastened with a strong strap or cord. once arrived at her new quarters, pussy should be shut up in a quiet room with food and water and a pan of dry earth. at dusk, when the outer doors are shut, she may be allowed to go into other rooms with some friendly guide. for two or three days she should be kept in the house, and great pains should be taken not to trouble or frighten her while she is learning to feel at home. remember, in handling a cat, that it hurts her to be lifted by her front paws alone. her hind legs should be supported at the same time. [illustration: the traveling basket.] ribbons and collars are entirely out of place on a cat. they are likely to get caught on twigs and nails, and may even cause death. they certainly give no pleasure to the wearer. harrison weir, who has written a book about cats, calls especial attention to the danger of collars and ribbons. there are so many cats in the world that if all the kittens were allowed to grow up, no good homes could be found for them. it is a hard thing for a kind-hearted person to do, but many little kittens must be killed or they would live to suffer. one kitten of every litter should be left to the mother cat. the others should be killed as soon as possible, but never in the mother's sight. think how poor pussy would feel when she saw her babies drowned! one of the greatest hardships that can come into a cat's life is to be left without a home. at the beach in winter and in the city in summer may be seen many homeless, starving, miserable cats, left there by their cruel owners. once these cats were petted and well-fed. they know what it is to lie on soft cushions and to be caressed. now, through no fault of their own, they are wanderers in an unfriendly world. can any name too harsh be given to the men and women who turn adrift these timid, helpless creatures? remember that it is a thousand times better to chloroform or drown the cat it is impossible to carry with you, than to let her take her chances in so wretched a life. cats are so nervous and sensitive, and so timid when taken away from home, that they must suffer very much when exhibited in cages at a cat show. it has frequently happened that cats have been made ill by the fright and confinement. cats and dogs sometimes take contagious diseases from each other, and if allowed to run at large they may carry the disease to children or to other pet animals. if our pets are ill they should not be turned out of doors, but should be kept by themselves in a comfortable, quiet room, taken good care of, and on no account should children be allowed to handle them. if we are ill with a contagious disease, our pets should not be allowed in the room with us. [illustration: "please give me some more!"] to keep in good health, cats need to have access to fresh grass and clean water. they much enjoy being brushed with a brush that is not too stiff. remember that cats are delicate and easily injured about the head and should be handled carefully. agnes repplier says: "cats are extremely sensitive and dislike loud voices and bustling ways. they love repose, calmness, and grace." stories of cats. there was once a cat that lived in a house in london. her master owned a country home also, and twice a year pussy made the journey between the two houses. she always showed great interest and pleasure when the trunks were brought out and the packing cases were being filled. she herself traveled in a comfortable basket with openings at the top, which had been bought expressly for her. often her master lifted her out and held her in his lap for a while, so that the journey might not seem long to her. one day, when the usual preparations were going on, pussy seemed very uneasy. she had a little baby kitten scarcely old enough to walk, and she was afraid the kitten would be left behind. at last she spied a box half full of dresses. "there!" thought mrs. pussy. "that is a fine place for my baby. i can hide it away under those dresses and it will be quite safe." when the kitten was discovered, carefully tucked in among the silks and laces, you may be sure that a place was found for it in the cat's basket. in a monastery in france lived a cat who always came to dinner when the big bell rang to call the monks. one day she happened to be shut up in a room alone when the bell rang, and the poor kitty had no dinner. [illustration: driven out by m stocks] as soon as she was set free she ran to look for her plate, but none was there. presently the monastery bell was heard, and when the monks came to see what could be the matter, there was the cat hanging upon the bell rope, ringing for her dinner. another story is told, in the popular science monthly, of a cat who knew the name of each member of the household. if she was asked about an absent one, she would look at his vacant seat and then at the speaker. if told to fetch him she would run upstairs to his room, take the handle of the door between her paws, mew at the keyhole, and wait to be let in. a cat will often become especially attached to one member of a family. dr. gordon stables, who has written a book about cats, tells a story of a cat named muffle that belonged to him when he was a boy. she was so fond of him that when he went away to school she left the house and went into the woods to live. the boy came home frequently, and whenever he did so she came back to welcome him. dr. stables also tells a story of a cat who knew the footsteps of every member of the family, and before any one else could hear a sound she would hasten to the door. she also knew if a stranger knocked at the door, and would give a low growl. a remarkable story is told in a french scientific paper. there was a certain cat named cadi who lived in roumania. the winter of was very cold, and her master, to save his fuel, often went without a fire. one day cadi mewed and mewed until her master followed her. she led him straight to the coal-box, on which she sat until he had filled a hod with coal. then she led him to the wood-box, and finally back to his own cold room. while the fire was being made cadi rubbed against her master's knees with many caresses, and when at last it began to burn bright, she stretched herself before it, contented and happy. a mother cat will go through fire and water to save her kittens, and she will fight most bravely to protect them. one poor cat, finding that she could not save her baby from the flames of a burning building, went back to die beside it, rather than escape alone. [illustration: friends.] a brave girl. [footnote: published by ticknor & fields, .] a little girl was once coming home from school across boston common, when she saw a party of noisy boys and dogs tormenting a poor kitten by the side of the frog pond. the little wretches would throw it into the water, and then laugh at its vain and frightened efforts to paddle out, while the dogs added to its fright by their ferocious barking. belle was a bright-eyed, spirited little girl, and her whole soul was roused in indignation; she dashed in among the throng of boys and dogs, and rescued the poor half-drowned little animal. the boys, ashamed, slunk away, and little belle held the poor, cold, shivering little creature, considering what to do for it. it was half dead already, and she knew that at home there was no room for another pet, for both cat and kitten never were wanting in their family. "poor kitty!" she said, "you must die, but i will see that you are not tormented;" and she knelt bravely down and held the little thing under water, with the tears running down her own cheeks, till all its earthly sorrows were over, and the little cat was beyond the reach of dog or boy. this was real, brave humanity. many people call themselves tender- hearted, because they are unwilling to have a litter of kittens killed, and so they go and throw them over fences, and comfort themselves with the reflection that they will do well enough. what becomes of the poor little defenseless things? in nine cases out of ten they live a hunted, miserable life, crying from hunger, shivering with cold, harassed by cruel dogs, and tortured to make sport for brutal boys. how much kinder and more really humane to take upon ourselves the momentary suffering of causing the death of an animal than to turn our backs and leave it to drag out a life of torture and misery! harriet beecher stowe. aunt esther's rule. [footnote: published by ticknor & fields, ] one of aunt esther's rules for the care of animals was "never frighten an animal for sport." i remember that i had a little white kitten, of which i was very fond, and one day i was amusing myself with making her walk up and down the key-board of the piano, and laughing to see her fright at the strange noises which came up under her feet. it never occurred to me that there was any cruelty in it, till aunt esther said to me: "my dear, you must never frighten an animal. i have suffered enough from fear to know that there is no suffering more dreadful; and a helpless animal, that cannot speak to tell its fright, and cannot understand an explanation of what alarms it, ought to move your pity." harriet beecher stowe. [illustration: the lion at home from a painting by rosa bonheur] lion stories. a large lion was once to be seen in a cage in london. he was so big and fierce that many persons came to have a peep at him. one day his keeper opened the cage door and put in a little black dog. everybody wondered what the lion would do. as for the little dog, his heart beat fast with fright and he cowered against the side of the cage. the lion looked down at the small, shrinking form, but he did not growl or roar. perhaps he was lonely and glad to have a companion. in some way he must have told the dog that he need not be afraid, for presently the little fellow put out his tongue and lapped his huge friend on the lips. after that they were very good friends, and the lion often allowed the little dog to tease him and pull his mane. when they were fed, the lion stood back like a true gentleman, and let the dog have his dinner first. he seemed to know that because he was so strong, he must be gentle to the weak and helpless. gerard, the great lion-tamer, once brought home from africa a baby lion. he named it hubert and for a time it was his pet and playmate. when it grew large, gerard sent it to paris. the next year he went to france and visited his pet. the lion was in a cage, and when he saw his master, he began to quiver with excitement. gerard put his hand between the bars, and hubert snuffed it eagerly. "hubert!" said the lion-tamer. "my old soldier!" with a furious bound the lion sprang upon the bars. he stood close against the grating and filled the building with his roars of joy. his enormous tongue scraped his master's hand, while with his paws he vainly tried to caress him. after a time he grew more quiet, but whenever gerard turned to leave him, there were the same heart-breaking moans and roars. daily, gerard spent hours in the same cage with his pet, and the two were very happy together. several years ago a lion and a lioness were in the menagerie at paris. their keeper, mr. felix, was taken ill one day, and could no longer attend to them. the duty of feeding them and keeping the cage clean fell upon a stranger to whom both lion and lioness took a strong dislike. the lion would sit, for hours, at the end of his cage, with bristling mane and flaming eyes. he refused all food from the hands of the new keeper and roared at him so furiously that no one dared to go near the cage. days went on and it was evident that something must be done or the lion would become seriously ill. fortunately, mr. felix was getting well, and one morning, intending to surprise the lions, he crept softly to the cage and showed his face between the bars. in an instant the lion sprang forward, patting the man's arm with his great paws and showing the greatest delight. the lioness also ran to him, but the lion drove her back and seemed unwilling that felix should show her any favor. fearing that they might quarrel, the keeper entered the cage and caressed them by turns. the huge beasts obeyed him promptly as if eager to show how much they loved him, and peace and quiet were thus restored. rosa bonheur, whose pictures of animals are among the most famous in the world, loved the wild creatures that she painted. at one time she had for a model a fierce lion named nero who, after a while, had to be taken away to paris. the day came when he was to go. the horses that were to draw the great beast's cage to the city shivered with dread at the odor of the flesh- eater. nero was quiet, but he looked sadly at his mistress, and his gold-yellow eyes seemed full of reproach. [illustration: rosa bonheur.] months later the artist went to see him in one of the gardens of paris. he was blind and dying. "oh, my poor nero!" she said. "what have they done to you?" the lion lifted up his huge head, and listened for a moment. then, slowly and with pain, he crawled close to the bars of his cage, where she could stroke him. about the artist and her pet there were only rough men and women and boys of the city streets, but every man's hat came off, and there was not a dry eye in the crowd. rosa bonheur did not confine her tenderness to dumb animals. in her prosperity she was kind to many poor artists who were working under hard and discouraging conditions. for years before her death she lived in a village on the edge of the forest of fontainebleau, and here she brought the wild animals, the tame pets and the human friends whom she loved, to share her cheerful, happy life. exhibitions of trained animals should be discouraged. those who enjoy going to the circus or menagerie or to any show of wild animals ought to consider how they would like to be shut up as prisoners all their lives, and forced to do unnatural tricks. some animal trainers try to make the public believe that tricks are taught by kindness and that the animals are comfortable and happy; but persons not in the business who have had an opportunity to watch trained animals behind the scenes say that there is a great deal of suffering among them. to all these questions we can apply the golden rule and deal with these creatures that are at men's mercy as we should wish to be dealt with if we were in their place. [illustration: the king of beasts. from a painting by rosa bonheur.] the king of beasts. i am a great lion, and one of the strongest animals in the world. i used to live far away in africa, and when i roared, all who heard my voice were afraid. i hunted to get food for myself and my little ones. i never killed for fun. it is only men who kill creatures and call it sport. wild animals are not so savage as that. you wonder that i am in this cage when i am so strong. i am afraid of men. they are wise and cruel. they made a trap and caught me. they have made these iron bars which are stronger than i am. i have tried my best to get out. i am weary and homesick i need the wide plains, and the deep streams, and the fresh, sweet air of the forests. sometimes when i am asleep i dream of my old home. i forget the crowds who stare at me, and the smell of the sawdust, and the narrow, narrow cage. i think i am once again in the great, free, open country. then i spring up gladly, and there are only the iron bars and the low roof. i roar with pain and grief and my keeper comes to punish me with his sharp-pointed stick. when you see me in my cage, pity me, for i am very miserable. [illustration: the ship of the desert] the ship of the desert. the home of the camel is in arabia. in that country there are many miles of sandy desert. we use ships to carry goods and men across the sea; in arabia the camel is used to carry goods and men across the sand. he carries heavy loads over the scorching deserts, and for this reason he is called the ship of the desert. no horse or donkey could tread where the camel does. their hoofs would sink in the loose, dry sand. but the foot of the camel is like a broad pad or cushion, and it spreads out as he puts it down, so that it neither slips nor sinks. it has also a very thick sole to protect it from the burning heat of the sand. the camel is able to go for a long time without food or water. he can do this because he carries with him a supply of both. the hump on his back is a large lump of solid fat, which the camel is able, in some strange way, to use as food. he does not bite it or take it into his mouth, but it wastes away, and grows smaller and smaller, when he is making a long journey with little to eat. if the poor camel is starved, his back becomes quite flat. the camel stores up a supply of water in his two stomachs, a part of which is lined with masses of cells. when the camel drinks, he fills these cells, keeping the water in them for future use so that he is not thirsty again for a long time. the camel's sense of smell is very acute. it is said that he can detect water long before it is in sight. when he is carrying a burden across the wild, barren places where no green thing grows, he is fed with a few dates, beans, or cakes. sometimes he finds a dry, thorny plant to browse upon, but when other food is gone he must depend upon his hump. in a caravan there are often thousands of camels. without them, merchants could not send their goods across the desert, for no other animal could endure so long a journey under such conditions. a heavy load. one day a workman, who was helping to build a new house, saw the driver of a large cart trying to back his horses into the yard. the cart was filled with a heavy load of wood, and though the two horses seemed to be patient and willing, they could move it but a little way. then it would roll down upon their heels again. the driver grew angry. he shouted at the horses and gave them cruel cuts with his whip. the horses stopped pushing and began to kick, without moving the cart at all. by this time the workman had come up to the horses. "get down a minute," said he to the driver, "and let me see what i can do." he went first to one horse and then to the other, stroking their necks and speaking kindly to them. then he lifted off several heavy timbers and laid them on the ground. finally he took from his dinner-pail a big red apple, which he cut in two, giving half to each horse. when the horses had eaten the apple, the man mounted the cart and took up the reins. "come, now!" he said cheerily, giving the reins a little shake. "i am sure you can do it if you try once more. now, then, there you go!" the horses took new courage, and with all their might bent to their work. with a vigorous push and a great rattle of stones the cart went up into its place. "it isn't easy to work when you are being scolded." said the workman, handing over the reins to the driver of the pair. "try my way the next time. it pays." famous horses. the horse has been known as man's companion and helper from the earliest times. in greek mythology horses play a very important part, as every one knows who has read the stories of arion and the winged horse pegasus. the most famous horse in history probably was bucephalus (bull head), who belonged to alexander the great. alexander was the son of philip, king of macedonia. when the boy was about thirteen years of age, there was offered for sale to his father a superb white horse with a black mark, like a bull's head, on his forehead. his price was twenty thousand dollars. he was brought before the king, but no one was able to mount him. philip was angry and was about to send the horse away when alexander begged to be allowed to try. he went up quietly to bucephalus and stroked him for a few minutes with a steady, careful hand. as he did so he noticed that the horse was afraid of his own shadow dancing on the grass before him. turning the frightened animal with his face to the sun, the boy leaped lightly on his back, and using every means to soothe him, soon brought him under complete control. bucephalus became alexander's constant companion. the horse was once taken prisoner by the barbarians against whom alexander was fighting, but the concern shown by the great soldier was so serious that his favorite was promptly restored to him. [illustration: a norman sire. by rosa bonheur.] this famous horse died when he was thirty years old from wounds received on the field of battle. alexander mourned his death as that of a dear friend and built a city as a monument to his memory. swift and spurred on were horses that belonged to two roman emperors. these horses were fed on almonds and raisins; they had ivory mangers and marble stalls; and one of them drank wine out of a golden pail. but i am sure they were too sensible to like such a life and would have preferred a handful of fresh grass and a drink of cold water. there are many other horses whose names are known in history. there was copenhagen, the duke of wellington's favorite charger, that carried him for ten hours through the battle of waterloo. copenhagen lived to a peaceful and honored old age, but he had a fancy for sponge cake and chocolate creams, and he died at last from eating too many sweets. then there was roan barbary, richard the second's favorite, and agnes, who carried mary, queen of scots. washington's big white horse, whose picture you have often seen, was carefully tended and cherished as long as he lived. in art the horse is the emblem of courage and generosity, and as we know him to-day he is not lacking in these noble traits. how to treat horses. it is quite safe to say that of all animals the horse best repays kind treatment. the better you treat him, the better horse he is, and the more work he can do. yet no animal is more frequently abused and neglected than the horse. he is left standing in the cold without a blanket or only partly covered; he is whipped by angry drivers; he is ill fed; and he is kept in a dark, close stable for days at a time. a horse is often brave in facing a danger which he understands. he can be trained to go into dangerous places without shrinking. but it is well to remember that a horse learns only by seeing and smelling, and that a new sight which he does not understand will fill him with terror. he is steadfast before the danger he knows; he is timid as a deer before the danger he imagines. it should be the business of any one having the care of a horse to let him examine everything that may frighten him. if a horse shies, lead him up gently to see and smell what he is afraid of. he may not dare to go near it the first time, but patience and kindness will teach him, while blows and angry words will only frighten him more. a bit of paper blowing in the wind is enough to frighten many horses. their eyes are not like ours, and often on coming out of a dark stable they are so blinded by the light that familiar things look strange to them. to pick up flying pieces of paper may prevent a serious accident. [illustration: three members of a temperance society. by j. f. herring.] if a horse can be used without blinders, he will be more comfortable and can see better where he is going. he is not so likely to be frightened if he can see what is on each side of him. sometimes a horse will not cross water or bridges. it is of no use to whip him; he will only grow more frightened. the best plan is to wait until another horse comes along and goes over the bridge. then the timid one sees that nothing dreadful happens, and he follows quietly. a horse that is frightened in his stall will often refuse to be led out. if his harness is put on him, he rarely objects to following his master. it is often difficult to get a horse out of a burning stable, but if a blanket or cloth is thrown over his head to cover his eyes, he can easily be led away from the fire. in driving a horse, a poor driver often jerks and pulls the reins. this hardens the horse's mouth and makes it difficult to guide him properly. horses learn very readily, and will soon obey their master's voice as quickly as the rein. a horse should not be continually urged when he is doing his best. it only discourages him. he should have a chance to get his breath on reaching the top of a hill before he is started into a faster gait. in hot weather flies are often a torture to a nervous horse. there are several good preparations for sale to rub on horses and cattle to keep off the flies. a fly net is also a great protection. a wet handkerchief, tied over the top of a horse's head, will sometimes prevent prostration from heat. in the south of france horses often wear hats in the summer, when they are in the hot sun. a wet sponge or a cabbage leaf is placed inside. it is a mistake to think that a horse should not drink much water. if the body is over-heated it is always well to wait before drinking a great quantity of cold water, but while exercising, horses as well as men need to drink often. every time a horse has been out, his feet should be carefully lifted and brushed out. if a small stone gets fixed in the hollow part of the foot, it will soon make a horse lame. it is so simple and easy to take out the stones which a horse picks up in this way, that all boys and girls should learn how to do it, as soon as they are old enough. the horse is very sensitive to the sound of the human voice. if the tone is loud and harsh he is frightened and irritated, while he is easily encouraged if it is quiet and friendly. teamsters have a careless habit of shouting at their horses, which is unnecessary and unkind. when a horse is balky see that the harness does not hurt him, and that the load is not too heavy for him to draw. then try some simple encouragement, such as a friendly pat or a lump of sugar. lastly, the over-check rein is the cause of intense pain. the use of this rein is so common that it is well to know how painful and dangerous it is. a horse needs to put his head and neck down in order to draw a load well. the over-check is the direct cause of several diseases, and a horse often becomes knee-sprung from its use. [illustration: natural and comfortable.] it is sometimes said that a horse looks better with his head in the air. does not the horse on the right look quite as well as the other? he certainly seems much more comfortable and happy. [illustration: strained and miserable.] a horse driven with an over-check rein is more likely to fall, as he cannot see what is before him, and when he does stumble, he cannot recover his footing quickly. he can no longer move freely and gracefully, and no doubt he wishes that his master would care more about his comfort and well-being. such a horse looks awkward and ill at ease, and would surely protest for himself if he could. [illustration: mare and colt. by c. steffeck.] catching the colt. with forehead star, and silver tail, and three white feet to match, the gay, half-broken, sorrel colt, which one of us could catch? "i can!" said dick, "i'm good for that"; he slowly shook his empty hat; "she'll think 'tis full of corn," said he; "stand back, and she will come to me." her head the shy, proud creature raised as 'mid the daisy flowers she grazed; then down the hill, across the brook, delaying oft, her way she took; then changed her pace, and, moving quick, she hurried on, and came to dick. "ha! ha!" he cried, "i've caught you, beck": and put the halter round her neck. but soon there came another day, and, eager for a ride, "i'll go and catch the colt again, i can," said dick with pride. so up the stony pasture lane, and up the hill he trudged again; and when he saw the colt, as slow he shook his old hat to and fro, "she'll think 'tis full of corn," he thought, "and i shall have her quickly caught. beck! beck!" he called; and at the sound, the restless beauty looked around, then made a quick, impatient turn, and galloped off among the fern. and when beneath a tree she stopped, and leisurely some clover cropped, dick followed after, but in vain; his hand was just upon her mane, when off she flew, as flies the wind, and, panting, he pressed on behind. down through the brake, the brook across, o'er bushes, thistles, mounds of moss, round and around the place they passed, till breathless, dick sat down at last; threw by, provoked, his empty hat,-- "the colt," he said, "remembers that! there's always trouble from deceit, i'll never try again to cheat." marian douglass. a remarkable horse-trainer. nearly half a century ago, an american, named john rarey, made a name for himself by taming one of the most unruly horses in the world. this horse was named cruiser. he belonged to an english nobleman, and was a race-horse of fine blood. unfortunately he had a bad temper. no groom dared to venture into his stall, and one day, when he had been put into a public stable, it became necessary to take off the roof of the building to get him out. after this he was practically left to himself for three years. his huge bit was loaded with chains, and on his head was a large muzzle, lined inside and out with iron. no wonder that his temper grew worse and worse. when any one came near him he screamed with hate and fury. mr. rarey had already met with such success in taming horses in his own country, that it was decided to let him see what he could do with cruiser. "kindness, fearlessness and patience will subdue him," said the american; "i am not afraid to try." when the time came for the trial, and mr. rarey threw open the door as if there were nothing to fear, cruiser was too much astonished to move. before he had made up his mind what he should do, the "kindness, fearlessness and patience" of mr. rarey were at work. one of cruiser's fore-feet was gently strapped backward in such a way that he could neither run nor kick. by another strap on the off fore-foot it was possible to draw up the other leg, and presently to bring the powerful creature down upon his knees. all the time this was going on, mr. rarey spoke quietly and encouragingly to him, until at last cruiser felt that he had met a master and a friend. in three hours cruiser's owner was able to mount him, and mr. rarey's fortune was made, for the horse was a distinguished individual, whose return to society was hailed with joy. queen victoria expressed her pleasure at cruiser's improvement and frequently came to see him and caress him. cruiser became the property of his tamer, and went with mr. rarey through the principal countries of europe. everywhere throngs came to see him and his still more wonderful master. "my mission," said mr. rarey, "is to teach men that kindness, patience and firmness must be used in the management of horses. they are taught by gentleness and not by harshness." rarey gave free lectures to cabmen and truck-drivers wherever he went, and the crowned heads of europe were glad to share the privilege of hearing and seeing him. horses that had been frightened and angered by ill-usage became, under his treatment, mild and easily governed. the amount of good he accomplished it is not easy to estimate. he died before he was forty years old, but the lesson he taught is not wholly forgotten. just before his death he said: "if i could only get back once more to the old farm, and put my arms round my dear horses' necks, i believe i should get well." the arab to his horse. come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! on my shoulder lay thy glossy head! fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, here's the half of hassan's scanty bread. thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! and thou know'st my water-skin is free: drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, and my strength and safety lie in thee. bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: thou art glad when hassan mounts the saddle,-- thou art proud he owns thee: so am i. let the sultan bring his boasted horses, prancing with their diamond-studded reins; they, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness when they course with thee the desert plains! we have seen damascus, o my beauty! and the splendor of the pashas there; what's their pomp and riches? why, i would not take them for a handful of thy hair! bayard taylor. [illustration: after a painting by sir edwin landseer] "waiting for master." though late the master's voice is heard above, and slowly lag his footsteps on the stair, no hint of weariness to him ascends from those who uncomplaining wait him there. if patience, faithfulness and perfect love are ranked as noble virtues everywhere, may we not claim for these three loyal friends a right in such nobility to share? part ii a group of workers robert's dream. one hot afternoon robert was playing under the maple tree. he was tired of his wagon and his train of cars, and he looked about for something else to play with. "come here, prince!" he said to his dog. "let me put my hat on your head and play that you are a little boy." prince was sleepy and tired. he did not feel like playing that he was a little boy. he shook his head until the hat fell off, and robert struck him with a stick. then the poor dog ran away. under the rose-bush was snowball, the cat, having a good nap. "oh, snowball!" said robert, "i will give you a ride." and he tried to put her into the tiny wagon. snowball did not care to ride. she scratched robert and ran off as fast as she could go. "what a naughty cat!" said robert angrily. "what a naughty boy!" said robert's mamma, who had been watching him from the porch. "it was unkind to disturb prince and snowball as you did. i think you must go and stay by yourself a little while." robert ran upstairs, shut his door very hard, and threw himself upon his bed. it seemed to him that he had been there only a minute when he heard voices. he looked up and found himself in the garden again. near him several dogs and cats were talking. to his surprise he understood what they said. prince was speaking. "i am tired of living here," he said. "my little master does not treat me very well. this morning he took me with him when he went on his bicycle. i was tired out and very hot and thirsty when we came home, but he would not take the trouble to fill my pan of water. i asked him plainly for a drink of water, but he laughed at me and said he was busy." "i scratched him to-day," said snowball. "perhaps that may teach him not to hurt me so often. he lifts me by one paw, and yesterday he swung me about by the tail. i am sure he doesn't know how much he hurts me." "you are a brave cat to dare to scratch him," said a sober little kitten. "we have a baby at our house, and of course i can't scratch a baby. she pulls my fur and puts her fingers in my eyes. the other children catch me when i run away, and give me back to her." "that is very unfair," said a dog who was walking about. "you must excuse me for walking while i talk, but i have been chained so long that i am quite stiff. of course i run away when the chain is taken off. who wouldn't?" "but you have enough to eat," said a thin cat who sat under the tree and who was looking up longingly at the birds. "no one gives me anything to eat until i cry for it. then i am scolded for making such a noise. i should be glad to catch mice, if there were any to be found in our house." "still, you have a home," said a faint voice. "it is something to be thankful for, if you have a place to sleep." all turned to see where the voice came from. a forlorn cat came out timidly from the currant bushes. it made robert's heart ache to look at her. "you had a good home a few weeks ago," said prince, "though i must say i hardly knew you when you came up. do have some of my dinner. i am not hungry myself." "thank you," said the newcomer gratefully. "yes, i had a good home, and the children were kind to me. they have gone to the seashore now, and the house is shut up. they are not coming back for weeks. i don't believe i can live till then. i wish i were dead. i should be thankful if somebody would be kind enough to kill me." her voice died out in a wail of despair. robert's eyes were full of tears, and he began to sob. then he heard his mother say: "why, my boy, what are you dreaming about? wake up, dear. it is almost supper time, and papa is coming up the street." "oh, mother!" said robert, "i have had such a bad dream! i am sure i shall never be cruel to poor snowball again." [illustration: a farm yard] robert on a farm. when robert was ten years old, he spent several weeks on a farm. he had always lived in the city, and he was eager to know something of country life. the farmer, mr. spencer, promised to teach robert all that he could about the animals on the farm. the boy had not been long in his new home before he ran to the barn. there were three cows in the barn and two horses. they looked very comfortable and happy. "what wide stalls they have!" said robert, "and i never saw a cow in a box stall before." "yes," said james, who was milking the cows, "all these stalls are wide enough for the cows and horses to lie down whenever they like. do you see, too, that the animals face the barn, instead of staring at a blank wall all day?" "it must be more fun to look into the barn than at a few boards," said robert, "but i never thought of it before." "they like to watch what is going on," said james, "and they have better air than they would in a close stall." "what delicious milk we had last night!" said robert, stooping to rub clover's head, to her great delight. "our cows give good milk," said james. "mr. spencer makes his cows happy, and he finds that it pays. only last week he sent off a boy because he made the cows run on the way to the pasture. you know that injures the cows and spoils the milk." "do they go to pasture every day?" asked robert. "yes," said mr. spencer, who came into the barn just then. "they go every day in summer, unless there is a heavy rain. some cows take cold easily, and should never be out in a long storm. in winter, when it is not too cold, they have an hour or two in the cow-yard at noon. the barn is warm, and they have a good bedding of straw. in a cold barn, cows should be blanketed in freezing weather." "do cows eat anything but hay and grass?" asked robert. "oh, yes!" said mr. spencer. "cows need a variety in their food, and plenty of water to drink. my cows eat corn-stalks, carrots, mangel- wurzels, and sometimes bran and corn-meal mixed." "how sleek they look!" said robert. "james cards and brushes them every day, to keep them in good condition." "they seem very friendly," robert went on. "clover is not at all afraid of me." "they have never been frightened or hurt," said mr. spencer, "and they are affectionate creatures. cows are often homesick in a new home with a strange master, and they grow to love those who are kind to them. i knew a little boy who tried to comfort a cow for the loss of her calf. she was very unhappy and the boy did all that he could to show how much he pitied her. soon the cow would follow him about the place. when he went away she was lonely, and when he came back she greeted him with evident delight." "is it easy to milk a cow?" asked robert. "it looks easy." mr. spencer laughed. "it is not so simple as it looks," he said, "but james will teach you, if you like. my cows never kick, but if you ever try to milk a cow that kicks, you must be very gentle with her. i have heard that a cloth wrung out in cold water and laid over her loins will keep her quiet when other methods fail." "i will try to remember that," said robert. "cows, like most animals, are kind to one another," said mr. spencer, seeing that robert was interested in the pretty creatures. "i was at work in the barnyard one day when two cows came up the road to the gate. they seemed to be looking for something. [illustration: a group of friends.] "it was a hot, dusty day, and suddenly the thought came to me that they were looking for some water. i opened the gate, and they went at once to the trough by the pump. when i had filled the trough they drank as if they were nearly choked with thirst. "as soon as they were satisfied they went away, but in less than an hour they came back again, bringing three other cows with them. during all the hot weather these cows came to me every day for water. when i found out who their owner was i told him the story. "'i am ashamed to think that my cows had to go away from home to find water to drink,' he said. 'in future i will see that they have fresh water in their own pasture.'" robert feeds the poultry on his way back to the house robert met mrs. spencer carrying a large tin dish full of something which looked like hasty pudding. she turned as she saw robert, and said pleasantly, "do you want to help me feed the chickens?" "i should like it very much, thank you," said robert, and he followed mrs. spencer down behind the barn, where he saw several little houses opening into small hen-yards enclosed with wire netting. "why do you have all these little houses besides your large hen-house?" asked robert. "these little yards give the hens a chance to move about and scratch for their chickens. the old slat-coops were not half so comfortable as these. it is better, too, that the little chickens should be kept by themselves. they need to be fed often, and they cannot eat what the older ones like. in this way each brood is kept with its mother." "will you let me feed them?" asked robert. [illustration: hen and chickens.] "yes," said mrs. spencer. "you may put a large spoonful into every yard. it is better to give them a little at a time; then the food does not stay on the ground and get dirty and sour." "what is this i am giving them?" asked robert as the chickens ran and clustered round the food. "they seem to like it." "it is indian meal, thoroughly scalded," said mrs. spencer. "raw or slightly scalded meal is likely to do them harm." "isn't it fun to watch them!" said robert. "what else do chickens eat?" "they eat a variety of things. the first food i gave these little chicks was stale bread-crumbs wet in warm water, and i mixed with that the yolk of one hard-boiled egg. oatmeal would have been just as good as the bread-crumbs. i always keep a dish of fresh water, too, in their yard." "what nice little houses you have for them!" "they are good little houses, tight enough to keep out the rain and draughts, for hens and chickens must be kept warm and dry. it is important, too, that their houses and yards and nests should be very clean." "my uncle said it was too much trouble to keep hens, and he sold his because they did not lay many eggs," said robert. "it is a great mistake to think that we can keep animals of any kind without some trouble. the horse, the cow, the dog, the cat, the pigs and hens, all need patient, thoughtful attention. "if they are to be well and happy, and do the work for us that we demand of them, we must feed them well and wisely, keep them clean, give them fresh water every day, and a comfortable place to sleep in. "unless we are willing to do this, we have no right to keep for our pleasure any living creature. it is selfish to expect them to do all they can for us, when we give them as little as we can in return." while mrs. spencer was saying this, robert had finished feeding the chickens, and he was sitting on the grass in front of one yard admiring a white hen with ten lovely white chickens. "i think these are the prettiest little chickens i ever saw," he said, "and their mother seems very proud of them. is the mother hen always fond of her chickens?" "almost always," mrs. spencer replied, "but this white hen you admire so much is a queer creature. if her chickens are not all white, she will not own them. "we found it out in a strange way. in her last brood all the chickens were white but one. she was not kind to this one when it was little, and as it grew older she seemed to like it less and less. "one day james saw her drive it away when the other chickens were going to bed under her wings at night, but he thought she would let it in to its shelter when the chickens she liked best were safe. the next morning when james went out to milk the cows, he had a great surprise. "a half-grown kitten, which had come to us, was waiting to go into the barn with him and get the breakfast which james always gave it when he had milked. in company with this kitten was the poor little chicken that had been driven away by the hen." "that was very strange!" said robert. "we thought so," answered mrs. spencer. "after this the kitten and the chicken became fast friends. they ate together, and slept together in the barn, and seemed very fond of each other." "did you ever know of another cat that was friendly with a hen or a chicken?" asked robert. "yes. i remember that a cat which had been deserted, and had grown very wild, made friends with our hens. he often used to be seen feeding with them in the barnyard." "i wonder the hens were not afraid of him." "they seemed really to pity him and never tried to drive him away. at first, and for a long time, the cat was so wild he would not let any of the family come near him. i think he had been ill-treated. at last he learned that we were his friends, and he became very fond of us. we kept him until he died of old age." "that speckled hen with eleven chickens looks gentle," said robert. "she is brave, too," said mrs. spencer. "last summer, when she was roaming about with a brood of chickens, a large dog came into the yard through the gate, which happened to be open. "the brave mother hen flew at him and came down on his back. she clung to him and pecked him with her sharp bill, until he ran howling out of the yard with the hen on his back." "how far did she go with him?" "she flew off as soon as he was fairly out of the yard and came clucking back to her chickens, her feathers all bristled up, as proud a hen as i ever saw. she is very fond of me. just see this!" mrs. spencer opened the door of the little house and called the speckled hen, who ran out clucking and calling her chickens after her. the whole brood crowded themselves into mrs. spencer's lap, as she sat on the grass beside the house. robert laughed merrily. "that is the funniest thing i ever saw a hen do!" "i never before had one that would get into my lap," said mrs. spencer, "though my hens often eat out of my hand." "i thought hens were too stupid to care for any one," said robert. "i believe it is possible to win the affection of any creature we have under our care," said mrs. spencer. [illustration: a happy family.] how to feed and care for hens. "do you give meat to the hens?" asked robert. "they do not need meat in summer," said mrs. spencer, "because they catch bugs and grasshoppers. in the winter, if it seems to be necessary, it is possible to buy animal food that is prepared for the purpose. "i give them potato peelings, or small potatoes mixed with some kind of meal, and in winter i always warm their food before i give it to them. a very good supper is whole grain, but in the morning it is better to give them soft food. "they must have lime in some shape to form the eggshells. i give my hens burnt oyster shells, pounded fine, or clam shells. all the year they need some kind of green food; if they do not have this they are very likely to be sick." "what do you mean by giving them green food?" asked robert. "you cannot get grass in winter." "that is true," said mrs. spencer, "but you can give them cabbage, which they like very much, or cooked vegetables. in the spring and summer they will enjoy the fresh clover. when they are allowed to have free range, they eat grasshoppers and crickets and do not need meat. "all fowls must have some kind of grit with their grain food. crushed stone, which can be bought, will supply this need. fowls must have clean straw for their nests, and dry earth and plaster or lime must be put on the floor of the hen-house under the roosts. it is important also to sprinkle dry sulphur in the nests once in a while, to keep insects away. "they like dry earth for their dust bath. did you ever see a hen lying down in the dust, and throwing it all over herself? she enjoys this just as much as you enjoy going into the salt water, and she needs it as much as you need your bath." "i should think a hen would find it hard to know her own chickens." "oh, no! the youngest chicken knows the voice of its mother, and the mother can tell the difference between the cry of her chickens and the voices of those which do not belong to her. "it is interesting, also, to watch the rooster care for the hens. when he finds something particularly good, he calls them all around him, and often he will not eat a morsel until he sees that they are satisfied. "of course there are greedy roosters sometimes, as well as greedy boys and girls, but usually the rooster is good to the hens. "some thoughtless farmers carry live fowls with their heads hanging down. this is very cruel. think how you would like being carried in that way. it is cruel also to crowd them into little hampers when they have to be carried to market. "fowls cannot be healthy if kept on the same ground year after year, for the earth becomes poisoned. they should be moved to new ground every year, and the soil occupied the year before used to grow grain, grass, and vegetables; then the fowls could be returned. unless a movable coop is used it is a good plan to move the yard from one side of the hen- house to the other. if the fowls are diseased either through being kept on poisoned ground or as a result of crowding in taking them to market, their flesh cannot be wholesome for food. "fowls are sensitive, timid creatures, and should be treated with kindness. if one cannot take good care of them, it is far better to give up keeping hens and chickens." robert visits the pigs. "can i help you about anything this morning?" asked robert of james, as he strolled out into the barnyard after breakfast. "i am going to feed the pigs," said james. "you may go with me if you like." robert did not seem very much pleased with this invitation, and, as james looked surprised, he said: "i do not like pigs, they are so dirty. besides, they are always squealing, and they live in such a disagreeable place under the barn." james smiled. "come with me and see our pigs," he said; "perhaps you will like them better than you think." james had a large wheelbarrow with him, and on the way he stopped in a fine field of clover and cut enough of it to fill the wheelbarrow to the very top. robert helped him pile up the clover, and he would have liked to wheel the barrow, but it was too heavy for him. they passed on into another field where robert saw a row of little houses. each little house had a yard inclosed by a board fence, which was not too high for robert to look over. in the first yard was a fine, large sow and six clean little pigs, four of them white, and the other two black and white. they were frisking around their mother and playing almost as prettily as young puppies. there was space enough in the yard to give them plenty of room for their frolic. robert was so delighted with them that he wanted to feed them, and james let him put an armful of the sweet clover into the yard. "i have fed them once this morning," said james. "they had their regular breakfast before i had mine, which was very early." robert went on to the next yard where a large hog was lying contentedly in the sun. he gave a cheerful grunt as if to say "thank you," when james threw some clover over the fence. "here, old fellow, are some acorns!" said james, as he took a handful from his pocket and flung them over into the clover pile. "that's right. hunt them up!" robert laughed to see what a good time the hog was having. as he went on he saw that all the yards were clean and so were the pigs. there was a trough of fresh water in each yard, and another trough for the food. "i thought all pigs were dirty," said robert. "no, indeed!" said james. "they like to be clean and to have room to run about. they need to root in the earth and roll in the mud, but they prefer clean earth and clean mud to the filthy stuff they often get." "there's a great difference in mud," said robert, in such a wise way that james laughed. "pigs like sunshine, too," said he, "and when you have seen me give them a bath you will never say again that they like to be dirty. we wash them and brush them with a stiff brush, and they think it great fun." "do they eat anything but scraps from the kitchen?" was robert's next question. "of course," said james. "they have milk, beets, potatoes, a little grain, with plenty of hay, and green or dry clover. i don't give them much corn because it makes them too fat. in those small troughs i keep a mixture of clay, salt, ashes, and charcoal so that the pigs can reach it easily. in winter i always warm their food for them and take great pains to keep their bedding warm and dry. i am not allowed to give them any food which isn't sweet and fresh. if i were careless about it i should lose my place directly. mr. spencer made me understand that when i came. he said that a dirty pig-pen was a disgrace to a farmer and a danger to the neighborhood." "these pigs look as if they knew you," said robert. "do you think they do?" "i know they do," said james. "they are as bright as any of the other animals i take care of. don't you know the old welsh saying, 'happy is the man who is as wise as a pig'? when they are stupid it is because they have been ill-treated. if we lived in a dark, damp hole under a barn we might look a little dull, sometimes. don't you think so, robert?" a morning's drive. one beautiful morning, when robert had been at the farm nearly a week, mr. spencer invited him to take a drive to the sheep-pasture. there was a large basket in the buggy. "i am taking a little treat to my sheep," said mr. spencer. "once a week i carry them some chopped carrots and turnips." it was only a short drive to the sheep-pasture. as robert and mr. spencer went through the gate the sheep came running to meet their master. they were fine, fat creatures, and so tame that robert could stroke their woolly heads and soft noses. the pasture was well fenced in, and four horses were near the fence, under a large tree. three of them came up to share the carrots and to hunt in mr. spencer's pockets for lumps of sugar. the fourth horse did not move from where he was lying. "are these your horses?" asked robert. "only one is mine," said mr. spencer. "the others belong to a wise friend of ours who gives his horses a vacation in the summer. did you ever think how many horses work all their lives without any rest worth mentioning?" "no," said robert slowly. "i never thought of it before. it does seem hard that they shouldn't have a vacation sometimes." "it seems hard that they cannot be sure of a rest on sunday, at least," said mr. spencer. "some horses work all the week, and are then driven for miles on sunday." "yes," said robert. "we often see tired horses taking heavy wagonloads of people to the beach." "horses need to rest one day in seven," said mr. spencer. "when horse- cars were used in new york, it was found that no horse could do good work unless he had a day of rest once a week. a horse is not a machine. he suffers just as we do with hunger, thirst, and fatigue. sometimes he needs a dentist or a doctor, just as we do." as mr. spencer talked he was walking toward the white horse under the tree. the horse got up stiffly and slowly, and rubbed his nose against mr. spencer's shoulder. "oh, what a wretched-looking old horse!" said robert. "he doesn't belong to you, does he?" mr. spencer patted the horse's neck and gave him a few lumps of sugar. "this horse isn't old," he said, "but he is worn out with hard work and abuse. he doesn't look like my other horses, does he?" "no, indeed!" said robert. "how did you happen to own him?" "a few years ago," said mr. spencer, "he was a fine young horse. he belonged to a man i knew who thought little of the comfort of the animals in his care. i doubt very much if this poor horse ever wore a blanket in cold weather, and i know that many a time a frosty bit was put into his mouth." "does a bit need to be warmed?" asked robert. "oh, no!" said mr. spencer. "if it is held in cold water a few minutes the frost will come out of it, and there will be no danger of making the horse's mouth sore. the owner of this horse would never have taken the trouble to do that. his one thought was to be in the fashion. so he had poor whitey's coat clipped, bought a curb-bit for him, and cut off his long tail." "what a cruel man!" said robert warmly. "there are many others like him," said mr. spencer. "they do not see how helpless a horse is when his head is drawn back with an over-check or hurt by a curb-bit and when he has no chance to drive away the flies that torment him. to cut off a horse's tail not only hurts him very much at the time, but makes him miserable afterwards." "if i were a horse and were treated like that, i'd run away," said robert. "that is just what old whitey did," said mr. spencer. "he ran away. then his owner sold him to a grocer." "our grocer is very good to his horses," said robert. "i hope this one was, too." "no," said mr. spencer. "poor whitey grew more and more miserable. the boys who drove the wagon whipped him and teased him. they cared little whether or not he had a good dinner, and water to drink, and time to rest at noon. at night they often forgot to rub him down, and sometimes, after a long, hard day's work, he went without his supper." "that was mean!" robert's voice quivered with indignation. "one day last march," went on mr. spencer, "i saw the poor fellow standing in the cold wind and rain, with no blanket on. his head was down and he was shivering with cold. i could hardly believe that it was the same horse i had known a few years ago. to make a long story short, i bought him for a small sum and took him to a stable near by. there i saw him well rubbed down and fed with warm bran-mash. after a few days i brought him out here. he is very happy and comfortable, but it will take him all summer to get well. he can do only light work for the rest of his life." "does he need any food but hay and grass?" robert asked, as he held out a handful of sweet clover to whitey. "if he were working, he should have plenty of oats," said the farmer; "and all horses need a bran-mash once a week, at least." "will his tail ever grow again?" asked robert. "no," said mr. spencer," but i rub him with an ointment which the flies do not like. i use it for all my horses and cows." "i wish i could buy all the worn-out horses in the world and send them here," said robert. mr. spencer laughed. "i should need a big pasture," he said. "see the sheep in the brook, robert! they enjoy running water as much as the cows and horses do." "do sheep need much care?" asked robert, who found farm life very interesting. "they need to be protected from stray dogs and to have a shelter from the cold and storms. otherwise they give very little trouble. they should always keep their warm wool coats until the cold spring winds are over. some farmers are very thoughtless about this, and their sheep and lambs suffer and die from cold. it would make your heart ache to see, as i have often seen, the little dead lambs in the bleak pastures." "i'll remember that, when i have my farm," said robert, with ready sympathy. "i'll have my sheep keep their coats on, just as i wear my reefer, until it is warm." the air-gun on the way home from the sheep-pasture, mr. spencer saw a boy by the side of the road with an air-gun in his hands. "there is frank weston shooting birds," he said, stopping his horse. "what are you shooting, frank?" "english sparrows, mr. spencer," said the boy, coming forward. "my father said i might shoot all i could find. there's one, now." "you are mistaken," said mr. spencer quietly. "that is a song sparrow and a native of our fields." "oh, yes, so it is!" said the boy carelessly. "but there are plenty of english sparrows. i shot five yesterday. they do ever so much harm, mr. spencer." "they certainly do some good, also," said the farmer. "they eat cankerworms and other harmful insects. they are said to devour that troublesome pest, the tree caterpillar, which no other bird will touch." frank looked thoughtful for a minute. then he said: "a boy wants to have some fun with his gun." "it seems to me," said the farmer, "that it would be more fun to shoot at a mark than to give pain to some living creature. but a gun is a poor toy, at the best, frank. ask your father for a good pair of opera- glasses, and study the birds instead of killing them. we know very little yet about any of them. see if you can't bring me a bit of news about some of our feathered neighbors before the summer is over. i'm a real bird-gossip, you know, and i'm always anxious to hear of what is going on in their homes." "all right, sir," said frank, smiling into his friend's kindly eyes. "i'm afraid it will be hard work to find out anything that you don't know already, but i'll try." mr. spencer drove on for a few minutes in silence. "i never could understand why boys are always trying to hit something," he said at last. "when they haven't an air-gun, they throw stones and snowballs. i could tell you of some serious accidents from stone- throwing. a little friend of mine was killed by falling from a horse which had been frightened by a snowball. it is disgraceful that there should be no strict laws to forbid that kind of play." robert's cheeks and ears were beginning to burn. "father won't give me an air-gun," he said, presently. "he says it will make me hard-hearted to kill anything--even english sparrows. but i thought all boys threw snowballs." "perhaps they do," said mr. spencer. "i wish they could know some of the risks they run and the pain they give. i have seen little girls come home from school, crying and hurt, and i knew they had been snowballed." "they were pretty mean boys who did that," began robert. "we don't throw snowballs at girls." "tired old men and hard-working horses and other busy workers are not much better targets," said mr. spencer, and again robert's cheeks flamed. "perhaps, however, your snowballs always go just where you intend to have them. that makes it safer, of course." the farmer's tone was so polite that robert looked up suspiciously. there was a twinkle in the kind, gray eyes. "now, robert," said mr. spencer, good-humoredly, "you have heard me preach a good many sermons since you came. let me tell you just one thing to remember. don't do anything, to any living creature, which you wouldn't enjoy if you were in its place." "why, that's the golden rule," said robert. "i know it," said the farmer, as he drove into the clean, pleasant yard, "but i never heard that the golden rule wouldn't work wherever it was tried." april song. now willows have their pussies, now ferns in meadow lands hold little downy leaflets, like clinging baby hands. like rosy baby fingers show oak-leaves 'gainst the blue; the little ones of nature are ev'rywhere in view. there's purring in a sunbeam where tabby's babies play. the hen is softly brooding, her chickens came to-day. up in the crimson maple the mother robin sings; the world is full of caring for little helpless things. mary e. wilkins. from "songs of happy life," by permission of publishers. earthworms and snakes. the little earthworm, crawling across the garden path or burrowing its way into the loose soil, seems very common and insignificant, but it is a most useful servant to man. without the earthworms it would be difficult for us to live. it is by their help that grass grows for the cattle, and the garden yields food for our own use. long before any one thought of making a plough, the hard lumps of earth were broken up by the slender bodies of the earthworms. these worms have no eyes or feelers or feet, but they have, on each ring of their bodies, four pairs of bristles, which aid them in making their way through the earth. air is let into the soil through the holes that the worms make, and the moisture is drained away. thus the roots of the plants are kept in good condition. worms are useful in another way. they can make poor soil into rich mould. this they do by swallowing earth and dried leaves. after passing through the body of the worm, the earth is cast up in little heaps, which are soon scattered by the wind and rain. hundreds of these "casts" may be seen in any large garden, and thus the whole surface is constantly changing. in this way fields which were unfit for crops of any kind are made ready for the farmer's use. in some places it has been found that ten tons of dry earth on every acre are made into good soil each year by the worms. no gardener can prepare fine mould for plants so well as the worms can do it, and no farmer can so carefully make ready his fields. there are some creatures which are commonly disliked and avoided because they are not attractive to look at. often this is a mere prejudice against them, and careful study reveals a beauty not noticed before. there is a very general and absurd feeling against snakes which is the cause of much unnecessary suffering. this fear is so common that for many children and grown people a walk in the woods and fields loses half its pleasure. most of our common snakes are harmless and are useful in destroying insects. instead of shuddering with horror at the little green snake, watch him as carefully as you can. soon you will begin to wonder how he can go so fast, what he eats, and where he makes his home. you will find that he is not at all like the earthworm. he belongs to a very different class of animals, but he is as innocent as the worm of any wish to do you harm. he prefers to be left to himself in the long grass, but you may be sure if he should glide over your feet, or across your hand, he would not hurt you at all. humanity. turn, turn thy hasty foot aside, nor crush that helpless worm! the frame thy wayward looks deride required a god to form. the common lord of all that move, from whom thy being flowed, a portion of his boundless love on that poor worm bestowed. let them enjoy their little day, their humble bliss receive; oh! do not lightly take away the life thou canst not give! t. gisborne. ants, bees, and wasps. ants, bees, and wasps belong to the same family of insects. the ant, to begin with the smallest, is a good proof that size has little to do with intelligence. these little people, as king solomon said of them long ago, "are exceeding wise." a long chapter might be filled with an account of the wonderful things they do. in this country there are ants who are farmers. they plant their fields, keep them carefully weeded, and gather each year the seed for the new crops. they make roads, build bridges, and fashion wonderful houses with underground storerooms and galleries. if their harvest gets wet, it is brought out to dry on the first sunny day, and then carried back again with the greatest pains. other ants are master-builders and make elaborate houses of more than forty stories. these houses are made of bits of stick and straw. some ants are soldiers, others are gardeners, while still others are famous bridge-builders. the red ants make slaves of black ants and become very dependent upon the faithfulness and industry of their servants. many ants keep as cows the small green plant-lice on the rose-bushes. these tiny green cows fill themselves full of a sweet juice which they make from the plant-leaf. the little people like the sweet juice and have found out that they can get it by stroking the cows. so they keep herds of fat cattle and often mount guard round the branch or tree where their cows are feeding. ants have a keen sense of smell and a wonderful way of talking to each other by touching their antennae. they must have a complete set of signals, for they are able to carry on a long conversation. how do we know so much about them? wise men have spent years in studying their ways. there was a blind swiss naturalist, named huber, who, with the aid of his servant, was able to learn more of ants and their doings than any one had dreamed of before. it was huber who found out that ants go to war and make slaves. in england another famous observer noticed that ants knew and welcomed each other after ten and twelve months of separation. it would be interesting to know what the ants think of us, who in some ways are no wiser than themselves. how blundering and clumsy we must seem when with careless feet we crush millions of the innocent dwellers in their underground cities! surely we might try not to disturb the little people in the wonderful homes they have made. bees and wasps are cousins of the ants. they have four wings, the front pair being the larger. in flight the two wings on each side are hooked together so as to form one broad wing. we all know how helpful bees are to us. they lay up enough honey to feed themselves through the winter, and we think this a very desirable addition to our own table. the wax they make for their houses is useful to us in more ways than one. but they help us in another way, which is still more curious and interesting. while the bee is burrowing for honey in the heart of some deep blossom, the yellow flower-dust, or pollen, sticks to its hairy body and legs. when it flies to the next flower, some of this dust is brushed off and falls in the right place to make the seeds in that flower grow. so, without knowing it, the bee is helping us in our gardening. some plants would never bear fruit if the bees did not carry the pollen from one flower to another. next to the ants, the bees are the most intelligent insects we know. they make wax houses of beautiful shapeliness, and they rear their little ones with great wisdom and care. there is always a queen bee, and no real princess is more royally tended than are the princess bees. they are fed on different food from that of the other babies, and the royal cradles are of the finest quality. should all the princesses die, one of the common bees is put into the royal cradle and fed upon the dainty food, and she often makes quite as good a queen as if she were born in the purple. bees seldom sting if they are let alone. they are easily frightened by a sudden movement and will try to defend themselves. if a bee alights by mistake on your hand or face, it will soon fly away without hurting you if you can keep quite still. as a rule, they are good-tempered and harmless. wasps have not earned for themselves a reputation for good-nature or thrift. they have never learned to store up honey, and every winter many of them freeze to death in their elegant paper houses. it is considered wise not to handle a wasp, lest his feelings, which are easily ruffled, get the better of him. but there is room to admire his good looks, his skill in house-building, and his sturdy pluck and courage. [illustration: paper-makers.] wasps do much good in the garden by destroying grubs and caterpillars, and they are quite willing to take their wages in overripe fruit at the end of the season. a little black slave. i am going to tell you about a little slave who lived in france. her name was alerta, and she was a tiny black ant. not far from paris there lived a colony of red ants--great lazy fellows who would not work and who would hardly find food for themselves. they thought that a set of slaves would help them very much. "if we had slaves," they said, "we should not have to milk our cows or take care of our children." so one fine morning they set out to conquer some weaker colony and make slaves of the prisoners of war. it was not long before they came upon a nest of black ants. "these are good workers," said the lazy red ants. "they will make good servants." so they fell upon the nests and carried off all the baby ants. "we could never carry the older ones so far," said the red ants, "but these children will grow up before long." this was true. soon alerta was a fine, strong young ant. one morning her mistress tapped her on the shoulder. "do get me some food, please," said she. "what would you like, and where shall i get it?" asked alerta briskly. she was glad to have something to do. "oh, run outside," said the red ant, "and you will find our cows grazing on a rose-bush near the door." alerta ran up the narrow winding passage-way and came out in the warm sunlight. numbers of slaves were running about, but they were all so busy that alerta did not like to stop them. at last, however, she saw one of them approach a small green insect which was clinging to a leaf, and tap it gently. a big drop of honey came out of the little insect, and the ant passed on to another. "those must be the cows," thought alerta, and she hastened to follow her companion's example. she found that the honey was very sweet and delicious. soon she had a good supply for her hungry mistress and was about to return to the nest, when she met another servant. "where are you going?" asked alerta. "i am head-nurse in a large family of children," said the other slave. "they need all my time and attention. i mustn't stop to talk, thank you," and she hurried on. "i wonder," thought alerta, "what would become of the red ants if it were not for us. they seem to be a very helpless people." then she went back to her mistress. "now," said the red ant, when she had eaten all she wanted, "please carry me to bed." "i wonder if i can lift her," thought alerta doubtfully, as she looked at her heavy companion. "still, i can try." so, with many stumbles and stops, and a great deal of panting, she bore the large ant to the place she pointed out as her bedroom. "that will do," said the sleepy lady. "now go and give the children a bath, and as soon as the sun is warmer, carry them up into the air." alerta ran off to find the nursery. the soldiers were on guard at the door, but they let her go by when she told them her errand. some of the babies were being fed, while others were already on their way upstairs. alerta was about to pick up one of the children when a cry came from above. "take the children down at once. it is going to rain!" down the passage-way swarmed a crowd of nurses with their charges. "no," cried another voice, "it is not rain. some one is flooding our house." great was the terror of the hard-working nurses. "can we get the children to a safe place?" was their first thought. "what shall i do?" cried alerta. she was thoroughly frightened. "your first duty is to the children," said an older ant. "you see that not one of us is looking out for herself. but i think we shall be able to stay here after all. see! the water is going down." at this moment a stern voice was heard outside. it was the first time that alerta had heard human speech, but she understood every word. "what a mean, cruel thing to do!" it said. "were the ants doing any harm to you? in future, remember that you are never to hurt or frighten any creature, even the smallest of them, for your own poor pleasure or amusement. i am ashamed of you, my son." "now we are safe," said the ants joyfully. "let us go on with our work. this is a great day for us. that boy will not harm us again." adapted from an english story. a butterfly's wing. when a great green worm crawls across our path, we shrink with disgust because we are too ignorant to see its real beauty. but when, after a few weeks, a gorgeous creature is seen waving its exquisite wings in the summer twilight, we all are ready to admire the caterpillar in its new dress. moths and butterflies are among the loveliest things living. moths fly at night, spread their wings when resting, and have no knobs at the ends of their antennae. butterflies love the sunshine and fold their wings over their backs when at rest. their antennae are thickened at the ends. to some people, catching butterflies seems a harmless sport, especially if the pretty creature is soon released and allowed to flutter away in the sunshine. those who have studied them, however, say that much suffering is caused in this way. on the surface of the wing are soft, tiny feathers, set row upon row like shingles on a house. there are over two million feathers on each wing. when the butterfly is held in hot, hasty hands, these feathers are rubbed off and do not grow again. it is very much as if we should have our teeth pulled out, or our hair torn out by the roots. when we think of the shock and pain, and of the helplessness that will surely follow, catching butterflies no longer seems an innocent pleasure. to a butterfly. poor harmless insect, thither fly, and life's short hour enjoy; 'tis all thou hast, and why should i that little all destroy? why should my tyrant will suspend a life by wisdom giv'n, or sooner bid thy being end than was designed by heav'n? to bask upon the sunny bed, the damask flowers to kiss, to range along the bending shade is all thy life of bliss. then flutter still thy silken wings, in rich embroidery drest, and sport upon the gale that flings sweet odors from his vest. jane taylor. cunning bee. said a little wandering maiden to a bee with honey laden, "bee, at all the flowers you work, yet in some does poison lurk." "that i know, my little maiden," said the bee with honey laden; "but the poison i forsake, and the honey only take." "cunning bee with honey laden, that is right," replied the maiden; "so will i, from all i meet, only draw the good and sweet." anon. grasshopper and cricket. the poetry of earth is never dead! when all the birds are faint with the hot sun, and hide in cooling trees, a voice will run from hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; that is the grasshopper's, he takes the lead in summer luxury; he has never done with his delights, for when tired out with fun he rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. the poetry of earth is ceasing never: on a lone winter evening, when the frost has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills the cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever; and seems to one in drowsiness half lost the grasshopper's among some grassy hills john keats patient weavers. is a spider an insect? if you have thought so, you have been mistaken. insects are made up of three distinct parts; they always have six legs, and they breathe through air-tubes along the sides of their bodies. spiders breathe through lungs as we do. their bodies are in two sections, and instead of six legs they have eight. they have six or eight eyes on the top of the head. the spider spins from her body a silk so fine that we can scarcely see it, of which she makes a web as carefully measured as if she had a foot rule. in fact, she has a useful pair of compasses in the shape of claws at the ends of her fore legs. the spider is one of the most industrious, cleanly, and patient workers in the world. more than six hundred separate strands go to make one slender thread of her web. she can choose, moreover, whether she will spin a fine or coarse, a dry or spangled thread for the particular work she has in hand. in an hour a spider will make a web more than half a yard across, and of a strength wonderful in proportion to its size. steel wire of the same thickness as a spider's thread would be less than two-thirds as strong. the spider is a devoted mother, and will die with her little ones rather than leave them. some kinds of spiders carry their babies about with them, while others fasten their cradles to a crevice in the wall. spiders are very useful to us in destroying the flies and troublesome insects that annoy us. though spiders are often called cruel, they never torture their victims, but kill them at once by means of a poisonous fluid which is said to deaden pain. one day when the scotch king, robert bruce, lay sick and discouraged in a lonely shed, he watched the patient efforts of a spider to repair its web. six times she tried to throw the frail thread from one beam to another, and six times she failed. "six times have i been beaten in battle," said bruce. "i know how to pity that poor spider." but the spider was not discouraged. a seventh time she flung her thread, and this time she succeeded in fastening it to the beam. bruce sprang to his feet. "i will try once more," he said, and went forth to victory. since that day, the story goes, no member of the family of bruce will injure a spider. the woodmouse. do you know the little woodmouse, that pretty little thing, that sits among the forest leaves, or by the forest spring? its fur is red like the chestnut, and it is small and slim, it leads a life most innocent, within the forest dim. it makes a bed of the soft, dry moss, in a hole that's deep and strong, and there it sleeps secure and warm, the dreary winter long; and though it keeps no calendar, it knows when flowers are springing, and it waketh to its summer life, when nightingales are singing. mary howitt. a mouse's story. men call me a thief. i wonder if they are right. i used to live in the fields, and i found nuts and acorns in the woods for my little family. then a man came. he dug up my field and planted his own crops. he destroyed my home and killed my little children. he said that the nuts were his, and the field, too, was his. i thought they were mine. now i have to live on what i can find near his house. i am sure i eat a great deal that he would not care for. usually i am half-starved. it seems to me as if the world were big enough for me to have a corner of it in peace. i dare say the man thinks that he is wholly in the right. he says i am very troublesome, and he sets a trap every night to catch me. one night i was caught by the paw, and held for hours in an agony of fright and pain. i have been lame ever since. he would have been kinder if he had killed me outright. there is another dreadful trap which does not hurt at all at first, and it is often used for this reason. there is a little door which opens easily, and you find yourself in a wire house. there you starve to death, unless some one comes to drown you. if we are to be caught in traps, i wish that we might be put out of pain at once. wise rats. rats are clever and intelligent, and in their way are very useful. in large cities they eat the garbage which collects in harbors and at the mouths of drains. this would cause sickness if it were not removed. although the rat's work takes him into the foulest places, he always keeps himself neat and tidy. to wash his coat he uses his tongue and paws in the same way that a cat uses hers, and he invariably takes such a bath after he has been eating or working. rats are disliked and hunted by men, yet they often shield our homes from the danger of disease. when rats infest a place it is proof that there is work for them to do, and though they may easily become a plague, we should remember that it was probably our own carelessness which first brought them. the intelligence shown by rats is remarkable. they have frequently been known to carry eggs up and down stairs in their paws; one rat pushing the egg and others receiving it. it happened, one day, that a trap was set and carefully watched. a young rat was about to step upon the fatal spring, when the watcher saw an old rat rush to the rescue. the little one was seized by the tail and promptly dragged off to his hole. probably he was told to be less reckless in future. rats have great courage and devotion, as many stories prove. once, when some rats were being driven from a ship, a young rat was seen carefully making its way along a rope, with an old and feeble rat upon its back. it shrank from the stick in a seaman's hand, and it might easily have saved its own life if it had been willing to leave its companion. instead of running away, however, it went on bravely and carefully in the face of danger. the gallant animal was allowed to reach a place of safety, amid the cheers of the crew, who knew how to appreciate such devotion and sacrifice. rats are said to become warmly attached to the friends who care for them. a minister had a pet rat which liked to sit on his desk. one day, having poked its nose into the ink-bottle, the rat was in evident discomfort in consequence. the minister went for a saucer of water, saying, "there, wash your face!" the neat little fellow carefully scrubbed its inky nose, first with one paw and then with the other, holding up at last a clean and satisfied face for its friend's inspection. while rats may be useful and brave and wise, they are not good housemates. cleanliness and care, however, are usually sufficient to keep them out of houses and storerooms, and a good cat makes an excellent policeman. in our wish to be rid of the company of the rats there is no excuse for treating them with cruelty. the squirrel's story. do you know who planted that little butternut tree in the field? i planted it; i, a tiny gray squirrel. to tell the truth, i did not think of setting out a tree when i dropped my nut in the ground. i meant to leave it in a safe place until i was ready to eat it, and i forgot where it was. the first thing i knew it was sending up a fine green shoot through the loose earth. i suppose you think i steal your nuts. please remember that i plant nut trees, too. that ought to be put down to my credit. i have a very pleasant home, high up in a large elm tree. it is carefully hidden so that the boys may not see it. that is the most important thing to think of in building a house. my house is made of the smallest twigs, of dry grass, and of straw that i found in the field. i built it near a house where all the family are kind to me. the children feed me with apples and nuts. i have had some happy days in my life, but i have had some sad ones, too. the saddest days were when i lost my two little children. the brightest child i ever had was chippy. he liked to ask questions and look at every new thing he saw. this was all very well if he had been a little more careful. one day when i was away, chippy saw a box under the tree. down he went to see what was in the box. of course you know what happened. chippy was caught in a trap. [illustration: little freehold. by s. j. carter.] the boy who had set the trap carried chippy home and put him in a cage. he was kind to the little fellow and gave him fruit and nuts to eat. still chippy was not happy. he longed for the green trees and a frolic in the open fields. for several days after chippy was caught, i was very unhappy, but i tried to be cheerful for the sake of my dear little bushy tail. then i lost this little one in a way that is almost too sad to think of. bushy tail was playing in a tree one day, running up and down and jumping from limb to limb, when some boys saw him among the green leaves. they began at once to stone him. poor little bushy tail ran up the tree as far as he could, but at last a stone hit him. for a minute he clung trembling to the branch, and i hoped he was not hurt, but another stone struck him and he fell. the boys shouted when they saw him fall, but a little girl ran and picked him up so gently that i have loved her ever since that day. i was his mother, but i could not help him. she carried him to a house near by and put him in a box filled with soft grass, but the little fellow was badly hurt. three days later i saw her bury him in her little garden, and i knew his pain was over. i went home feeling that i could never be happy again, but a great surprise was in store for me. when i had climbed up to my nest, there sat chippy, safe and sound. "my dearest chippy, how did you get out of the cage?" i asked. "frank let me out," said the joyful chippy. "he was watching me this morning, and at last he said, 'chippy, i don't believe i should like to run in a wheel if i had been used to running in trees. i think those wires must make your feet sore. i am sure i should like my own home better than this dull cage. chippy, old fellow, i am going to let you out.' "didn't i run! i forgot to say 'thank you,' i was so happy, but i think he knew how glad i was." forbearance. hast thou named all the birds without a gun? loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? at rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? and loved so well a high behavior, in man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, nobility more nobly to repay? o, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! ralph waldo emerson. the steel trap. in a little village in the northwestern part of america there once lived a boy named amos hunt. in that part of the country the trade in furs is extensively carried on, and amos frequently caught some of the smaller wild animals in his steel traps. one morning, early in the winter, amos went into the woods to look at two of his traps. as he came near the first one, he saw that a fine mountain mink was caught in it. the poor creature was struggling to escape, but the teeth of the trap held its leg so firmly that the more it tried to get away, the more cruelly its flesh was torn. amos ran toward the trap, when suddenly his foot slipped, and he was thrown violently to the ground. he felt a sharp pain in his ankle, which was held fast so that he could not move. he was caught in the other trap, which, in his excitement, he had forgotten. he was not frightened at first, for he thought he could easily set himself free, but the chain would not yield an inch. soon his ankle began to swell, causing him the most intense pain when he tried to move. the teeth of the trap pressed closer and closer into the aching flesh, and he knew that he could only wait for help to come to him. not far from where he lay was the mink, suffering similar agony, and after struggling in vain to set himself free amos watched the frightened, trembling little creature. it panted with terror, uttering now and then low moans of pain. for the first time, amos realized how cruel he had been, and as he thought of the long hours which would pass before any one came to look for him, he wished that he might at least set his fellow-sufferer free. "poor little creature!" he said. "this may be a punishment for my cruelty. i know now how much pain my traps have given." no one came and the long day went by. night darkened, and the woods were cold and dreary. amos was chilled through, and thought with longing of the warm fire at home. the little mink was still now. amos hoped its sufferings were over. he almost wished that his own might end in the same way. suddenly, very early in the morning, there was a noise in the bushes, and a man came towards the traps. he saw at once what was the matter and ran to set the boy free. "now," said he, "you must get on my back and i will try to carry you home." "wait a minute," said amos. "i have a fellow-prisoner there in that other trap. if he is dead, i wish you would bury him. no one shall ever have his fur to sell, and i will never catch another animal in that fashion." the hunter walked over to the other trap and looked at the mink closely. "i think it is still alive," he said. "put my comforter round it," said amos. "i am going to take it home." so the mink was carefully wrapped in the comforter and laid in the hunter's bag. then they started homewards. there was great rejoicing when the missing lad appeared, and the little mink was taken out of the bag by gentle hands and kindly cared for. it became tame and affectionate, and when it was quite well again amos took it to the mountains and let it go free. as for the boy trapper, that was the last time that he ever set a trap for any of the creatures of the woods. "even a cage-trap must cause much suffering from fright," amos would say. "i shall not soon forget how terrible it is to be a prisoner." adapted from a story by mrs. c. fairchild allen. one lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, never to blend our pleasure or our pride with sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. wordsworth. the rabbit. rabbits are such gentle, pretty, furry little creatures that boys and girls like to make pets of them. a caged pet needs much more care and intelligent kindness than one that can run free, and the poor little rabbit is often made very miserable. a boy or girl who is truly kind can take little pleasure in playing jailer to some unhappy prisoner who longs for the sunshine and green grass. sometimes, however, the care of such a pet is forced upon one, and it is well to know how to make imprisonment as easy as possible. the rabbit lives on vegetable food, cropping leaves and grass, and gnawing the young shoots of trees. its teeth are beautifully adapted to the purpose. in the front of both jaws are two long, flat teeth, with, sharp edges like a chisel. as so much filing and scraping wear away the teeth very fast, these keep on growing from the root. each upper front tooth meets one in the lower jaw, so that the constant rubbing against each other keeps both the right length. sometimes one tooth is broken and the other goes on growing till it stands out like the tusk of an elephant. then the poor rabbit, unable to gnaw its food, dies of starvation. a tame rabbit should have carrots and turnips to gnaw, and sometimes young tree-twigs and cabbage stalks. if it has nothing hard to rub its teeth against, they will grow too fast, and the rabbit will be unable to bite anything. [illustration: an interesting family. by s. j. carter.] in feeding tame rabbits, try to give them their green food with the dew upon it. a sprinkling of fresh water will answer the same purpose. they need plenty of water, and both food and drink must be kept fresh and sweet. rabbits love the sunshine. they were made to live in warm, sunny lands, and they are too often shut up in cold, damp places. a rabbit is the most timid creature in the world, but the devoted little mother will fight for her babies if she sees them in any danger. when she burrows in the warm, sandy earth to make a snug home for her family, she strips the soft fur from her own breast to line the beds of grass for her little ones to sleep in. sometimes a mother rabbit's chest is raw and bleeding for days after making her nest. she is timid because she is so defenseless, but no one can call her a coward. timid folk are often braver in times of real danger than the strong and daring ones. rabbits require variety in their food as much as we do. in summer there are many weeds which are a great treat to them. dandelion, plantain, clover, grass and hay, with an occasional sprig of parsley, will give them much pleasure. in winter they may have carrots, turnips, and parsnips with barley meal and some oats. too much green food is likely to make them ill, and too much grain is equally harmful. if we prevent them from finding their own food, we ought to give them the best we can, so that they may be well and happy. david's story. a man was fishing by the river. splashes near by, round the bend, sounded now and then. david grumbled mildly to himself. voices rose suddenly, and the splashing ceased. presently a small boy came breaking through the bushes. "well, sammy?" said david inquiringly. "it's mean," said sammy, in an explosive fashion. "a boy came and spoiled all my fun. now i haven't anything to do." "too bad," said david. "how was it?" "i was throwing stones at the biggest bullfrog you ever saw. that boy came along and made him jump." "anything else?" asked david. his voice was calmly indifferent. "he said i was a coward," added the small boy. "so you are!" said david. "the meanest kind of coward i know." sammy sat down on a flat rock to consider this astonishing remark. david drew up a lively fish, which he killed with a sharp blow on the back of its head. "what did you do that for?" asked sammy, glad to change the subject. "to save his feelings," was the brief answer. "ho!" said sammy contemptuously. "he hasn't any feelings." "nonsense!" said david in sudden wrath. "does he wriggle? yes. why? because he suffers out of water. i've caught him to eat, and i owe it to him not to make him suffer any more than is necessary. what did that boy say to you about the frogs?" "he said frogs were good for something in the pond." "so they are," said david. "when they are growing up they live on the decaying weeds and the rubbish which would be dangerous if left in stagnant water. what else did he say?" "he said they were pretty," said sammy scornfully. "that's true, too," said david. "that boy knew a good deal. they are as handsome as they are harmless. did you ever know of a frog's doing any harm? well, that's more than can be said of boys." sammy was silent for a minute. "they don't know much," he said at last. david looked round quickly. "now who told you that?" said he. "in the first place, if ignorance were any excuse for tormenting a poor creature, i might make you wretched for an hour or two. fortunately for you, it isn't. we don't have to stop and ask what you know before we can be kind to you. but you make a mistake if you think frogs are stupid. see how well they dive and swim! i have been trying all summer, and i can't dive like that. they don't ever go down on their shoulders and stick their heads in the mud. i taught a frog to come and eat out of my hand. that was a brave thing for him to do. he knew as well as you know what some boys would have done to him." sammy was beginning to look ashamed. "there's just one thing more," said david. "when you have to kill anything, kill it as quickly as you can. don't let it suffer pain. there isn't any excuse for half the suffering there is in this world. did you ever hear the story of theodore parker and the frogs?" "no," said sammy; "i should like to." "when he was a little boy, perhaps less than four years old, he had to go home alone by a frog-pond where he had seen boys stoning frogs. he raised his hand to throw a stone at a frog, when he heard a voice say, 'don't.' he looked all around but could see no one, and he raised his hand again to stone the frog. again he heard a voice say, 'don't.' still he could see no one. he was frightened, and running, home to his mother he told her about it, and asked who it was that said, 'don't.' she took him on her knee and told him that it was the voice of god speaking in his heart, and that if he would always listen to it he would grow up to be a good man." "will you take me fishing this afternoon?" said sammy, after a long pause. "no, i will not," said david with emphasis. "i don't go fishing for fun, and i have here all that i need." "may i go swimming with you then?" persisted sammy. "of course you may," said david cordially. "we'll see if we can swim any better than the frogs. i haven't much hope of it, but we can try." "all right," said sammy as he rose to go. he had gone not more than thirty feet before he stopped. "i won't stone them any more, david," he called back over his shoulder. then he went on into the woods. i would not enter on my list of friends, though graced with polished manners and fine sense yet wanting sensibility, the man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. cowper. some ready helpers. we often fail to understand some of our best friends in the animal world. we know so little about them that we think they are useless and uninteresting. frogs, and especially toads, are often the objects of unjust dislike, yet their lives are very useful and full of interest. the toad and frog are somewhat alike. both come from eggs laid in the water, and both begin life as little swimming tadpoles. the young toad, when he is a tadpole, is sprinkled all over with very fine spots, which look like gold-dust, while the frog tadpole is dark. the first few weeks of a toad's life are spent in a ditch or a pond. here he lives on water-weeds and dead leaves. after a while he eats water-insects and small grubs. while living in the water the little toad looks very much like a fish. he has a large head and a long tail. he breathes through two branches, like feathers, which are called gills. these gills grow on each side of his head. the toad changes very much before he is ready to live on land. in the water he has no legs, but soon he has four. his gills are gone and he draws in air through his throat. he is going to begin a new life. in the spring the toads go back to the shore of the pond. mrs. toad knows that her eggs must be hatched in the water, although she prefers to live on the land. frogs must live near the water, for they will die if their skins are not kept moist and cool. yet they cannot live long in the water, and a drowned frog is no uncommon sight. kind-hearted boys and girls should remember this, and be ready to lend a helping hand to some poor frog that finds the sides of his swimming-place too steep for him to climb. young toads are very sensitive to heat, and secrete themselves in cool places during the day. a summer shower will bring them out by the dozens, so that many ignorant people think that the thirsty creatures have "rained down." mr. toad carries under his skin a great many small sacs full of liquid. this keeps him cool and comfortable, no matter how dusty his home may be. if he is frightened he can defend himself with this liquid, which is harmless to the hands, but probably bitter and disagreeable to the taste, since dogs and cats show signs of discomfort after taking toads in their mouths. care should be taken to wash one's hands after touching a toad, as this liquid is also very irritating to the eyes, and might be rubbed into them. the most curious thing about a toad is its tongue. this is very long, and its tip is turned backward into the mouth. it can dart out and snap up a fly or a beetle so quickly that it is almost impossible to see the motion. toads are not only harmless, but they are our very good friends. if they are not disturbed they will live a long time in one place, and destroy many bugs and insects that injure our gardens. it has been estimated that every year in this country property to the amount of $ , , is destroyed by insects. if this is true all creatures which feed upon insects are entitled to our care and gratitude. the united states department of agriculture has published a paper on the toad. it estimates that he saves to the farmer, by eating the cutworms which destroy the crops, about twenty dollars every season. toads eat the common house-fly, which is such an annoyance to us. a toad has been seen to snap up eighty-six flies in less than ten minutes. toads are sometimes kept for pets, and they are not lacking in intelligence. once a toad lived in a garden, and every day at the dinner hour he came to be fed. it happened that the dinner hour was changed, and when the toad came there was nothing for him to eat. mr. toad made up his mind that he would not lose his dinner twice. on the second day he came at the new hour, and after this he was as punctual as the rest of the family. no one could tell how he knew that in the future his dinner would be served two hours earlier. the toad is often the victim of thoughtless cruelty. he can do no one any harm. he cannot even run away when he is stoned and tormented. the fun of teasing him must be like that of beating a baby or a helpless cripple. no one but a coward could ever think it an amusing thing to do. perhaps no animal is so misunderstood as the bat. he seems such a queer compound of mouse and bird, and to most of us he is such a stranger, that we do not have a very friendly feeling for him. of course you know that he is not a bird at all. birds have feathers and the bat has soft, smooth fur. he is absolutely harmless, unless frightened or hurt, and he is a very useful little fellow. he eats mosquitoes and house-flies and the insects that cause most of the worm- eaten apples. bats fly only at night. they soon become friendly with any one who is kind to them, and will come to be fed or stroked. one who has studied them says that the good they do is very great and that the value of one of the little animals might easily amount to fifty dollars a year. are we not unjust to any living creature when we shrink from it because to us it does not seem beautiful? it may well be that our eyes are too dull to see its real beauty. but whether we can see the beauty or not, it is only fair that we should recognize the service which we are so willing to accept. a triumph. little roger up the long slope rushing through the rustling corn, showers of dew-drops from the broad leaves brushing, in the early morn, at his sturdy little shoulder bearing, for a banner gay, stem of fir with one long shaving flaring in the wind away! up he goes, the summer sunrise flushing o'er him in his race, sweeter dawn of rosy childhood blushing on his radiant face; if he can but set his standard glorious on the hill-top low, ere the sun climbs the clear sky victorious, all the world aglow! so he presses on with childish ardor, almost at the top! hasten, roger! does the way grow harder? wherefore do you stop? from below the corn-stalks tall and slender comes a plaintive cry; turns he for an instant from the splendor of the crimson sky, wavers, then goes flying toward the hollow, calling loud and clear, "coming, jenny! oh, why did you follow? don't you cry, my dear!" small janet sits weeping 'mid the daisies; "little sister sweet, must you follow roger?" then he raises baby on her feet, guides her tiny steps with kindness tender, cheerfully and gay, all his courage and his strength would lend her up the uneven way, till they front the blazing east together; but the sun has rolled up the sky in the still summer weather, flooding them with gold. all forgotten is the boy's ambition, low the standard lies, still they stand, and gaze--a sweeter vision ne'er met mortal eyes. that was splendid, roger, that was glorious, thus to help the weak; better than to plant your flag victorious on earth's highest peak! celia thaxter. part iii our friends the birds the canary's story. am i happy? no, not quite happy, though i sing as if i were. do you think that a cage would make you happy if you had wings? i am willing to say that i am grateful. helen is very good to me. she never forgets to fill my seed-cup and my glass of water. every morning i have my bath and my cage is cleaned. at night i am taken into a cool, dark room to sleep. if the house is too warm i am very uncomfortable, and helen is careful to keep my sleeping-room cool. sometimes helen takes me out of the cage for a while. it is a great pleasure to fly in and out among the plants in the window. i pretend that i am in the woods. for a time i am very happy. i was a wretched little bird when helen's mother bought me. for days i had been in a tiny wooden box, with no chance to move about. every morning a man took several of these boxes in his hand and walked up and down the streets crying, "birds! singing birds! only two dollars!" he swung the boxes back and forth until i was sick and dizzy. it seemed to me that i could never sing again. then helen saw me and begged her mother to give the man two dollars, so that she could take me out of the hot sun and the narrow box. how big and bright this cage seemed then! i am never cold and hungry, it is true, but sometimes i try to fancy how it would seem to be free, to fly where i like under the open sky, and to have other birds near by. i dream of waving branches and distant mountain-tops. i can almost hear the sea pounding on the sunny beaches of those warm islands where i first saw the light. do you think, if you were i, you could be quite happy? the caged thrush. alas for the bird who was born to sing! they have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing; they have shut him up in a dingy street, and they praise his singing and call it sweet; but his heart and his song are saddened and filled with the woods and the nest he never will build, and the wild young dawn coming into the tree, and the mate that never his mate will be; and day by day, when his notes are heard, they freshen the street, but--alas for the bird! r. f. murray. in the "academy." how to care for a canary. the original home of the canary was in the canary islands. these are warm, sunny islands not far from the west coast of africa. winter is almost unknown there, and before the bird-catchers came the canaries must have led happy lives. the birds were trapped and sent to all the countries of europe. the first canaries brought to america came from germany in . it was a long voyage in a sailing-vessel, and many of the poor little prisoners died on the way. the birds are put into wicker cages so small that there is scarcely room to stretch their wings. these cages are packed in boxes or crates, and one hundred and sixty-eight birds are sent in one crate. the birds are kept in the tiny cages until they are sold. the cups of food and water are put inside the cages. sometimes when they are moved to a larger cage, the birds do not know where to look for their food. they have been known to die of hunger because they could not find their seed-cups, which in their new cages are on the outside. every day, when the cage is cleaned, fresh water and food should be placed in it. birds like a daily bath in a shallow dish of tepid water. after the bath they should have an hour or two of liberty. it is unkind to keep them shut up in a cage all the time. after a bird has had his morning frolic he should not be chased or frightened into his cage. when the little fellow is hungry he will be glad to go back, especially if he sees there a bit of food that he likes. in time he will even learn to fly to the outstretched finger of his master or mistress, and to answer, as well as he can, the caressing tones which he loves. a canary is one of the most sensitive creatures in the world. a harsh or sudden noise disturbs it, and a severe fright may kill it. canaries like the sunshine and dread the cold, but they should not be left in the sun in warm weather. do not hang the cage in a draught or away from the light. it should be about five feet from the floor and not too near a register or radiator. once a month the cage must be thoroughly washed and the perches scalded, if you wish your bird's home to be healthful. the floor and perches will also need cleaning every day. coarse sand should be sprinkled on the thick, brown paper which covers the bottom of the cage. at night put the cage in a dark room or spread over it a square of soft, dark material, in such a way that the air is not shut out. the ordinary bath-tub provided for a canary is much too small. mrs. olive thorne miller says that it should be nearly as wide as the spread of his wings, so that he can beat the water and toss it over him in a spray. a common earthen saucer belonging to a flower-pot is very good for the purpose. as this saucer will be too large to go through the cage-door, it should be placed on a large folded cloth or paper and the upper part of the cage placed over it. while the bird is taking his bath, the floor of the cage may be made clean for the day. it is a good plan to give a canary bread, crackers, a little of the hard-boiled yolk of an egg, or a piece of apple. in summer he will enjoy a bunch of chickweed. in winter he may have a bit of lettuce or cabbage leaf. he should have something green every day. of course he must have also canary and rape seeds, and occasionally a very little hemp seed for a treat. if the canary or rape seed is poor the bird will scatter it and refuse to eat it. only seed which is large and clean should be used. it is better to buy each kind by itself and mix them afterwards. the hemp seed is so rich that not more than half a small teaspoonful should be given at a time. do not mix this with the other seeds, but scatter it on the floor of the cage. mosquitoes sometimes annoy a canary very much. a loose bag of netting drawn over the cage will save him from unnecessary suffering. when these poor prisoners are in our care we must do what we can to protect them and make them happy. no true bird-lover would choose to see his pets in cages, but we cannot turn the defenseless little creatures out into the cold. if no one would buy a canary, there would be no more caught, and the cruel business would come to an end. is it not worth while to think how much better it is to have no caged pets at all? in this free land of ours shall we deny freedom to the bird, which, above all other creatures, needs space and sunshine? an indian story. in a little book about omaha there is this story which is told by bright eyes, the daughter of an indian chief. "we were out on a buffalo hunt. i was a little bit of a thing when it happened. father could neither speak english nor read and write, and this story shows that the highest moral worth can exist aside from all civilization and education. "it was evening. the tents had been pitched for the night, the camp-fire made, and mother and the other women were cooking supper over it. "i was playing near my father when an indian boy, a playmate, came up and gave me a little bird which he had found. "i was very much pleased. i tried to feed it and make it drink. after i had played with it a long time, my father said to me: 'my daughter, bring your bird to me.' "when i took it to him he held it in his hand a moment, smoothed its feathers gently, and then said: 'daughter, i will tell you what you might do with your bird. take it carefully in your hand out yonder where there are no tents, where the high grass is. put it softly down on the ground and say as you put it down, "god, i give you back your little bird. have pity on me as i have pity on your bird."' "i said: 'does it belong to god?' "he said: 'yes, and he will be pleased if you do not hurt it, but give it back to him to care for.' "i was very much impressed and carefully followed out his directions, saying the little prayer he had told me to say." hiawatha's brothers. then the little hiawatha learned of every bird its language, learned their names and all their secrets, how they built their nests in summer, where they hid themselves in winter, talked with them whene'er he met them, called them "hiawatha's chickens." of all beasts he learned the language, learned their names and all their secrets, how the beavers built their lodges, where the squirrels hid their acorns, how the reindeer ran so swiftly, why the rabbit was so timid, talked with them whene'er he met them, called them "hiawatha's brothers." henry w. longfellow. to the cuckoo. sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear; thou hast no sorrow in thy song, no winter in thy year. o could i fly, i'd fly with thee! we'd make on joyful wing our annual visit o'er the globe, companions of the spring. john logan. our friends the birds. we have few better friends than the birds. they spend their lives working for us. without them our crops would be destroyed by insects and mice. soon no green thing would be left, and the earth would no longer be habitable. birds do all this without being asked. if we treat them kindly and try to make friends with them, we shall find that in addition to the good they do in protecting our fields and gardens, they may also bring us a great deal of pleasure. birds are the most beautiful of creatures. their plumage is often brilliant and always pleasing. their motions are so graceful it is a delight to watch them. their voices are so sweet that they charm every one who loves the fields and woods. it is very interesting to study the habits of birds. they make journeys thousands of miles in length and return to the same home each year. they build the most wonderful homes and take the best of care of their young. if we would have these beautiful and interesting creatures live near us we must show them that we mean them no harm. then they will come about our homes, cheering us with their glad songs, and amusing us with their intelligence. it is sad to think that birds have learned to fear man because he has killed and trapped them, or robbed their nests of eggs or young. this is not a very good way to treat a friend, is it? travelers tell us that when they have visited islands where men did not live, the birds were so tame that they perched upon their shoulders and could be easily caught. birds soon find out when man is their enemy, and then become wild and shy; but they are always willing to become our friends again. if we can make them understand that when near us they are safe, they will show their faith in our good-will. the wild eider-duck makes her nest and lays her eggs in the huts of the icelanders because she knows that she will not be harmed. in nesting time the birds may be seen in the village streets. they are so tame that one might think they were domestic ducks. in europe the storks build upon the house-tops. the peasant welcomes them as friends when each spring they return to their home. he is glad to have them near him, and he places an old cart-wheel on top of his house as a foundation for their nest of sticks. near some of the steamboat landings in florida no shouting is allowed. the wild ducks and coots quickly learn to know where they are safe, and in these places they are very tame, so that one can walk quite near them. but when they are outside the spot in which they are protected they are as shy as the wildest ducks. throughout the south it is against the law to kill the buzzards or vultures. these birds are very useful. they are public scavengers, devouring many things which would cause disease. the birds know that they have no one to fear and they hop about the streets as tame as chickens. you see, therefore, that the birds will trust us when they learn that we are their friends. if you would encourage them to make their home near yours, you might provide little boxes for them to occupy or make holes in hollow limbs where they can place their nests. they enjoy, too, a trough of water in which they can bathe. when winter comes a piece of tallow in the trees will prove a rich treat to the chickadee, and a few seeds scattered on the snow will make a feast for the hardy snowbirds. [illustration with caption: bird-house. made from a bark-covered log, inches long and inches in diameter, a hole inches in diameter "being bored from end to end, leaving an outer wall / inches thick."--from "bird-lore" by permission of the macmillan company.] feathered travelers. some birds are great travelers. they may pass the summer in the arctic regions and in the autumn go to patagonia to spend the winter. is it not wonderful how they can make this long journey without a compass or map to guide them? generally they follow rivers or coast lines; but they may have to cross large bodies of water where no land can be seen still they find their way to and fro, returning each year to the same place sometimes they even use the nest they built the year before. large birds and those which can fly swiftly, like swallows, are not afraid to travel by day. but the little birds, like wrens and warblers, that live in the shelter of trees and bushes, wait for the night. they are not afraid of the dark. it hides them from their enemies. so when the sun has gone down and night comes, they fly up into the air and start on their journey. if you should look through a telescope at the moon some clear night in spring or autumn, you could probably see the birds flying by. they look like bees going across the face of the moon. large birds, like ducks, fly very swiftly. it is thought that they may travel one hundred miles an hour. but the small warblers and flycatchers go less than half as fast. most birds that fly at night are far above the earth. they go as high as two or three miles. if you have ever been on a mountain top or a very high building, you will know how much farther you can see than when you are on the ground. so the birds, too, can see a great distance as they fly by, high in the air. at night they can see the water sparkling in the starlight. this helps them to find their way. when it is foggy or raining they cannot see which way they are going this is a sad time for the little feathered travelers. some fly far out to sea and are drowned. the feathers of some are so wet that they cannot fly. then they must seek shelter in the trees. in wet and foggy weather the birds sometimes fly to the lighthouses. the light seems to attract them, just as a light attracts moths. they fly against the glasses which protect the light, and often are killed. sometimes large birds fly through the glass about the light. the light- keeper therefore puts wire netting outside the glass to protect it from these large birds. while the birds are traveling at night they often call and chirp to each other. this keeps them from being lonely and from getting lost. if you should listen very carefully some still night in september, you might hear the birds calling as they fly swiftly by. when morning comes the birds fly down to earth. would you not think that they would be very tired after flying all night? they do not seem to be. but they are hungry, and as soon as they alight they begin to look for something to eat. after breakfast they rest for a few hours. in the afternoon they go out for supper, for they must have a good meal if they are to fly again all night. when the birds return. how pleasant it is to hear the song of the robin on a march morning! at the first sign of spring he comes back to us from his winter home in the south. his cheerful song tells us that winter will soon be gone. in a few weeks we can look for wild flowers, and the fields will be green again. the blackbirds follow a few days later. with a merry, jingling chorus they perch in the leafless trees. we know now that soon there will be leaves and blossoms, and the thought makes us glad. now we may look for the bluebird also. his soft, sweet warble is one of the most welcome of the springtime sounds. see him looking at the box in which last year he had a nest! probably he is planning repairs. how happy he seems! when we see gnats or small insects in the air we may expect the phoebe. the phoebe belongs to the family of flycatchers. he spends his life in man's service, catching the insects which are so troublesome. when the first insects appear the phoebe comes to prevent them from growing too numerous. you will know the phoebe by his note. "pewit- phoebe!" he calls, with a wag of his tail, as he sits on a fence or bridge rail. if the frost has left the ground, you may be sure that the woodcock has come. the woodcock has a bill nearly three inches long. he sticks it into the soft earth to hunt for the worms on which he lives. so you see if the ground were hard the woodcock could not get his usual fare. for the same reason the kingfisher waits until the ice has left the ponds and streams. then we can hear him sound his rattle-like voice and watch him fishing. what a sure aim he has! see him hovering over the water, waiting for some small fish to come near the surface! then he closes his wings and plunges downward like a dart. there is a splash, and a second later he flies up with his prize. early in april the chippy comes. he has not much of a song, but we are always glad to see him because he seems glad to see us. he comes to the piazza steps, plainly asking for crumbs. if we give them to him, he may build his hair-lined nest in the vine on the trellis. some day later in the month the barn swallow may be seen flitting in and out the barn door or hay window, twittering merrily. he has seen many countries since he left us last october. probably he has been to central america, or even brazil. but in all his travels i am sure he has visited no place he loves as well as the old barn. the chimney swift loves his chimney, too. let us hope that when he returns early in may he will not find smoke curling from his home. each day now brings a host of the little feathered travelers. in february and march we cannot tell just what day to look for our bird friends. if it is cold and bleak, they must wait for warmer weather. in may, when the sun shines brightly, and the season of storms has passed, we know almost exactly when to expect each bird. about the first of the month we shall again be cheered by the songs of the catbird and wren. from a tree-top near the roadside a brown thrasher will sing a song of rejoicing. in the woods the wood thrush will chant a hymn of praise. the ground is carpeted with wild flowers, and we may gather the beautiful anemones, violets, and buttercups. the trees are putting on their dresses of green. the air rings with the joyful music of birds. now we know that the song of the robin was true. birds' homes. nearly every bird has a trade. some are carpenters, others are masons, weavers, tailors, basket-makers, etc. it is only when building their homes that birds work at their trades. then you may see the woodpecker hammering with his chisel-like bill, making a home in some dead tree. you can hear his strokes a long way through the woods. the chips fly from beneath his strong blows. the robin, the phoebe, and the barn and eave swallows are masons. the robin moulds an inner layer of mud in his round nest and covers it with fine grasses. the phoebe uses a mixture of mud and moss in plastering his large nest on some beam or rafter. the barn swallow also uses a beam. his nest is nearly all mud, but is lined with soft feathers. the eave swallows are the most expert masons of all. they build rows of mud tenements beneath the eaves of the barn. each little apartment is rounded over and has a round hole for a door. the chimney swift or swallow uses wood and glue in making the pretty little bracket-like basket he fastens to the chimney wall. his feet are so small that he cannot perch as other birds do, so when he rests he clings to the side of the chimney and leans on his tail. each tail feather is tipped with a stiff, sharp point that keeps it from slipping. how then do you suppose he gathers the twigs for his nest? watch him some day when he is flying rapidly about. you may see that he goes by a dead tree, and as he passes he hovers for a second near the end of a limb. then it is that he snaps off with his bill a small, dry twig for his home. but how can he fasten a nest of twigs to the upright chimney wall? well, the chimney swift carries a gluepot with him. it is in his mouth, where certain glands produce a sticky substance like mucilage. with this he glues the little twigs together and fastens them to the bricks. sometimes a heavy rain will moisten this glue. then the nest is loosened from the chimney and, with the poor little birds in it, falls to the fireplace. if you fasten it as high in the chimney above the fireplace as you can, the parent birds may come down and feed their young. the humming-bird is an upholsterer and decorator. he and his tiny wife build the daintiest little nest it is possible to imagine. they use plant-down or "thistle-down" and cover it all over with grayish or greenish lichens, those flakes of "moss" we see growing on the bark of trees. generally they place it on a limb of a large tree. there it looks so much like a knot that it takes sharp eyes to find a humming-bird's nest. the great crested flycatcher places his nest in a hollow limb and though he seems to care very little about its appearance he has, nevertheless, an idea of his own about decoration and evidently thinks no nest is complete without a bit of cast-off snake skin. just why he should want to have such a thing in his home no one can say. some naturalists believe that he uses it as a scarecrow to frighten his enemies away. but i do not think he could give a reason if he were asked. birds build the same kind of nests their parents built, without asking the reason why. the chipping sparrow always lines its nest with hairs, the crane uses cedar bark, the robin mud, the vireos often place a bit of wasps' nest in their bag-like nests; but no one has ever tried to explain why they should always employ these particular things. the oriole is a master weaver. have you ever seen his cradle swaying from an elm branch? it is so well made that it often lasts through the winter. it is usually made of long grass fibres. if the birds can find strings or worsted, they are glad to use them, but they sometimes get their claws caught in the string, and are not able to free themselves, so it is better for them to use other material. when the birds have left their nests in the autumn, yon may take them to study and to show to others. many thoughtless boys rob birds of their nests and eggs. they do not intend to be wicked, but they do not know any better. if they could learn how interesting it is to see the birds building their homes and rearing their young, they surely would not wish to destroy them. the robin. some birds are shy and retiring, and if we would meet them we must go to their haunts in the forests. others are comparatively tame and domestic, living about our dwellings and meeting us more than halfway when we attempt to make friends with them. among these familiar birds of the garden and orchard, none is better known than the cheery robin. robins are very numerous, and are found in all parts of north america, from new england to alaska, and south to the city of mexico. it is due to his tameness and also to his brick-red breast that he bears the name of "robin." when the first english settlers came to this country, of course everything was new and strange to them. the birds had only indian names which the newcomers could not understand, even when they heard them. so they had to make up names for those birds that were common enough to attract their attention. the robin was probably one of the first to be named. when the settlers saw this friendly bird, with a breast colored somewhat like the robin redbreast of england, they called him "robin," after the favorite of their far-away homes. the two birds are really quite unlike. the robin redbreast is less than six inches in length, and is slighter than our bluebird, while our robin is ten inches long, and is, as every one knows, a stout, heavy bird. there is only a general resemblance in color, both birds having a brownish-red breast; probably our bird's name is due as much to his friendly ways as to his appearance. the robin is a migratory bird, and in winter is not usually found north of new jersey and pennsylvania. this is his playtime in the sunny south. he lives in flocks containing hundreds and even thousands of birds. they feed on the berries of the dogwood, china tree and mistletoe, and are the jolliest lot of birds it is possible to imagine. some are singing; not so long a song as they sing in the summer, but just a kind of gay humming; while others are dashing about, chasing one another through the woods in sport. but the robin is a great home-lover. at the very first sign of spring he begins to think about returning to us, and some warm day, late in february, we may generally find him hunting for food about the grassy banks of a spring, or on the sheltered side of a wood. soon, if the weather continues pleasant, we shall hear him sing. what a welcome sound it is! how it recalls memories of cherries and strawberries, and of all the good things of summer! in the latter hall of april he and his mate go to housekeeping. who hasn't seen a robin's nest?--that strong, large house of grasses, plastered inside with mud, and furnished with a lining of rootlets. he places it almost anywhere in the trees, but generally in a broad crotch. if you are fortunate, and the robin has learned that you are his friend, he may build his mud and grass cabin in a tree near your window. then you can learn all about his household affairs. you will see the four blue eggs. you will know how many days it takes them to hatch, and you will see what faithful parents birds are. not only will they give every minute of their time to securing food for their hungry family, but they will bravely fight any enemy who appears. if it rains, you may see the mother bird standing on the nest with wings spread over her young, to shelter them from the falling drops. generally the robin rears two families each season. when the first brood is ready to leave the nest, father robin takes charge of them. every night he leads them to a great roost or nursery where other young robins are brought by their fathers to sleep. in the daytime he returns to help mother robin care for family number two. at last all the young are old enough to care for themselves. then they gather in large flocks and go for a holiday in the wild cherry trees. when the cherries are gone, they visit the sassafras and pepperidge trees, and the woodbine tangles. then comes a course of dogwood, with a dessert of nanny-berries. cedar berries are added by way of a bit of cracker and cheese. then the robin's great feast is over, and he leaves us for the repast which is awaiting him in the south. the robin is very useful to the farmer. he eats ants, bugs, caterpillars, army worms, and many other worms and insects which would harm the grass and fruit trees. in return, what does he ask? only to dine on a few ripe cherries and strawberries. robin rejoice. among the first of the spring, the notes of the robin ring; with flute-like voice, he calls, "rejoice, for i am coming to sing!" to any one gloomy or sad, he says, "be glad! be glad! look on the bright side, 'tis aye the right side; the world is good, not bad." at daybreak in june we hear his melody, strong and clear: "cheer up, be merry, i've found a cherry; 'tis a glorious time of the year!" garrett newkirk. from "bird-lore," by permission of the macmillan company. to a skylark. (extract.) hail to thee, blithe spirit! bird thou never wert, that from heaven, or near it, pourest thy full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. higher still and higher from the earth thou springest, like a cloud of fire, the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know, such harmonious madness from my lips would flow the world should listen then, as i am listening now! percy bysshe shelley. frightened birds. "hush, hush!" said a little brown thrush to his mate on the nest in the elder-bush. "keep still! don't open your bill! there's a boy coming bird-nesting over the hill! let your wings out, so that not an egg or the nest shall show. chee! chee! it seems to me i'm as frightened as ever a bird can be!" then, still, with a quivering bill, he watched the boy out of sight o'er the hill. ah, then in the branches again, his glad song ran over vale and glen. oh, oh! if that boy could know how glad they were when they saw him go, say, say, do you think next day he could possibly steal those eggs away? anon. don't rob the birds, boys. don't rob the birds of their eggs, boys, 'tis cruel and heartless and wrong; and remember, by breaking an egg, boys, we may lose a bird with a song. when careworn, weary, and lonely, some day as you're passing along, you'll rejoice that the egg wasn't broken that gave you the bird with its song. anon. a good shot there was once a boy whose eye was so true, and whose hand was so steady, that he became a very good marksman. if he threw a stone, or fired at anything with his air-gun, he usually hit what he aimed at. he took such pride and pleasure in his skill that he was always looking for good shots. near his house lived a bird. five young ones were in her nest. so many mouths, always wide open for food, kept the little mother busy. from morning till night she flew over fields and woods, getting worms and bugs and seeds for her babies to eat. every day she flew off chirping gayly, and came back as soon as she could with a bit of food. the smallest bird had been hurt in some way and could not cry so loudly as the others. the mother always gave him his breakfast first. one day when she had picked up a worm and was resting a moment, the good marksman saw her. "what a fine shot!" he said, and fired his air-gun. the bird felt a sharp, stinging pain in her side, and when she tried to fly she found that she could not lift herself from the ground. fluttering and limping, she dragged herself along to the foot of the tree where her nest was. her broken wing hurt her very much, but she chirped a little, in as cheerful a way as she could, so that her babies should not be frightened. they chirped back loudly, because they were hungry, and they could not understand why she did not come to them. she knew all their voices, and when she heard the plaintive note of the smallest, she tried again and again to fly. at last she fell in such a way that she could not move her wings again. all day she lay there, and when her children called, she answered with her old, brave chirp. but as the hours went by, her voice grew fainter and fainter, until at last it was still. in the morning she was dead. the little ones called now in vain. they cried until they were so tired that they fell asleep; but soon their hunger waked them and they cried again. the next night was cold, and they crowded together, hoping to get warm. how they missed their mother's warm, soft feathers! it grew colder and colder. before dawn they all died, one after the other. would the boy have been so proud of his good shot if he had known the whole story? adapted "be kind to animals," as a motto for every schoolroom in the united states conspicuously and constantly displayed by teachers upon wall or blackboard, will go far and help greatly towards inculcating a spirit of kindness to animals and educating humanely the boys and girls who are to be future citizens of this great country. the goldfinch have you ever noticed the downy white seeds of the thistle? a puff of wind will carry away hundreds of these soft, woolly tufts, which sail like tiny balloons. when they drop to the ground they take root and soon become young thistles. there is no weed more troublesome to the farmer than the thistle. it will soon crowd out the young wheat, and if let alone would cover the whole farm. if the farmer had no help, it would be difficult for him to raise anything but thistles. he has, however, one of the best helpers in the world. the goldfinch is ready to look for thistle seeds, and asks no wages at all. the farmer ought to be grateful to such a busy little worker. the mother goldfinch builds a beautiful nest for her little ones. for food they have seeds which she has carefully softened in her own crop. as soon as the young birds can fly, she takes them to the fields where the thistles grow. in winter birds are thankful for food and shelter. the story is told of a man who has part of his house-wall covered with cages. the finches which live near his home find snug lodgings in these cages during the cold weather. in the spring his feathered guests build their nests in the cages and pay their rent by working in his garden. they are not confined to the cages, but come and go as they please. their wild sweet notes seem to come from a happy heart, and nothing can be prettier than to see a number of these goldfinches swinging on the brown sunflower and daintily feasting on the seeds. mr. frank m. chapman in "bird-life" says: "i wish that every one knew the goldfinch. his gentle ways and sweet disposition are never-failing antidotes for discontent. one cannot be long near a flock of these birds without being impressed by the refinement which seems to mark their every note and action. they show, too, a spirit of contentment from which we may draw more than a passing lesson. 'hear me, hear me, dearie,' they call as they feed among the weeds or on the birch buds, and, no matter how poor the fare, they seem thankful for it. the seeds of the dandelion, thistle, and sunflower are among their favorites; and if you would attract goldfinches as well as some other birds, devote a corner of your garden to sunflowers." birds' trades. the swallow is a mason, and underneath the eaves he builds a nest, and plasters it with mud and hay and leaves. of all the weavers that i know the oriole is the best; high on the branches of the tree she hangs her cozy nest. the woodpecker is hard at work-- a carpenter is he-- and you can hear him hammering his nest high up the tree. some little birds are miners, some build upon the ground; and busy little tailors, too, among the birds are found. the sparrow. one of the most common of our american birds is the sparrow, of which there are as many as sixteen varieties. those that we know the best are the field sparrow, the song sparrow, and the chipping sparrow, often called the chippy. the sparrows are among the earliest comers in the spring, and some of them stay with us through the winter. their nests may be found in hedges, under bushes, in thick grass tufts, and in low shrubs. these nests are usually made of dried grasses and fine roots, but the chipping sparrow weaves horsehair with the grass and makes his nest very delicate and dainty. he is often called the hair-bird. he is known also as the social sparrow because he likes best to live near houses, and seems ready to be friendly with mankind. the tree sparrow, though larger, closely resembles him, and is often called the winter chip-bird. the chipping sparrow's eggs are greenish-blue, speckled with dark brown. they are four in number. the nest is built in a bush or a low tree. the song sparrow is a very sweet singer. early in the spring we hear his song, and he stays late in the autumn. sometimes he is with us all winter. his nest is usually on the ground or in some low bush. the eggs are grayish-white, clouded and spotted with brown and lavender. when the nest is not disturbed, there are often three broods of little ones during the summer. we cannot have too many of these sweet songsters. they make our hearts glad with their delightful melody, and they help us to keep our gardens beautiful. the field sparrow is found in pastures and woodlands. if he is disturbed, he flies up suddenly from the grass and alights again farther on. he has a sweet song that ends in a little trill. while we find our own sparrows lovable we are not so fond of the english sparrows, which have become more numerous than the native birds. the english sparrow, or finch, as he is more properly called, may be a troublesome visitor, but we invited him to come, and he is not to blame for some of his disagreeable ways. he is by no means useless, for he clears the gutters of quantities of unsavory and unsightly fragments which would decay and become a nuisance if not removed. the english sparrow eats also a great many of the army worms which have done so much harm in some parts of the country, and he has in many places entirely destroyed the cankerworms. he has good traits, and he may certainly be admired for his courage and perseverance. he bears our hard winters very cheerfully, and when no other birds are to be seen he flies about, chirping as bravely as in the summer sunshine. sparrows let skies be sunny or clouds hang low little brown sparrow away you go ever in search of food or fun come summer or winter rain or sun boughs of lilac whereon to rest april spreads when you build your nest, autumn feeds you with golden corn and berries ripe on the wayside thorn winter comes with its frost and snow waters may freeze and winds may blow yet little you care and nought you rue, for every hand has a crumb for you through sunshine tomorrow and storm today you go like a friar of orders gray, finding wherever your fancy leads, a table spread for the wanderer's needs christmas in norway. in the far-off land of norway, where the winter lingers late, and long for the singing birds and flowers the little children wait; when at last the summer ripens and the harvest is gathered in, and food for the bleak, drear days to come the toiling people win,-- through all the land the children in the golden fields remain till their busy little hands have gleaned a generous sheaf of grain. all the stalks by the reapers forgotten they glean to the very least, to save till the cold december, for the sparrows' christmas feast. and then through the frost-locked country there happens a wonderful thing: the sparrows flock north, south, east, west, for the children's offering. of a sudden, the day before christmas, the twittering crowds arrive, and the bitter, wintry air at once with their chirping is all alive. they perch upon roof and gable, on porch and fence and tree, they flutter about the windows and peer in curiously. and meet the eyes of the children, who eagerly look out with cheeks that bloom like roses red, and greet them with welcoming shout. on the joyous christmas morning, in front of every door a tall pole, crowned with clustering grain, is set the birds before. and which are the happiest, truly, it would be hard to tell; the sparrows who share in the christmas cheer, or the children who love them well! how sweet that they should remember, with faith so full and sure, that the children's bounty awaited them the whole wide country o'er! when this pretty story was told me by one who had helped to rear the rustling grain for the merry birds in norway, many a year, i thought that our little children would like to know it too, it seems to me so beautiful, so blessed a thing to do-- to make god's innocent creatures see in every child a friend, and on our faithful kindness so fearlessly depend. celia thaxter the crow. the poor crow has had very few friends. like many mischievous people, he has been more severely blamed than he really deserves. he has been called an egg-stealer, a bird-eater, and a corn-thief. i am afraid that this is all true, and yet it is not fair to forget the good that he does. in the spring, before there are many insects for him to eat, the hungry crow will sometimes do a great deal of mischief. he troubles the farmer by pulling up the tender young corn, but a way to prevent this has been found. if the corn is dipped in soft tar, and afterwards in powdered lime to give it a white coating, the crow will not touch it. he does not like the taste of tar, and he will look elsewhere for his dinner. some farmers feed the crows by scattering loose grain over the surface of the cornfield, and in many cases the birds have been satisfied with what they received in this way. now let us see why it is for the farmer's interest to make friends with the crow. in the early days of new england, crows were thought to be so harmful that many of them were killed. the next year the grass and the crops were greatly injured by worms which the crows would have destroyed. it has often been proved that when a large number of crows and blackbirds have been killed, there has been an increase of harmful insects. crows eat the cutworm, the white grub, and the weevil. they like no food so well as mice. in the spring they like to follow the plough and pick up hundreds of insects that would do more harm than the most mischievous crow. a tame crow should never be kept in a cage. if the bird is well fed and kindly treated, it will not fly far from its home, but it is a noisy and sometimes a troublesome pet, and it is better to leave it in the woods. crows are social and intelligent creatures. they choose a thick wood for their winter home and gather in flocks which sometimes number thousands of birds. in the summer they build their nests in neighboring trees, and are ready to lend each other aid if danger arises. the united states department of agriculture says that the crow does more good than harm, and that he is a friend to the farmer instead of the enemy that he is commonly supposed to be. the bluebird. i know the song that the bluebird is singing, out in the apple tree where he is swinging; brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary, nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! hark! was there ever so merry a note? listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, up in the apple tree, swinging and swaying. "dear little blossoms, down under the snow, you must be weary of winter, i know; hark, while i sing you a message of cheer! summer is coming! and springtime is here! "little white snowdrop! i pray you, arise; bright yellow crocus! come open your eyes; sweet little violets, hid from the cold, put on your mantles of purple and gold daffodils! daffodils! say, do yon hear? summer is coming! and springtime is here!" emily huntington miller. by permission of the author. the farmer's friend. we all know from pictures what owls look like, though we do not often see them. their wise faces, with large, solemn eyes, are familiar to every one of us. why do we see these birds so seldom? the owl flies at night, and at all times he is a shy bird. he likes a quiet home and does not wish to be disturbed. as for himself, he makes no noise. he is like a cat, not only in his face and in his taste for mice, but in his quiet ways. his broad wings are fringed with the softest down, so that they move with as little sound as a feather fan. the owl is a large bird, but his wings never make the sharp whirr of a pigeon's flight. the barn owl builds his nest not far from the farmyard. he catches the mice arid rats in the barn and feeds on many harmful beetles and moths. the number of mice he catches for his little ones in a single night is sometimes very large. he is said to bring to his nest four or five of his hapless victims every hour. pennsylvania once offered a premium for killing hawks and owls, not knowing how much good they do. before long the state was overrun with little rodents, and many valuable crops were destroyed. no bird is more devoted to her little ones than the mother owl. she will take up her tiny owlet in her claws and carry him away, if she fancies that any danger is near; and she will not leave him, even to save her own life. it has been supposed that an owl is unable to see in the daytime, but probably this is not true. he can see better at dusk than we can, but when it is really dark he cannot see at all. he hunts at night, because rats and mice do not often venture out in the daytime. unless he is free, an owl is miserable. it is cruel to keep him caged, because it makes him ill and unhappy. when he is at liberty he is a good friend to the farmer. the wounded curlew. by yonder sandy cove where, every day, the tide flows in and out, a lonely bird in sober brown and gray limps patiently about; and round the basin's edge, o'er stones and sand, and many a fringing weed, he steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand, crying, with none to heed. but sometimes from the distance he can hear his comrades' swift reply; sometimes the air rings with their music clear, sounding from sea and sky. and then, oh, then his tender voice, so sweet, is shaken with his pain, for broken are his pinions strong and fleet, never to soar again. wounded and lame and languishing he lives, once glad and blithe and free, and in his prison limits frets and strives his ancient self to be. the little sandpipers about him play, the shining waves they skim, or round his feet they seek their food, and stay as if to comfort him. my pity cannot help him, though his plaint brings tears of wistfulness; still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint, none may his wrong redress. o bright-eyed boy! was there no better way a moment's joy to gain than to make sorrow that must mar the day with such despairing pain? o children, drop the gun, the cruel stone! oh, listen to my words, and hear with me the wounded curlew moan-- have mercy on the birds! celia thaxter. the sandpiper. across the narrow beach, we flit, one little sandpiper and i; and fast i gather, bit by bit, the scattered driftwood bleached and dry. the wild waves reach their hands for it, the wild wind raves, the tide runs high, as up and down the beach we flit,-- one little sandpiper and i. i watch him as he skims along, uttering his faint and mournful cry; he starts not at my fitful song, or flash of fluttering drapery; he has no thought of any wrong, he scans me with a fearless eye,-- stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, the little sandpiper and i. comrade, where wilt thou be to-night when the loosed storm breaks furiously? my driftwood fire will burn so bright! to what warm shelter canst thou fly? i do not fear for thee, though wroth the tempest rushes through the sky: for are we not god's children both, thou, little sandpiper, and i? celia thaxter. [illustration of two birds.] the cost of a hat. "what does it cost, this garniture of death? it costs the life which god alone can give; it costs dull silence where was music's breath, it costs dead joy, that foolish pride may live. ah, life, and joy, and song, depend upon it, are costly trimmmgs for a woman's bonnet!" may riley smith among the cruel things that are done thoughtlessly there is none more common than the wearing of birds' feathers as ornaments in hats. the coloring is often exquisitely soft and delicate, and we do not think, at first, what these beautiful feathers mean. in the morning some mother bird sings her sweetest songs under your window as she flies forth to look for food for her nestlings. at night she lies wounded or dead and her little ones must starve alone in the nest. is the pleasure of wearing a dead bird enough to pay for this suffering? perhaps you will say that since the bird is already killed when you buy it, it may as well be in your hat as in the shop window. now think a moment. you may be sure that when you buy such a bird, another will be shot to take its place in the milliner's show-case. if no woman would buy these feathers, do you suppose that milliners would keep them for sale? the halo. think what a price to pay, faces so bright and gay, just for a hat! flowers unvisited, mornings unsung, sea-ranges bare of the wings that o'erswung,-- bared just for that! oh, but the shame of it, oh, but the blame of it, price of a hat! just for a jauntiness brightening the street! this is your halo, o faces so sweet, death: and for that! rev. w. c gannett. in "voices for the speechless" [illustration with caption: the snowy heron.] the snowy heron. one of the greatest sufferers among the bird mothers is the egret, or snowy heron. the pretty, airy plumes which we see on many hats grow on the egret's back, and fall over the sides and tail of the bird. they are most beautiful at the time when the mother bird is raising her brood of little ones. this is the time for the hunter to shoot her, and he finds it easy, because the egret will not readily fly away from her babies. the little birds starve to death, and in many places there are no egrets left. every feathery plume in the dainty bonnet means that at least one happy, innocent life has been taken. do the feathers look quite so pretty to you when you think of all this? is it comfortable to feel that for the sake of being in the fashion you have been the cause of such distress? if you can, for one moment, put yourself in the place of the mother bird as she lies dying on the grass and thinking of the little ones that will never see her again, i am sure nothing will induce you to be seen with her beautiful feathers in your hat. no ornament, bought at such a price, is worth the cost. winged fishers. the seagull loves the salt sea and the wild wind. the waves are his cradle. when he wishes to fly, he spreads his long, narrow wings, and the breeze carries him along as if he were a white boat with sails. now and then he pounces down upon the water. that is when he catches sight of some shining fish which he thinks will make him a good dinner. he is a hungry bird, and, fortunately for us, he is not very particular as to what he eats. he swallows the floating scraps which would soon become unsightly and dangerous if they were left along the shore. the common gull has a pure white breast, a slate-colored back, and black-tipped wings. its nest is built of seaweed on some rocky cliff or ledge. as soon as it can scramble out of its nest, the young gull likes to sit on a ledge of rocks, where it looks like a ball of soft, gray down. when hundreds of them are seen sitting on the same cliff, it seems wonderful that the mother birds can find their own children, but they make no mistake. they are devoted and faithful mothers. often their lives are in danger, and they might easily seek safety for themselves, but they will not leave their helpless birdlings. the gulls have the same sad story to tell that belongs to all beautiful, soft-hued birds. they are much less numerous than formerly, because sportsmen take advantage of the mother's devotion to kill her and steal her wings. when girls and women consent to wear these feathers in their hats, they forget the pain and terror of the dying birds. few girls would go so far as to kill a bird. perhaps not one would harm a mother bird defending her little ones. yet to wear the soft, pretty wings is to doom another victim to this piteous death. what the little seal thinks. i am very lonely and hungry. here i have been, for days, hidden in a cave in the rocks, and i do not dare to come out. only a little while ago my mother and i were so happy! to lie on the sunny beach, to splash and swim in the salt sea, to nestle close to her soft, warm fur when i was cold and tired,--this was my life. then men came in boats and drove away my playmates in a flock to be clubbed and killed. when i ran back to my mother i could not find her, but her beautiful coat had been torn off and thrown upon a pile of skins. my mother had been killed while she was trying to find me. i wonder if any woman would wear my mother's coat if she knew this. what the young seabird thinks. there comes that man with a gun! the winter wren has just told me what it means. it seems that women like to wear the feathers of dead birds, and that man is trying to shoot my mother as she comes back to her nest. i am afraid i shall never see her again. the wren tells me that people like to adorn themselves with the skins of fur-coated animals. it does seem strange that men and women think that they cannot be well dressed without killing us and wearing our clothes. what the birds do for us. have you ever thought what the world would be without the birds? a learned frenchman, named michelet, said that if it were not for the birds there would be no plant life, no animal life, no life at all upon this earth. hosts of insects would destroy all plant life, and if there were no plants, no animals could live. the common chickadee destroys in twenty-five days more than a hundred thousand eggs of the cankerworm moth, and the chickadee is one of our smallest birds. in winter, if you have an apple tree near your home, you can watch the hungry woodpecker getting his dinner. he runs up the trunk, digging into the bark for insects and insects' eggs. almost seventy-five per cent of his food is made up of insects. perhaps you have read of the army worm and of the harm it does to grass and grain. in a single night a green field attacked by this pest is made brown and bare. in the damage done in massachusetts by this worm was estimated at $ , . as soon as the birds discover that the army worm is at work, they come flocking from long distances. no farmer could summon helpers so promptly. kingbirds, phoebe birds, cowbirds, baltimore orioles, chipping sparrows, robins, english sparrows, meadow larks, crows, golden-winged woodpeckers, and quail eat the army worm, but of all these helpers, none is so valuable for this work as the red-winged blackbird and the crow blackbird. about fifty years ago, caterpillars were destroying an immense forest in europe, when suddenly a flock of cuckoos appeared and saved the woodland. during the great locust invasion of our own western country, when the farmers had given up the battle, an army of birds would sometimes alight upon a field and save the crop. swallows live entirely upon insects, and a very large proportion of the food of most of our birds is made up of insect life. thirty-eight kinds of birds have been seen to feed on some form of the gypsy moth, and they are not expecting the salaries that are paid to government agents. the sea-gull is another official on a small salary. he is the best health- inspector of our coasts, for he not only sees what is to be done, but does it himself, promptly and well. the little tree-sparrow, in iowa alone, destroys more than a million harmful seeds every year. sometimes, it is true, the birds eat the fruits that men have taken pains to raise. "what little thieves they are!" says the gardener. "please tell me," says mr. robin, "how i am to know that you care so much for some kinds of fruit, and so little for others? if you would plant shad-berries for me, i would not eat so many strawberries. in september i should be quite willing to make a dinner of choke-cherries, if they were as conveniently near as your grapes. perhaps, in time, you will learn to be more careful in your planting. why not protect your fruits by planting wild varieties that we like?" mr. lawrence bruner says: "if we take pains to water our birds during the dry season, they will be much less apt to seek this supply from the juices of fruits so temptingly at hand." he suggests placing little pans of water in the orchard and vineyard. there is another side to the same question which is worth considering. not only does the agriculturist know how useful birds are to us, but every child can tell us of the pleasure they give. one does not have to be a poet to know the beauty of the birds. what would spring be without the bluebird, or june without the oriole? to the eye and to the ear alike they are a joy. from a selfish point of view, then, it is folly to let the wholesale destruction of birds go on. we are losing more than we fully understand. but can there be no other motive than a selfish one? have the birds no rights which we are bound to respect? must their claim to life be based on the fact that they do us good or give us pleasure? we are hopeless tyrants if this is true. let us not be content with the smaller question, what can the birds do for us? but ask ourselves the larger one, what can we do for the birds? "the bravest are the tenderest." it is remarkable how many great men have been noted for their interest in birds and beasts. we have seen how devoted scott and dickens were to their pets. daniel webster's dying request was that his beloved cattle might be driven by his window, so that he might see them once more. abraham lincoln often went out of his way to do a kindness to some weak or suffering creature. [footnote: the following incident is related by one who knew lincoln: "we passed through a thicket of wild plum and crab-apple trees, and stopped to water our horses. one of the party came up alone and we inquired: 'where is lincoln?' "'oh,' he replied, 'when i saw him last he had caught two young birds which the wind had blown out of their nest, and he was hunting for the nest, that he might put them back in it.'"] a great german poet so loved the birds that he left a sum of money with the request that they should be fed every day on his grave. thoreau, who has written many beautiful books about nature, had a great love for the little wild creatures of the woods, and they in turn loved and trusted him. "even the fishes came into his hand when he dipped it into the stream. the little mice would come arid playfully eat from his fingers, and the very moles paid him friendly visits. sparrows lighted on his shoulders when he called them; the phoebe birds built their nests in his shed, and the wild partridge with her brood came and fed quietly beneath his window. "after he had lived two or three months in the woods the wild birds ceased to be afraid of him, and would come and perch on his shoulder, and sometimes on his spade when he was digging." amiel, a great french writer, said in his journal: "i have just picked up on the stairs a little yellow kitten, very ugly and pitiable. now, rolled into a ball on a chair at my side, he seems perfectly happy and asks for nothing more. he followed me from room to room as i went to and fro. i have nothing for him to eat, but a look and caress satisfy him, at least for the present. "i have been told that weak and feeble creatures feel happy near me. i know that this is true, but i take no credit for it. i know that it is a gift. with a little encouragement the birds would nest in my beard. "this is the true relation of man with the weaker creatures. he would be heartily adored by the animals if he were not a tyrant... so that all unnecessary murder and torture are not only cowardly actions, but crimes. a useful service imposed on the animal world demands in return protection and kindness. in a word, the animal has claims on man, and the man has duties to the animal." st. francis of assisi not only cared for the birds and the harmless creatures of the fields and woods, but he is said to have fed a fierce and hungry wolf until it followed him like a dog. some years ago, general david s. stanley, of the united states army, was leading a force across the plains. he was laying out the route for a great railroad. there were two thousand men, twenty-five hundred horses and mules, and a train of two hundred and fifty wagons heavily laden. one day the general was riding at the head of the broad column, when suddenly his voice rang out, "halt!" a bird's nest lay on the ground directly in front of him. in another moment the horses would have trampled on the nestlings. the mother bird was flying about and chirping in the greatest anxiety. but the brave general had not brought out his army to destroy a bird's nest. he halted for a moment, looked at the little birds in the nest below, and then gave the order, "left oblique!" men, horses, mules, and wagons turned aside and spared the home of the helpless bird. months, and even years after, those who crossed the plains saw a great bend in the trail. it was the bend made to avoid crushing the bird's nest. truly, great hearts are tender hearts, and "the loving are the daring." "there is one language that all creatures comprehend--the language of loving-kindness. love to an animal is what sunshine is to a plant. it has a tonic effect, and they thrive on it. this does not mean fussiness --it means a combination of sympathy, wisdom and justice." the humane pleader lines to a seabird. bird of the stormy wave! bird of the sea! wide is thy sweep, and thy course is free; cleaving the blue air, and brushing the foam, air is thy field of sport, ocean thy home. bird of the sea! i could envy thy wing, o'er the blue waters i mark thy glad spring; i see thy strong pinions as onward i glide, dashed by the foam of the white-crested tide. m. a. stodart. the true hero. four ways of looking at it. four boys were standing at the corner of the street. bound the next turn, with a great burst of splendid music, came the regiment on its way to the troop-ship. along the street were lines of eager faces, some sad and anxious, to be sure, but all interested and full of excitement. "it must be glorious to fight for your country," said george, feeling his heart beat faster and faster as the regiment drew near. "i'm going to be a soldier when i grow up." "i'm not!" said dick, with a laugh. "it's too hard work, and i don't care about being shot. i like plenty to eat, and a good bed to sleep in. soldiers' fare would never suit me!" "i'm on your side, george," said the tallest boy of the group, as he watched the men marching by. "a man can make a name for himself when there's fighting going on. if we are only lucky enough to have another war, i'm not going to spend my life at a high desk, or digging potatoes on a farm. a soldier's life is the life for me." "i don't feel just that way about it, ned," said george doubtfully. "i hope i'm not thinking about my own glory. i should be glad to go as a common soldier, if i could feel that i was doing all that i could for my country." the fourth, boy was silent. with his hands in his. pockets, he had his eyes fixed on the lines of glistening bayonets. "what do you think, jack?" said ned. "you look as wise as an owl." jack turned slowly on his heel. he settled his firm chin a little deeper in his coat collar. "i don't agree with any of you, wholly," he said. "george has the best of it so far, but i think fighting is a poor way of deciding whether a thing is right or wrong." "you'd make a noble hero," said ned, with a good-natured laugh. "i'd rather make my life count for something in doing work that is worth doing, than in fighting with men who never did me any harm," said jack calmly. "a man can't do more than give his life for his country," persisted george. "that's true," said jack quickly. "only you were talking about giving your death, which isn't half so valuable." george looked blank for a moment. the others laughed at his puzzled face, but he recovered himself promptly. "i don't see why fighting isn't a good way to settle disputes," he said. "so everybody used to think," said jack. "if a man quarreled with his neighbor, it was the proper thing to have a duel. we don't have duels nowadays, and i think we are better off. don't you remember, george, that day when we fought over the bag of marbles we found in an old cellar? it was years ago, when we were little fellows. father found us fighting and sent us home. the next day he divided the marbles between us. i'm sure that was a better way than if i'd held you down a minute longer and got them all." george had still a lively recollection of that fight. "you were bigger than i was," he began. "i know it," said jack, "and because i was bigger, i should have got the marbles if father hadn't stopped me. but that wouldn't have made me the rightful owner of them. you had as much right to them as i had. father talked to me, and made me see how silly our fighting was." "do you truly think that a man who stays at home can be as good a patriot as a soldier who goes to fight for his country?" asked george, feeling a little ashamed of his friend. "i think that a man can do more for his country in time of peace than in war," said jack. "and as for courage, i know it is harder to do some of the little, common, everyday things well than to do great deeds. father says that the mothers are the real heroes in the world. i dare say it took more courage for some men to stay at home than for any of those in the regiment to go." "but you never hear about the bravery of those men," objected george. "of course, once in a while, there is a fire or a railroad accident, and somebody is very brave and heroic, but that is the exception." "i don't call daring the only kind of bravery," said jack. "just think of those nurses and priests who go out to the leper islands to care for the sick. they know that they are going to something worse than death, yet they give up everything to make life easier for a few unknown people." "i wasn't speaking of them," said george. "i mean those who stay at home, and don't do anything very remarkable." "i've noticed one thing," said jack. "the heroes are usually those who have done their work well every day. father says that what the country needs is the quiet faithfulness of every citizen." "do you think," said ned, with a superior smile, "that wars are going to stop because you disapprove of them?" "i think that war is cruel," said jack stoutly, "and i don't believe there is any need of our being cruel. i know that some of our wisest men think that the time is coming when nations will be ashamed to settle questions in that way." "how do you propose to show your wonderful patriotism. if you won't fight?" demanded ned. jack flushed a little, but he answered steadily: "i propose to make of myself as good a citizen as i can. i propose to keep my temper, and to remember that others beside myself have rights. i propose to be honest and fair. if i do all my work as well as i can, i hope that some day my life will be of service to my country." ned and dick walked off with a disagreeable laugh, but george slipped his arm through his friend's. "if i didn't know better, i should say that you were a coward, jack," he said. "i wish you had more of the hero in you." "even a hero doesn't like to be laughed at," said jack. "i know one thing, george: it takes more courage to be called a coward, and to stand up for what you think is right when others are laughing at you, than it does to fight." "i believe you are right," said george; "i can see that a man may be as much of a hero and patriot in one place as another, if he is only true to himself." he serves his country best who lives pure life, and doeth righteous deed, and walks straight paths, however others stray; and leaves his sons, as uttermost bequest, a stainless record which all men may read. susan coolidge. selections. "he prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all." coleridge. if i can stop one heart from breaking, i shall not live in vain; if i can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again, i shall not live in vain. emily dickinson. copyright by roberts bros little, brown & co., publishers. [illustration with caption: a band of mercy.] what the children can do. suggestions speak gently. animals are very sensitive to loud, harsh tones. listen to the teamsters on the street and you will find that much of their shouting is unnecessary. watch a boy with his dog and notice the rough, masterful way in which he likes to speak. there is no occasion for these harsh tones. dogs, cats, and horses are rarely deaf. on the contrary, their hearing is most acute, and a loud tone, even if it is not an angry one, is frequently a cause of positive suffering. some birds are so sensitive that they have been frightened to death by an angry tone. let us be courteous whenever we can, not only to each other, but to our dumb friends. be kind to the birds. many birds spend their winters with us, but we rarely stop to think how a heavy snowstorm must fill their small hearts with dismay. if we feed them, they will stay near our houses all winter. fasten a bark cup for water, and a bone with a bit of meat on it, to some convenient tree-trunk and watch for your visitors. they may not come to you while it is warm, but the first cold storm will bring them in flocks. a flat board, fastened to the top of a clothes-post, will hold seeds and crumbs, and makes a safe dining table for your guests. keep a cleared space on the ground for those who do not dare to be seen in high places. [illustration with caption: making friends.] here you may scatter cracked corn, nuts, and sunflower seeds. see to it in the household that nothing is thrown away that can make a bird's heart glad. help the horses. there are many ways in which this may be done. sometimes the day is warm, and you can bring a pailful of cool water for some tired traveler. or it may be cold and the horse-blanket has slipped off. a pair of willing hands can soon fasten it properly. perhaps the street is icy, and a sprinkling of ashes would make it safe once more. if a horse has fallen, a blanket spread upon the ice will help him to regain his feet. often kind-hearted boys, going up the hill to school, will carry part of a heavy load, or will put their strong, young shoulders to the wheel. if the hill is long, you can bring a stone or a log of wood to block the wheel, and give the horse a moment's needed rest. do not get angry even with a cruel driver. every kind thought, kindly carried out, will not only be an immediate help, but it may lead a thoughtless driver to be careful. if you can do nothing more, you can speak a friendly word, which is never thrown away, even on a horse. sometimes a little encouragement will help over a hard place. remember the value of little things. a cup of cold water to some toiling worker may mean the difference between comfort and misery. animals, as well as human beings, suffer very much if they cannot get water. louisa alcott tells a pretty story of the efforts of two little girls to give water to the thirsty cattle in a dusty cattle-train. "full in the hot sun stood the cars, and every crevice of room between the bars was filled with pathetic noses, sniffing eagerly at the sultry gusts that blew by, with now and then a fresher breath from the pool that lay dimpling before them. how they must have suffered, in sight of water, with the cool dash of the fall tempting them, and not a drop to wet their parched mouths! "i could not hear what the little girls said, but as they worked away so heartily, their little tanned faces grew lovely to me, in spite of their old hats and their shabby gowns. one pulled off her apron, spread it on the grass, and emptying upon it the berries from her pail, ran to the pool and returned with it dripping, to hold it up to the suffering sheep, who stretched their hot tongues gratefully to meet it, and lapped the precious water with an eagerness which made the little barefoot's task a hard one. "but to and fro she ran, never tired, though the small pail was so soon empty. her friend meanwhile pulled great handfuls of clover and grass for the cows, and having no pail, filled her 'picking-dish' with water to throw on the poor dusty noses appealing to her through the bars. i wish i could have told those tender-hearted children how beautiful their compassion made the hot, noisy place, and what a sweet picture i took away with me of those two little sisters of charity." in a foreign city many of the shopkeepers provide dishes of water for the thirsty dogs, cats, and birds who may need it. it is a pretty custom and one easily followed. here is a clipping from a western newspaper:-- "a short time ago, as i was crossing market street, near twenty-second, a boy, not over ten years old, who had been walking just before me, ran into the street and picked up a broken glass pitcher. i supposed he intended the pieces as missiles, since the desire to throw something seems instinct in every boy. consequently, i was very much surprised when he tossed the pieces into a, vacant lot at the corner and walked quietly on. as he passed me, whistling, i said:-- "'why did you pick up that pitcher?' "'i was afraid it might cut some horse's foot,' he replied. "my next question was a natural one. "'are you a band of mercy boy?' "he smiled as he said:-- "'oh, yes; that's why i did it.'" the little story may serve to suggest other ways in which children can be of service, not only to the animals and to each other, but to the world of grown-up men and women. fragments of orange and banana skins make our sidewalks dangerous as well as unsightly; rusty nails and bits of glass may do much harm which the truly helpful child will prevent. there is a mutual helpfulness among animals which is very beautiful to see. they will come together for defence and to get food, and sometimes help each other in sickness and trouble. a blind swan was fed with fish brought twice a day by other swans from a lake thirty miles away. an english sparrow pluckily rescued his mate from a big snowdrift at the risk of his life. livingstone tells of a wounded buffalo who was caught up on the strong shoulders of another buffalo and carried to a place of safety. the little mice in the meadow, and the birds upon the marshes, have learned that to be strong they must keep together and help each other. this is the law of all life. when young people learn to think about the causes of pain and suffering, and to respect the rights of animals, they will soon learn to respect each other's rights and to render this mutual aid. john bright, a noted english statesman, said: "if children at school can be made to understand how it is just and noble to be humane even to what we term inferior animals, it will do much to give them a higher character and tone through life." there are men and women who would be thankful if they could blot out some careless deed of their childhood. we may be sure that we shall never regret the kind things we have done. george eliot says:-- "it is only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. we can only have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a great man, by having wide thoughts and much feeling for the rest of the world as well as ourselves. ...if you mean to act nobly and seek to know the best things god has put within reach of men, you must learn to fix your mind on that end and not on what will happen to you because of it." in many places in this country and in europe the children are uniting to do what they can to lessen the suffering that is going on around them. to aid in this work, they are forming little companies that are known as bands of mercy. the object of these bands is to encourage brave, generous, and thoughtful deeds. the members do not pledge themselves not to kill any creature, for sometimes that is the kindest thing that can be done, and a wounded bird or insect should be put out of its pain at once. this is the resolution which the children make:-- "i will try to be kind to all living creatures, and will try to protect them from cruel usage." no fee is needed to belong to such a band. the children should sign the pledge, choose a name, and elect a president and secretary. it is well that the teacher should be president. the meetings may be made very interesting and helpful. reading, recitations, and anecdotes will give all the children a chance to share in the exercises. each child should be encouraged to tell the kindly actions he has witnessed, and to suggest ways in which children can help each other and the animals about them. there are now several hundred thousand children in the united states and in canada who have pledged themselves to this good work. if these children are faithful to the pledge which they have signed, an immense amount of good will be done. children who are taught to be kind to animals and to each other make good citizens. to the teacher. bands of mercy. so much of childish, cruelty is thoughtless that the help to be obtained from bands of mercy is apparent. to make a boy understand the misery that his air-gun and his fishhook may cause, to show the cowardly cruelty in throwing stones and in hurting innocent and defenseless creatures--this is what the band of mercy may accomplish. there is abundant testimony from teachers who have introduced humane teaching into their schools, to the effect that the children are not only kinder to the lower animals, but also more thoughtful and considerate towards each other. we want our boys and girls to be strong and brave, but in no way can their strength and bravery be made more certain than in protecting the weak and helpless. when young people learn to respect the rights of animals and to think about the causes of pain and suffering, they will apply these thoughts to their everyday life. they will learn to respect each other's rights, and crime of all kinds will be diminished. upon teachers and parents a great responsibility rests. they are forming the minds and the habits of the coming generation. upon their instruction may depend future peace or war, good citizenship or a low standard of patriotism and morals. with the best intention of implanting the humane idea, teachers sometimes indirectly teach what is not really humane. for example, physiology lessons are sometimes illustrated by parts of dead animals, which must be obtained from a butcher's shop or a slaughterhouse. this is not directly cruel, because the animals are already dead, but it is not refining to the sensibilities. sometimes the teacher enlarges on the special use of animals for food. it is unnecessary to lay emphasis on the use of animal food, when we remember that the number of people who live without it is constantly increasing, and that these people maintain at least as high a standard of health as those who make use of it; indeed, it is claimed that their health is better and that they are more likely to be free from certain diseases to which meat eaters are subject. the bands of mercy are valuable in teaching young people the highest ideals of life, and in showing them that the universal law of love is the only law which will bring what we all desire, "peace on earth, and good will to all." suggestions for subjects for compositions. in connection with school work, compositions may be written on some of the subjects suggested below:-- the rights of animals and the protection that we should give them. transportation of cattle; or, a journey from the western plains to the market. how does cruelty to animals affect meat, milk, and fish? influence of humane education. importance of early lessons in kindness. some account of the humane work done by henry bergh. some account of the humane work done by george t. angell. cruelty to horses. checkrein, blinders, docking. various ways in which the tight checkrein affects the horse. what are the principal lessons taught by "black beauty"? acts of kindness which i have observed. the rights of cats. the cruelty of abandoning cats when moving from one house to another. good work done by frogs and toads. the value of bird life. how shall we protect the birds? cruelty of caging birds and squirrels. egret plumes and how they are obtained. valuable leaflets on the care and kind treatment of animals may be obtained by addressing the animal rescue league, carver street, boston, mass. "we and our friends" and other leaflets may be obtained of mrs. mary f. lovell, summit ave., jenkintown, pa. leaflets and pamphlets suitable for use in schools and for distribution elsewhere, including some with stories of cats, dogs, etc., can be obtained from the american humane education society, longwood ave., boston, mass. at the same address may also be obtained other inexpensive publications. among them are the following:-- "songs of happy life," a fine collection of songs, many of them with original music by eminent modern composers. this book inculcates a love of nature and kindness to all living creatures. many of the songs are suitable for peace day, bird day, and arbor day exercises. it contains, besides the music, an outline of band of mercy entertainments, selections for readings, recitations, memory gems, etc., which may be found very useful for school work as well as suitable for bands of mercy. american humane education society, boston. price cents. "voices for the speechless," a collection of poems from standard authors, suitable for recitations etc. "the teacher's helper in humane education," by dr. rowley. pages. price cents. note.--as soon as a band of mercy numbers thirty members it should be reported to the american humane education society, longwood ave., fenway station, boston, mass., which will send our dumb animals free for one year, with an assortment of valuable leaflets. from this society may also be obtained interesting books, "black beauty" among others. several hundred thousand copies of this book have been sold. its price, paper bound, is twenty cents, postage paid. "our gold mine at hollyhurst" and "twelve lessons on kindness to animals" may also be obtained from the society. information concerning the jack london club all exhibitions of trained animals should be discouraged, as much cruelty is involved in teaching them the unnatural tricks. persons who have witnessed the training of animals say there is a great deal of suffering behind the scenes. they not only suffer from cruelty but are forced to live in unnatural surroundings and suffer from close confinement. use your influence to discourage such shows. the jack london club has been formed to stop this kind of cruelty. it is an organized protest against the cruelties involved in training animals and exhibiting them on the stage. send your name and address to our dumb animals, longwood ave., boston, mass. sending your name will mean that you are willing to leave your seat in any place of amusement while performing animals are on the stage. even if you won't do this, talk about the cruelties connected with these performances. join the jack london club now; no dues, no fees. the club, in little over three years, secured a membership of over two hundred thousand and is growing rapidly. free literature about the jack london club may be obtained. the book by jack london, "michael brother of jerry," which deals with this cruelty, is sold at one dollar per copy. laws have been passed in the following states making humane education compulsory in the public schools: maine, washington, california, colorado, north dakota, south dakota, oklahoma, idaho, montana, texas, wyoming, pennsylvania, utah, new hampshire, michigan, wisconsin, illinois, alabama, connecticut, kentucky, and new york. many testimonials have been received from school superintendents and teachers as to the good results obtained since humane education has been made a part of the regular school work. as state after state is passing the law making humane education a part of the school work, some students may ask why the state is especially interested in their being taught kindness to all living creatures,--to the lower animals as well as to human beings. the teacher can mention the fact that eighty per cent of the criminal class in our jails and prisons were cruel from childhood, and that it is less expensive for the state to educate the child in humanity than to support him as a criminal. the teacher can tell the child that if it is necessary to take life, it should be done as quickly and painlessly as possible. it is cruel to inflict needless pain. tell the child that our hearts warm toward one who is kind, while we shrink from one who is cruel. the child should be taught to remember that no living creature is here from choice; all comes from the hand of god, and each has its special work. we must also remember that a child when cruel is morally hurt, and a moral hurt is greater than a physical one. "we and the beasts are kin. man has nothing that the animals have not at least a vestige of; the animals have nothing that man does not in some degree share. since, then, the animals are creatures with wants and feelings differing in degree only from our own, they surely have their rights."--ernest thompson seton. commission of conservation canada animal sanctuaries in labrador an address presented by lt.-colonel william wood, f.r.s.c. before the second annual meeting of the commission of conservation at quebec, january, ottawa: capital press limited, _animal sanctuaries in labrador_ an address presented by lt.-colonel william wood before the second annual meeting of the commission of conservation held at quebec, january, an appeal all to whom wild nature is one of the greatest glories of the earth, all who know its higher significance for civilized man to-day, and all who consequently prize it as an heirloom for posterity, are asked to help in keeping the animal life of labrador from being wantonly done to death. there is nothing to cause disagreement among the three main classes of people most interested in wild life--the men whose business depends in any way on animal products, the sportsmen, and the nature-lovers of every kind. there are very good reasons why the general public should support the scheme. and there are equally good reasons why it should be induced to do so by simply telling it the truth about the senseless extermination that is now going on. every reader can help by spreading some knowledge of the subject in his or her home circle. canada, like all free countries, is governed by public opinion. and sound public opinion, like all other good things, should always begin at home. the press can help, as it has helped many another good cause, by giving the subject full publicity. free use can be made of the present paper in any way desired. it is left non-copyright for this very purpose. experts can help by pointing out mistakes, giving information, and making suggestions of their own. and if any of them will undertake to lead, the present author will undertake to follow. it is proposed to issue a supplement in , containing all the additional information collected in the mean time. every such item of information will be duly credited to the person supplying it. all correspondence should be addressed-- colonel wood, , grande allée, quebec. animal sanctuaries in labrador by lieut.-colonel william wood, f.r.s.c., etc. mr. chairman and gentlemen:-- to be quite honest i must begin by saying that i am not a scientific expert on either animals, sanctuaries or labrador. but, by way of excusing my temerity, i can plead a life-long love of animals, a good deal of experience and study of them--especially down the lower st. lawrence, and considerable attention to sanctuaries in general and their suitability to labrador in particular. moreover, i can plead this most pressingly important fact, that a magnificent opportunity is fast slipping away before our very eyes there, without a single effort being made to seize it. i have repeatedly discussed the question with those best qualified to give sound advice--with naturalists, explorers, missionaries, fishermen, furriers, traders, hunters, sportsmen, and many who are accustomed to look ahead into the higher development of our public life. i have also read the books, papers and reports written from up-to-date and first-hand knowledge. and, though i have been careful to consult men who regard such questions from very different points of view, and books showing quite as wide a general divergence, i have found a remarkable consensus of opinion in favour of establishing a system of sanctuaries before it is too late. i should like to add that any information on the subject, or any correction of what i have written here, will be most welcome. the simple address, quebec, will always find me. the only special point i would ask correspondents to remember is that even the best recommendations must be adapted to the peculiarities of the labrador problem, which is new, strange, immense, and full of complex human factors. perhaps i might be allowed to explain that i speak simply as a canadian. i am not connected with any of the material interests concerned. i do not even belong to a fish and game club. my only object is to prove, from verifiable facts, that animal life in labrador is being recklessly and wantonly squandered, that this is detrimental to everyone except the get-rich-quickly people who are ready to destroy any natural resources forever in order to reap an immediate and selfish advantage, that sanctuaries will better conditions in every way, and that the ultimate benefit to canada--both in a material and a higher sense--will repay the small present expense required, over and over again. and this repayment need not be long deferred. i can show that once the public grasps the issues at stake it will supply enough petitioners to move any government based on popular support, and that the scheme itself will supply enough money to make the sanctuaries a national asset of the most paying kind, and enough higher human interest to make them priceless as a possession for ourselves and a heritage for all who come after. if, sir, you would allow me to make one more preliminary explanation, i should like to say that i have purposely left out all the usual array of statistics. i have, of course, examined them carefully myself, and based my arguments upon them. but i have excluded them from my text because they would have made an already long paper unduly longer, and because they are perfectly accessible to every member of the commission which i have the honour of addressing to-night. sanctuaries. a sanctuary may be defined as a place where man is passive and the rest of nature active. till quite recently nature had her own sanctuaries, where man either did not go at all or only as a tool-using animal in comparatively small numbers. but now, in this machinery age, there is no place left where man cannot go with overwhelming forces at his command. he can strangle to death all the nobler wild life in the world to-day. to-morrow he certainly will have done so, unless he exercises due foresight and self-control in the mean time. there is not the slightest doubt that birds and mammals are now being killed off much faster than they can breed. and it is always the largest and noblest forms of life that suffer most. the whales and elephants, lions and eagles, go. the rats and flies, and all mean parasites, remain. this is inevitable in certain cases. but it is wanton killing off that i am speaking of to-night. civilized man begins by destroying the very forms of wild life he learns to appreciate most when he becomes still more civilized. the obvious remedy is to begin conservation at an earlier stage, when it is easier and better in every way, by enforcing laws for close seasons, game preserves, the selective protection of certain species, and sanctuaries. i have just defined a sanctuary as a place where man is passive and the rest of nature active. but this general definition is too absolute for any special case. the mere fact that man has to protect a sanctuary does away with his purely passive attitude. then, he can be beneficially active by destroying pests and parasites, like bot-flies or mosquitoes, and by finding antidotes for diseases like the epidemic which periodically kills off the rabbits and thus starves many of the carnivora to death. but, except in cases where experiment has proved his intervention to be beneficial, the less he upsets the balance of nature the better, even when he tries to be an earthly providence. in itself a sanctuary is a kind of wild "zoo," on a gigantic scale and under ideal conditions. as such, it appeals to everyone interested in animals, from the greatest zoologist to the mere holiday tourist. before concluding i shall give facts to show how well worth while it would be to establish sanctuaries, even if there were no other people to enjoy the benefits. yet the strongest of all arguments is that sanctuaries, far from conflicting with other interests, actually further them. but unless we make these sanctuaries soon we shall be infamous forever, as the one generation which defrauded posterity of all the preservable wild life that nature took a million years to evolve into its present beautiful perfection. only a certain amount of animal life can exist in a certain area. the surplus must go outside. so sanctuaries are more than wild "zoos", they are overflowing reservoirs, fed by their own springs, and feeding streams of life at every outlet. they serve not only those interested in animal life, but those legitimately interested in animal death, for business, sport or food. i might mention many instances of successful sanctuaries, permanent or temporary, absolute or modified--the algonquin, rocky mountains, yoho, glacier, jasper and laurentides in canada; the yellowstone, yosemite, grand cañon, olympus and superior in the united states; with the sea-lions of california, the wonderful revival of ibex in spain and deer in maine and new brunswick, the great preserves in uganda, india and ceylon, the selective work of baron von berlepsch in germany, the curious result of taboo protection up the nelson river, and the effects on seafowl in cases as far apart in time and space as the guano islands under the incas of peru, gardiner island in the united states or the bass rock off the coast of scotland. yet i do not ignore the difficulties. first, there is the universal difficulty of introducing or enforcing laws where there have been no operative laws before. next, there is the difficulty of arousing public opinion on any subject, however worthy, which requires both insight and foresight. then, we must remember that protected species increasing beyond their special means of subsistence have to seek other kinds of food, sometimes with unfortunate results. and then there are the several special difficulties connected with labrador. there are three british governments concerned--newfoundland, the dominion and the province of quebec. there are french and american fishermen along the shore. the proper protection of some migratory species will require co-operation with the united states, perhaps with mexico and south america for certain birds, and even with denmark for the greenland seal. then, there are the indians, the whole trade in animal products, the necessity of not interfering with any legitimate development, and the question of immediate expense, however small, for a deferred benefit, however great and near at hand. and, finally, we must remember that scientific knowledge is not by any means adequate to deal with all the factors of the problem at once. labrador but in spite of all these and many other difficulties, i firmly believe that labrador is by far the best country in the world for the best kinds of sanctuary. the first time you're on a lee shore there, in a full gale, you may well be excused for shrinking back from the wild white line of devouring breakers. but when you actually make for them you find the coast opening into archipelagoes of islands, to let you safely through into the snug little "tickles," between island and mainland, where you can ride out the storm as well as you could in a landlocked harbour. this is typical of many another pleasant surprise. labrador decidedly improves on acquaintance. the fogs have been grossly exaggerated. the atlantic seaboard is clearer than the british isles, which, by the way, lie in exactly the same latitudes. and the gulf is far clearer than new brunswick, nova scotia and the banks. the climate is exceptionally healthy, the air a most invigorating tonic, and the cold no greater than in many a civilized northern land. besides, there is a considerable range of temperatures in a country whose extreme north and south lie , miles apart, one in the latitude of greenland, the other in that of paris. taking the labrador peninsula geographically, as including the whole area east of a line run up the saguenay and on from lake st. john to james bay, it comprises , square miles--eleven englands! the actual residents hardly number , . about twice as many outsiders appear off the coasts at certain seasons. so it would take a tenfold increase, afloat and ashore, to make one human being to each square mile of land. but, all the same, wild life needs conservation there, and needs it badly, as we shall presently see. most of labrador is a rocky tableland, still rising from the depths, with some old beaches as much as , feet above the present level of the sea. the st. lawrence seaboard is famous for its rivers and forests. the atlantic seaboard has the same myriads of islands, is magnificently bold, is pierced by fiords unexcelled in norway, and crowned by mountains higher than any others east of the rockies. hamilton inlet runs in miles. at ramah the cliffs rise sheer three thousand five hundred feet and more. the four peaks, still untrodden by the foot of man, rise more than twice as high again. and the colouration, of every splendid hue, adds beauty to the grandeur of the scene. inland, there are lakes up to miles long, big rivers by the score, deep canyons and foaming rapids--to say nothing of the countless waterfalls, of which the greatest equals two niagaras. this vast country is accessible by sea on three sides, and will soon be accessible by land on the fourth. it lies directly half-way between great britain and our own north west and is , miles nearer london than new york is. its timber, mines and water-power will be increasingly exploited. it should also become increasingly attractive to the best type of tourist, naturalist and sportsman. but supposing all this does happen. the mines, water-powers and lumbering will only create small towns and villages. there will surely be some conservation to have the forests used and not abused especially by fire: and the white man should remember that he is the worst of all in turning a land from green to black. except in the southwest and a few isolated spots, the country cannot be farmed. at the same time, the urban population must have communications with the outside world, by which regular supplies can come in. this will make the settlers independent of wild life for necessary food; and wild life, in any case, would be too precarious if exploited in the usual way. the traders in wild-animal products, as well as the naturalists, sportsmen and tourists, are interested in keeping the rest of the country well stocked. so that, one way and another, the human and wild-animal life will not conflict, as they do where farming creates a widespread rural population, or wanton destruction of forests ruins land and water, and human and animal life have to suffer for it afterwards. all the different places required for business spheres of influence in the near future, added to all the business spheres of the present, can hardly exceed the area of one whole england, especially if all suitable areas are not thrown open simultaneously to lumbering, at the risk of the usual bad results. so there will remain ten other englands, admirably fitted, in all respects, to grow wild life in the most beneficial abundance, and quite able to do so indefinitely, if a reasonable amount of general protection is combined with well-situated sanctuaries. the fauna is much more richly varied than people who think of labrador as nothing but an arctic barren are inclined to suppose. the fisheries have been known for centuries, especially the cod, which has a prerogative right to the simple word "fish." there are herring and lobsters in the gulf, plenty of salmon and trout in most of the rivers, winninish in all the tributary waters of the hamilton, as well as in lake st. john, whitefish in the lakes, and so forth. then, the stone-carrying chub is one of the most interesting creatures in the world.... but the fish and fisheries have problems of their own too great for incidental treatment; and i shall pass on to the birds and mammals. yet i must not forget the "flies"--who that has felt them once can ever forget them? labrador is not a very happy hunting-ground for the entomologist. but all it lacks in variety of kinds it more than makes up in number of individuals, especially in the detestable trio of bot-flies, blackflies and mosquitoes. the bot-fly infests the caribou and will probably infest the reindeer. the blackfly and mosquito attack both man and beast in maddening millions. the mosquito is not malarious. but that is the only bad thing he is not. destruction is "conservation" so far as "flies," parasites and disease germs are concerned. labrador has over species of birds, from humming-birds and sanderlings to eagles, gannets, loons and herons. among those able to hold their own, with proper encouragement, are the following: two loons, two murres, the puffin, guillemot, razor-billed auk, dovekie and pomarine jæger; six gulls--ivory, kittiwake, glaucous, great black-back, herring and bonaparte; two terns--arctic and common; the fulmar, two shearwaters, two cormorants, the red-breasted merganser and the gannet; seven ducks--the black, golden-eye, old squaw and harlequin, with the american, king and greenland eiders; three scoters; four geese--snow, blue, brant and canada; two phalaropes, several sandpipers, with the hudsonian godwit and both yellowlegs; two snipes; five plovers; and the eskimo and hudsonian curlews. these two curlews should be absolutely closed to all shooting everywhere for several seasons. they are on the verge of extinction; and it may even now be too late to save them. the great blue heron and american bittern are not common, but less rare than they are supposed to be. except for the willow and rock ptarmigans the land game-birds are not many in kind or numbers. there are a fair number of ruffed grouse in the south, and more spruce grouse in the north. the birds of prey are well represented by a few golden and more bald-headed eagles, the american rough-legged and other hawks, the black and the white gyrfalcons, the osprey, and eight owls, including the great horned owl, the boldest bird of all. the raven is widely distributed all the year round. several woodpeckers, kingfishers, jays, bluebird, kingbird, chickadee, snow bunting; several sparrows, including, fortunately, the white-crowned, white-throat and song, but now, unfortunately, the english as well. there are blackbirds, red-polls, a dozen warblers, the american robin, hermit thrush and ruby-throated humming-bird. both the land and sea mammals are of great importance. several whales are well known. the right is almost exterminated; but the greenland, or bow-head, is found along the edge of the ice in all hudsonian waters. the pollock is rare, and the sperm, or cachalot, as nearly exterminated as the right. but the little-piked, or _rostrata_, is found inshore along the north and east, the bottle-nose on the north, the humpback on the east and south; and the finback and sulphur-bottom are common and widely distributed, especially on the east. the little white whale, or "white porpoise," is fairly common all round; the killer is widely distributed, but most numerous on the east, where the narwhal is also found. the harbour and striped porpoises, and the common and bottle-nosed dolphins, are chiefly on the east and south. there are six seals--the harbour, ringed, harp, bearded, grey and hooded. the harbour seal is also called the "common" and the "wise" seal, and is the _vitulina_ of zoology. it is common all round the coasts, and the indians of the interior assert that many live permanently in the lakes. big and little seal lakes are more than miles from the nearest salt water. the ringed seal is locally called "floe rat" and "gum seal." it is the smallest and least valuable of all, and fairly common all round. the harp seal is "seal," in the same way as cod is "fish." it has various local names, five among the french-canadians alone, but is specifically known as the greenland seal. the young, immediately after birth, have a fine white coat, which makes them valuable. the herds are followed on a large scale at the end of the winter season, which is also the whelping season, and hundreds of thousands are killed, females and young preponderating. they are still common along the east and south, but diminishing steadily, especially in the st. lawrence. the bearded, or "square-flipper," seal is rare in the st. lawrence and on the atlantic, but commoner in hudsonian waters. it is a large seal, eight feet long, and bulky in proportion. the grey, or horse-head, seal runs up to about the same size occasionally and is one of the gamest animals that swims. it is rare on the atlantic and not common anywhere on the st. lawrence. the "hoods" are the largest of all and the lions of the lot. they run up to , pounds and over, and sometimes fourteen feet long. they are rare on the atlantic and decreasing along the st. lawrence, owing to the newfoundland hunters. the walrus, formerly abundant all round, is now rarely seen except in the far north, where he is fast decreasing. moose may feel their way in by the southwest to an increasing extent, and might possibly be reinforced by the alaskan variety. red deer might possibly be induced to enter by the same way in fair numbers over a limited area. the woodland caribou is almost exterminated, but might be resuscitated. the barren-ground caribou is still plentiful in the north, where most of the herds appear to migrate in an immense ellipse, crossing from west to east, over the barrens, in the fall, to the atlantic, and then turning south and west through the woods in winter, till they reach their original starting-point near hudson bay in the spring. but this is not to be counted on. the herds divide, change direction, and linger in different places. their tame brother, the reindeer, is being introduced as the chief domestic animal of eastern labrador, with apparently every prospect of success. beaver are fairly common and widely distributed in forested areas. other rodents are frequent--squirrels, musk-rats, mice, voles, lemmings, hares and porcupines. there are two bats. black bears are general; polars, in the north. grizzlies have been traded at fort chimo in ungava, but they are probably all killed out. the lynx is common wherever there are woods. there are two wolves, arctic and timber, the latter now rare in the south. the labrador red fox is very common in the woods, and the "white," or arctic fox, in the barrens and further south on both coasts. the "cross," "silver" and "black" variations of course occur, as they naturally increase towards the northern limits of range. the "blue" is a seasonal change of the "white." the wolverine and otter are common. the skunk is only known in the southwest. the mink ranges through the southern third of the peninsula. the labrador marten, or "sable," is a sub-species, generally distributed in the forested parts, like the weasel. the "fisher," or pennant's marten, is much more local, ranging only between the "north shore" and mistassini. from the st. lawrence to the barren grounds three-fourths of the land has been burnt over since the white man came. the resultant loss of all forms of life may be imagined, especially when we remember that the fire often burns up the very soil itself, leaving nothing but rocks and black desolation. still, there is plenty of fur and feather worth preserving. but nothing can save it unless conservation replaces the present reckless destruction. destruction when rich virgin soil is first farmed it yields a maximum harvest for a minimum of human care. but presently it begins to fail, and will fail altogether unless man returns to it in one form some of the richness he expects to get from it in another. now, exploited wild life fails even faster under wasteful treatment; but, on the other hand, with hardly any of the trouble required for continuous farming, quickly recovers itself by being simply let alone. so when we consider how easily it can be preserved in labrador, and how beneficial its preservation is to all concerned, we can understand how the wanton destruction going on there is quite as idiotic as it is wrong. take "egging" as an example. the indians, eskimos and other beasts of prey merely preserved the balance of nature by the toll they used to take. no beast of prey, not even the white man, will destroy his own stock supply of food. but with the nineteenth century came the white-man market "eggers", systematically taking or destroying every egg in every place they visited. halifax, quebec and other towns were centres of the trade. the "eggers" increased in numbers and thoroughness till the eggs decreased in the more accessible spots below paying quantities. but other egging still goes on unchecked. the game laws of the province of quebec distinctly state: "it is forbidden to take nests or eggs of wild birds at any time". but the swarms of fishermen who come up the north shore of the st. lawrence egg wherever they go. if they are only to stay in the same spot for a day or two, they gather all the eggs they can, put them into water, and throw away every one that floats. sometimes three, four, five or even ten times as many are thrown away as are kept, and all those bird lives lost for nothing. worse still, if the men are going to stay long enough they will often go round the nests and make sure of smashing every single egg. then they come back in a few days and gather every single egg, because they know it has been laid in the mean time and must be fresh. when we remember how many thousands of men visit the shore, and that the resident population eggs on its own account, at least as high up as the pilgrims, only miles from quebec, we need not be prophets to foresee the inevitable end of all bird life when subjected to such a drain. and this is on the st. lawrence, where there are laws and wardens and fewer fishermen. what about the atlantic labrador, where there are no laws, no wardens, many more fishermen, and ruthless competitive egging between the residents and visitors? of course, where people must egg or starve there is nothing more to be said. but this sort of egging is very limited, not enough to destroy the birds, and the necessity for it will become less frequent as other sources of supply become available. it is the utterly wanton destruction that is the real trouble. and it is just as bad with the birds as with the eggs. a schooner captain says, "now, boys, here's your butcher shop: help yourselves!" and this, remember, is in the brooding season. not long ago the men from a vessel in cross harbour landed on an islet full of eiders and killed every single brooding mother. such men have grown up to this, and there is that amount of excuse for them. besides, they ate the birds, though they destroyed the broods. yet, as they always say, "we don't know no law here," it may be suspected that they do know there really is one. these men do a partly excusable wrong. but what about those who ought to know better? in the summer of an american millionaire's yacht landed a party who shot as many brooding birds on st. mary island as they chose, and then left the bodies to rot and the broods to perish. that was, presumably, for sport. for the same kind of sport, motor boats cut circles round diving birds, drown them, and let the bodies float away. the north shore people have drowned myriads of moulting scoters in august; but they use the meat. bestial forms of sport are many and vile. "c'est un plaisir superbe" was the description given by some voyageurs on exploring work, who had spent the afternoon chasing young birds about the rocks and stamping them to death. deer were literally hacked to pieces by construction gangs on new lines last summer. dynamiting a stream is quite a common trick wherever it is safe to play it. harbour seals are wantonly shot in deep fresh water where they cannot be recovered, much as seagulls are shot by blackguards from an ocean liner. and the worst of it is that all this wanton destruction is not by any means confined to the ignorant or those who have been brought up to it. the men from the american yacht must have known better. so do those educated men from our own cities, who shoot out of season down the st. lawrence and plead, quite falsely, that there is no game law below the brandy pots. it is, of course, well understood that a man can always shoot for necessary food. but this provision is shamelessly misused. last summer, when a great employer of labour down the gulf was telling where birds could be shot to the greatest advantage out of season, and i was objecting that it was not clean sport, he said, "oh, but indians can shoot for food at any time--_and we're all indians here!"_ and what are we to think of a rich man who used caribou simply as targets for his new rifle, and a scientific man who killed in one morning, only to make a record? we need the true ideal of sport and an altogether new ideal of conservation, and we need them very badly and very soon. we have had our warnings. the great auk and the labrador duck have both become utterly extinct within living memory. the eskimo curlew is decreasing to the danger point, and the yellowlegs is following. the lobster fishing is being wastefully conducted along the st. lawrence; so, indeed, are the other fisheries. whales are diminishing: the cape charles and hawke harbour establishments are running, but those at l'anse au loup and seven islands are not. the whole whaling industry is disappearing all over the world before the uncontrolled persecution of the new steam whalers. the walrus is exterminated everywhere in labrador except in the north. the seals are diminishing. every year the hunters are better supplied with better implements of butchery. the catch is numbered by the hundreds of thousands, and this only for one fleet in one place at one season, when the newfoundlanders come up the st. lawrence at the end of the winter. the woodland caribou has been killed off to such an extent as to cause both indians and wolves to die off with him. the barren-ground caribou is still plentiful, though decreasing. the dying out of so many indians before the time of the low and eaton expedition of - led to an increase of fur-bearing animals. but renewed, improved, increased and uncontrolled trapping has now reduced them below their former level. hunting for the market seems to be going round in a vicious circle, always narrowing in on the quarry, which must ultimately be strangled to death. the white man comes in with better equipment, more systematic methods and often a "get-rich-and-get-out" idea that never entered a native head. the indian has to go further afield. the white follows. their prey shrinks back in diminishing numbers before them both. prices go up. the hunt becomes keener, the animals fewer and farther off. presently hunters and hunted will reach the far side of the utmost limits. and then traded, traders and trade will all disappear together. and it might so well be otherwise. there is another point that should never be passed over. in these days the public conscience is beginning to realize that the objection to man's cruelty towards his other fellow-beings is something more than a fad or a fancy. and wanton slaughter is very apt to be accompanied by shameless cruelty. to kill off parents when the young are helpless.... but i have already given enough sickening details of this. the treatment of the adults is almost worse in many typical cases. an indian will skin a hare alive and gloat over his quivering death-agonies. the excuse is, "white man have fun, indian have fun, too." and it is a valid excuse, from one point of view. when "there's nothing in caribou" except the value of the tongue, the tongue has been cut out of the living deer, whose only other value is considered to be the amusement afforded by his horrible fate. and, fiendish cruelty like this is not confined to the outer wilds. when some civilized english-speaking bird-catchers get a bird they do not want, they will deliberately wrench its bill apart, so that it must die of lingering starvation. sometimes the cruelty is done to man himself. not so many years ago some whalers secured a lot of walrus hides and tusks by having a whole herd of walrus wiped out, in spite of the fact that these animals were, at that very time, known to be the only food available for a neighbouring tribe of eskimos. the eskimos were starved to death, every soul among them, as the government explorers found out. but eskimos have no votes and never write to the papers; while walrus hides were booming in the markets of civilization. things like these are not much spoken of. they very rarely appear in print. and when they are mentioned at all it is generally with an apology for introducing unpleasant details. but i am sure i need not apologize to gentlemen who are anxious to know the full truth of this great question, who cannot fail to see the connection between wanton destruction and revolting cruelty, and who must be as ready to rouse the moral conscience of our people against the cruelty as they are to rouse its awakening sense of conservation against the destruction. conservation all the sound reasons ever given for conserving other natural resources apply to the conservation of wild life--and with three-fold power. when a spend-thrift squanders his capital it is lost to him and his heirs; yet it goes somewhere else. when a nation allows any one kind of natural resource to be squandered it must suffer a real, positive loss; yet substitutes of another kind can generally be found. but when wild life is squandered it does not go elsewhere, like squandered money; it cannot possibly be replaced by any substitute, as some inorganic resources are: it is simply an absolute, dead loss, gone beyond even the hope of recall. now, we have seen verifiable facts enough to prove that labrador, out of its total area of eleven englands, is not likely to be advantageously exploitable over much more than the area of one england for other purposes than the growth and harvesting of wild life by land and water. how are these ten englands to be brought under conservation, before it is too late, in the best interests of the five chief classes of people who are concerned already or will be soon? of course, the same individual may belong to more than one class. i merely use these divisions to make sure of considering all sides of the question. the five great interests are those of-- . food. . business. . the indians and eskimos. . sport, and . the zoophilists, by which i mean all people interested in wild-animal life, from zoologists to tourists. . food.--the resident population is so sparse that there is not one person for every , acres; and most of these people live on the coast. consequently, the vast interior could not be used for food supplies in any case. besides, ever since the white man occupied the coast, the immediate hinterland, which used to be full of life, has become more and more barren. fish is plentiful enough. a few small crops of common vegetables could be grown in many places, and outside supplies are becoming more available. so the toll of birds and mammals taken by the present genuine residents for necessary food is not a menace, if taken in reason. in isolated places in the gulf, like harrington, the provincial law might safely be relaxed, so as to allow the eggs of ducks and gulls to be taken up to the th of june and those of murres, auks and puffins up to the th. flight birds might also be shot at any time on the outside capes and islands. there is a local unwritten law down there--"no guns inside, after the st of june"--and it has been kept for twenty years. similar relaxations might be allowed in other places, in genuine cases of necessity. but the egging and out-of-season slaughter done by people, resident or not, who are in touch with the outside world, should be stopped absolutely. and the few walrus now required as food by the few out-living eskimos should be strictly protected. of course, killing for food under real stress of need at any time or place goes without saying. the real and spurious cases will soon be discriminated by any proper system. . business.--business is done in fish, whales, seals, fur, game, plumage and eggs. the fish are a problem apart. but it is worth noting that uncontrolled exploitation is beginning to affect even their countless numbers in certain places. whales have always been exploited indiscriminately, and their wide range outside of territorial waters adds to the difficulties of any regulation. but some seasonal and sanctuary protection is necessary to prevent their becoming extinct. the "white porpoise" could have its young protected; and whaling stations afford means of inspection and consequent control. the only chance at present is that when whales become too scarce to pay they are let alone, and may revive a little. the seals can be protected locally and ought to be. the preponderance of females and young killed in the whelping season is a drain impossible for them to withstand under modern conditions of slaughter. the difficulty of policing large areas simultaneously might be compensated for by special sanctuaries. the americans are protecting their seals by restrictions on the numbers, ages and sex of those killed; and doing so successfully. the fur trade is open to the same sort of wise restriction, when necessary, to the protection of wild fur by the breeding of tame, as in the fox farms, and to the benefits of sanctuaries. marketable game, plumage and eggs can be regulated at out ports and markets. and the extension of suitable laws to non-game animals, coupled with the establishment of sanctuaries, would soon improve conditions all round, especially in the interest of business itself. no one wants his business to be destroyed. but if labrador is left without control indefinitely every business dealing with the products of wild life will be obliged to play the suicidal game of competitive grab till the last source of supply is exhausted, and capital, income and employment all go together. . indians and eskimos.--the eskimos are few and mostly localized. the indians stand to gain by anything that will keep the fur trade in full vigour, as they are mostly hunters and trappers. restriction on the number of skins, if that should prove necessary, and certainly on the sale of all poisons, could be made operative. strychnine is said to kill animals eating the carcases even so far as to the seventh remove. close seasons and sanctuaries are difficult to enforce with all indians. but the registration of trappers, the enforcement of laws, the employment of indians as guides for sportsmen, and other means, would have a salutary effect. the full-bloods, unfortunately, do not take kindly to guiding. indians wishing to change their way of life or proving persistent lawbreakers might be hived in reserves with their wives and families. the reserves themselves would cost nothing, the indians could find employment as other indians have, and the expense of establishing would be a bagatelle. as a matter of fact, in spite of all the bad bargains having always been on the indian side when sales and treaties were made with the whites, there is enough money to the credit of the indians in the hands of the government to establish a dozen hives and keep the people in them as idle as drones on the mere interest of it. but good hunting grounds are better than good hives. . sport.--sport should have a great future in labrador. inland game birds, except ptarmigan, are the only kind of which there is never likely to be a great abundance, owing to the natural scarcity of their food. but, besides the big game on land and game birds on the coast, there are some unusual forms of sport appealing to adventurous natures. harpooning the little white whale by hand in a north shore canoe, or shooting the largest and gamest of all the seals--the great "hood"--also out of a canoe, requires enough skill and courage to make success its own reward. the extension and enforcement of proper game laws would benefit sport directly, while indirectly benefitting all the other interests. . zoophilists.--the zoophilist class seems only in place as an afterthought. but i am convinced that it will soon become of at least equal importance with any other. all the people, from zoologists to tourists, who are drawn to such places by the attraction of seeing animal life in its own surroundings, already form an immense class in every community. and it is a rapidly increasing class. could we do posterity any greater injury than by destroying the ten englands of glorious wild life in labrador, just at the very time when our own and other publics are beginning to appreciate the value of the appeal which such haunts of nature make to all the highest faculties of civilized man? the way can be made clear by scientific study. the laws can be drawn up by any intelligent legislators, and enforced quite as efficiently as other laws have been by the mounted police in the north west. the expense will be small, the benefits great and widely felt. the only real hitch is the uninformed and therefore apathetic state of public opinion. if people only knew that labrador contained a hundred saguenays, wild zoos, thousand islands, fiords, palisades, sea mountains, cañons, great lakes and waterfalls, if they only knew that they could get the enjoyment of it for a song, and make it an heirloom for no more trouble than letting it live, they might do all that is needed to-morrow. but they don't know. and the three governments cannot do much without the support of public opinion. at present they do practically nothing. the ungavan labrador has neither organization nor laws. the newfoundland labrador has organization but no laws. and the quebec labrador has laws but no observance of them. however, quebec has laws, which are something, legislators who have made the laws, and leaders who have introduced them. the trouble is that the public generally has no sense of responsibility in the matter of enforcement. it still has a hazy idea that nature has an overflowing sanctuary of her own, somewhere or other, which will fill up the gaps automatically. the result is that poaching is commonly regarded as a venial offence, poachers taken red-handed are rarely punished, and willing ears are always lent to the cry that rich sportsmen are trying to take the bread out of the poor settler's mouth. the poor settler does not reflect that he himself, and all other classes alike, really have a common interest in the conservation of any wild life that does not conflict with legitimate human development. there is some just cause of complaint that the big-game reserves are hampering the peasants in parts of india and the settlers and natives in parts of uganda. but no such complaint can be raised against the laurentide national park, so wisely established by the quebec government. the worst of it is that many of the richer people set the example in law-breaking. the numbers of big game allowed are exceeded, out-of-season shooting goes on, and both out-of-season and forbidden game is sold in the markets and served at the dinner tables of the very class who should be first in protecting it. partly because quebec has taken the lead in legislation, and partly because an ideal site is ready to hand under its jurisdiction, i would venture to suggest the immediate establishment of an absolute sanctuary for all wild birds and mammals along as much of the coast as possible on either side of cape whittle. the best place of all to keep is from cape whittle eastward to cape mekattina, miles in a straight line by sea. the miles from cape mekattina eastward to shekatika bay are probably the next best; and, next, the from cape whittle westward to cloudberry point. as there are miles between quebec and the strait, i am only proposing to make from one-tenth to one-fifth of them into a sanctuary. and this part is the least fitted for other purposes, except sea-fishing, which would not be restricted at all, the least inhabited, and the most likely to succeed as a sanctuary, especially for birds. cape whittle is miles below quebec, below natashkwan, which is the last port of call for the mail boats, and below kegashka, the last green spot along the shore. it faces cape gregory, near the bay of islands in newfoundland, miles across; and is almost as far from the north-east point of anticosti. it is a great landmark for coasting vessels, and for the seal herds as well. a refuge for seals is absolutely necessary to preserve their numbers and the business connected with them. of course, i know there is a feeling that, if they are going to disappear, the best thing to do is to exploit them to the utmost in the meanwhile, so as to snatch every present advantage, regardless of consequences. but is this business, sense, or conservation? even if any restriction in the way of numbers, sex, age or season should be imposed on seal hunting, a small sanctuary cannot but be beneficial. while, if there is no other protection, a sanctuary is a _sine qua non_. it is possible that some protection might also be afforded to the whales that hug the shore. the case of the birds is quite as strong, and the chance of protection by this sanctuary much greater. with the exception of the limited egging and shooting for the necessary food of the few residents--the whole district of mekattina contained only people at the last census--not an egg nor a bird should be touched at all. the birds soon find out where they are well off, and their increase will recruit the whole river and gulf. a few outlying bird sanctuaries should be established in connection with this one, which might be called the harrington sanctuary, as harrington is a well-known telegraph station, a central point between cape whittle and mekattina, and it enjoys a name that can be easily pronounced. in the gulf the bird rocks and bonaventure island to the south; one of the mingan islands, the perroquets and egg island to the north; with the pilgrims, up the river, above the saguenay and off the south shore, are the best. the pilgrims, miles from the atlantic, are probably the furthest inland point in the world where the eider breeds. they would make an ideal seabird sanctuary. on the atlantic labrador there are plenty of suitable islands from which to choose two or three sanctuaries, between hamilton inlet and ramah. the east coast of hudson bay is full of islands from which two corresponding sanctuaries might be selected, one in the neighbourhood of the portland promontory and the other in the southeast corner of james bay. there is the further question--affecting all migratory animals, but especially birds--of making international agreements for their protection. there are precedents for this, both in the old world and in the new. and, so far as the united states are concerned, there should be no great difficulty. true, they have set us some lamentable examples of wanton destruction. but they have also set us some noble examples of conservation. and we have good friends at court, in the members of the new york zoological, the audubon and other societies, in mr. roosevelt, himself an ardent conserver of wild life, and in mr. bryce, who is an ex-president of the alpine club and a devoted lover of nature. immediate steps should be taken to link our own bird sanctuaries with the splendid american chain of them which runs round the gulf of mexico and up the atlantic coast to within easy reach of the boundary line. corresponding international chains up the mississippi and along the pacific would be of immense benefit to all species, and more particularly to those unfortunate ones which are forced to migrate down along the shore and back by the middle of the continent, thus running the deadly gauntlet both by land and sea. inland sanctuaries are more difficult to choose and manage. a deer sanctuary might answer near james bay. fur sanctuaries must also be in some fairly accessible places, on the seaward sides of the various heights-of-land, and not too far in. the evergreen stretches of the eastmain river have several favourable spots. what is needed most is an immediate examination by a trained zoologist. the existing information should be brought together and carefully digested for him in advance. there are the dominion, provincial and newfoundland official reports; the hudson bay company, the moravian missionaries; dr. robert bell, mr. a.p. low, mr. d.i.v. eaton, dr. grenfell, dr. hare, mr. napoléon comeau, not to mention previous writers, like packard, mclean and cartwright--a whole host of original authorities. but their work has never been thoroughly co-ordinated from a zoological point of view. a form of sanctuary suggested for the fur-bearing yukon is well worth considering. it consists in opening and closing the country by alternate sections, like crops and fallow land in farming. the indians have followed this method for generations, dividing the family hunting grounds into three parts, hunting each in rotation, and always leaving enough to breed back the numbers. but the pressure of the grab-all policy from outside may become irresistible. the one great point to remember is that there is no time to lose in beginning conservation by protecting every species in at least two separate localities. a word as to the management and wardens. two zoologists and twenty men afloat, and the same number ashore, could probably do the whole work, in connection with local wardens. this may seem utterly ridiculous as a police force to patrol ten englands and three thousand miles of sea. but look at what the royal north west mounted police have done over vast areas with a handful of men, and what has been effected in maine, new brunswick and ontario. once the public understands the question, and the governments mean business, the way of the transgressor will be so hard--between the wardens, zoologists and all the preventive machinery of modern administration--that it will no longer pay him to walk in it. special precautions must be taken against that vilest of all inventions of diabolical ingenuity--the maxim "silencer." no argument is needed to prove that silent firearms could not suit crime better if they were made expressly for it. the mere possession of any kind of "silencer" should constitute a most serious criminal offence. the right kind of warden will be forthcoming when he is really wanted and is properly backed up. i need not describe the wrong kind. we all know him, only too well. benefits i am afraid i have already exceeded my allotted time. but, with your kind indulgence, sir, i should like, in conclusion, simply to enumerate a few of the benefits certain to follow the introduction and enforcement of law and the establishment of sanctuaries. first, it cannot be denied that the constant breaking of the present law makes for bad citizenship, and that the observance of law will make for good. next, though it is often said that what canada needs most is development and not conservation, i think no one will deny that conservation is the best and most certainly productive form of development in the case before us. then, i think we have here a really unique opportunity of effecting a reform that will unite and not divide all the legitimate interests concerned. what could appear to have less in common than electricity and sanctuaries? yet electricity in labrador requires water-power, which requires a steady flow, which requires a head-water forest, which, in its turn, is admirably fit to shelter wild life. except for those who would selfishly and shortsightedly take all this wealth of wild life out of the world altogether, in one grasping generation, there is nobody who will not be the better for the change. i have talked with interested parties of every different kind, and always found them agree that conservation is the only thing to do--provided, as they invariably add, that it is done "straight" and "the same for all." fourthly, a word as to sport. i have invoked the public conscience against wanton destruction and its inevitable accompaniment of cruelty. i know, further, that man is generally cruel and a bully towards other animals. and, as an extreme evolutionist, i believe all animals are alike in kind, however much they may differ in degree. but i don't think clean sport cruel. it does not add to the sum total of cruelty under present conditions. wild animals shun pain and death as we do. but under nature they never die what we call natural deaths. they starve or get killed. moreover, town-bred humanitarians feel pain and death more than the simpler races of men, who, in their turn, feel it more than lower animals. a wild animal that has just escaped death will resume its occupation as if nothing had happened. the sportsman's clean kill is only an incident in the day's work, not anxiously apprehended like an operation or a battle. but pain and death are very real, all the same. so death should be inflicted as quickly as possible, even at the risk of losing the rest of one's bag. and, even beyond the reach of any laws, no animal should ever be killed in sport when its own death might entail the lingering death of its young. a sportsman who observes these rules instinctively, and who never kills what he cannot get and use, is not a cruel man. he certainly is a beast of prey. but so is the most delicate invalid woman when drinking a cup of beef tea. sport has its use in the development of health and skill and courage. its practice is one of life's eternal compromises. and the best thing we can do for it now is to make it clean. we have far too much of the other kind. the essential difference has never been more shrewdly put than in the caustic epigram, that there is the same difference between a sportsman and a "sport" as there is between a gentleman and a "gent." i believe that the enforcement of laws and the establishment of sanctuaries will raise our sport to a higher plane, reduce the suffering now inflicted when killing for business, and help in every way towards the conversion of the human into the humane. besides, paradoxical as it may seem to some good people, the true sportsman has always proved to be one of the very best conservers of all wild life worth keeping. so there is a distinctly desirable benefit to be expected in this direction, as in every other. finally, i return to my zoophilists, a vast but formless class of people, both in and outside of the other classes mentioned, and one which includes every man, woman and child with any fondness for wild life, from zoologists to tourists. there are higher considerations, never to be forgotten. but let me first press the point that there's money in the zoophilists--plenty of it. a gentleman, in whom you, sir, and your whole commission have the greatest confidence, and who was not particularly inexpert at the subject, made an under-valuation to the extent of no less than per cent., when trying to estimate the amount of money made by the transportation companies directly out of travel to "nature" places for sport, study, scenery and other kinds of outing. there is money in it now, millions of it; and there is going to be much more money in it later on. civilized town-dwelling men, women and children are turning more and more to wild nature for a holiday. and their interest in nature is widening and deepening in proportion. i do not say this as a rhetorical flourish. i have taken particular pains to find out the actual growth of this interest, which is shown in ways as comprehensive as educational curricula, picture books for children, all sorts of "animal" works, "zoos", museums, lectures, periodicals and advertisements; and i find all facts pointing the same way. the president of one of the greatest publishers' associations in the world told me, and without being asked, that the most marked and the steadiest development in the trade was in "nature" books of every kind. and this reminds me of the countless readers who rarely hear the call of the wild themselves, except through word and picture, but who would bitterly and justifiably resent the silencing of that call in the very places where it ought to be heard at its best. now, where can the call of wild nature be heard to greater advantage than in labrador, which is a land made on purpose to be the home of fur, fin and feather? and it is accessible, in the best of all possible ways--by sea. it is about equidistant from central canada, england and the states--a wilderness park for all of them. means of communication are multiplying fast. even now, it would be possible, in a good steamer, to take a month's holiday from london to labrador, spending twenty days on the coast and only ten at sea. i think we may be quite sure of such travel in the near future; that is, of course, if the travellers have a land of life, not death, to come to. and an excellent thing about it is that labrador cannot be overrun and spoilt like what our american friends so aptly call a "pocket wilderness". ten wild englands, properly conserved, cannot be brought into the catalogue of common things quite so easily as all that! besides, labrador enjoys a double advantage in being essentially a seaboard country. the visitor has the advantage of being able to see a great deal of it--and the finest parts, too--without getting out of touch with his moveable base afloat. and the country itself has the corresponding advantage of being less liable to be turned into a commonplace summer resort by the whole monotonizing apparatus of hotels and boarding houses and conventional "sights". and now, sir, i venture once more to mention the higher interests, and actually to specify one of them, although i have been repeatedly warned by outsiders that no public men would ever listen to anything which could not be expressed in "easy terms of dollars and cents!" and i do so in full confidence that no appeal to the intellectual life would fall on deaf ears among the members of a commission which was founded to lead rather than follow the best thought of our time. i need not remind you that from the topmost heights of evolution you can see whole realms of nature infinitely surpassing all those of business, sport and tourist recreation, and that the theory of evolution itself is the crowned brain of the entire animal kingdom. but i doubt whether, as yet, we fully realize that labrador is absolutely unique in being the only stage on which the prologue and living pageant of evolution can be seen together from a single panoramic point of view. the sea and sky are everywhere the same primeval elements. but no other country has so much primeval land to match them. labrador is a miracle of youth and age combined. it is still growing out of the depths with the irresistible vigour of youth. but its titanic tablelands consist of those azoic rocks which form the very roots of all the other mountains in the world, and which are so old, so immeasurably older than any others now standing on the surface of the globe, that their laurentians alone have the real right to bear the title of "the everlasting hills". being azoic these laurentians are older than the first age when our remotest ancestors appeared in the earliest of animal forms, millions and millions of years ago. they are, in fact, the only part of the visible earth which was present when life itself was born. so here are the three great elemental characters, all together--the primal sea and sky and land--to act the azoic prologue. and here, too, for all mankind to glory in, is the whole pageant of animal life: from the weakest invertebrate forms, which link us with the illimitable past, to the mightiest developments of birds and mammals at the present day, the leviathan whales around us, the soaring eagles overhead, and man himself--the culmination of them all--and especially migrating man, whose incoming myriads are linking us already with the most pregnant phases of the future. where else are there so many intimate appeals both to the child and the philosopher? where else, in all this world, are there any parts of the creation more fit to exalt our visions and make us "look, through nature, up to nature's god"? but, sir, i must stop here; and not without renewed apologies for having detained you so long over a question on which, as i have already warned you, i do not profess to be a scientific expert. i fear i have been no architect, not even a builder. but perhaps i have done a hodman's work, by bringing a little mortar, with which some of the nobler materials may presently be put together. bibliography this short list is a mere indication of what can be found in any good library. general information is given in _labrador; its discovery, exploration and development--by w.g. gosling: toronto, musson._ the atlantic labrador is dealt with by competent experts in _labrador: the country and the people--by w.t. grenfell and others: new york, the macmillan company, ._ this has several valuable chapters on the fauna. the peninsula generally, the interior especially, and the fauna incidentally, are dealt with in the reports of _a.p. low_ and _d.i.v. eaton_ to the _geological survey of canada, - - ._ an excellent general paper on the country is _the labrador peninsula, by robert bell_, in _the scottish geographical magazine_ for july, . the n. of the s.w. part is more particularly described in his _recent explorations to the south of hudson bay_ in _the geographical journal_ for july, . the quebec labrador is the subject of a recent provincial report, _la côte nord du saint laurent et le labrador canadien--par eugène rouillard: quebec, --ministère de la colonisation, des mines et des pêcheries._ an excellent account of animal life on the w. half of the quebec labrador is to be found in _life and sport on the north shore--by napoléon a. comeau: quebec, ._ the zoology of the mammals, though not particularly in their labrador habitat, is to be found in _life-histories of northern mammals--by ernest thompson-seton: london, constable, vols., ._ the birds, similarly, in the _catalogue of canadian birds--by john macoun and james m. macoun: ottawa, government printing bureau, ._ some books about adjacent areas may be profitably consulted, like _newfoundland and its untrodden ways--by john guille millais,_ and american official publications, like the _birds of new york--by elon howard eaton: albany, university of the state of new york, ._ no. of the _new york zoological society bulletin_--for june, --is a "wild-life preservation number." the best general history and present-day summary of the world's fur trade is to be found in a recent german work, a genuine _urquellengeschichte._ french and english translations will presumably appear in due course. the statistical tables are wonderfully complete. the illustrations are the least satisfactory feature. this book is--_aus dem reiche der pelze. von emil brass: berlin, im verlage der neuen pelzwaren-zeitung, ._ 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 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 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., . 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 d. 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 th, --. 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 , 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 proofreaders voices for the speechless selections for schools and private reading by abraham firth secretary of the american humane association --which "plead the cause of those dumb mouths that have no speech." longfellow and i am recompensed, and deem the toils of poetry not lost, if verse of mine may stand between an animal and woe, and teach one tyrant pity for his drudge cowper preface the compiler of this little book has often heard inquiries by teachers of schools, for selections suitable for reading and recitations by their scholars, in which the duty of kindness to animals should be distinctly taught. to meet such calls, three successive pamphlets were published, and a fourth consisting of selections from the poems of mr. longfellow. all were received with marked favor by the teachers to whom they became known. this led to their collection afterwards in one volume for private circulation, and now the volume is republished for public sale, with a few omissions and additions. all who desire our children to be awakened in their schools to the claims of the humbler creatures are invited to see that copies are put in school libraries, that they may be within the reach of all teachers. and this, not for the sake of the creatures only. as pope has said, "nothing stands alone; the chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown." many readers may be surprised to find how many of the great poets have been touched by the sufferings of the "innocent animals," and how loftily they have pleaded their cause. the poems in the collection are not all complete, because of their length in some cases, and, in others, because a part only of each was suited to the end in view. a very few, however, like "geist's grave" and "don," could not be divided satisfactorily. to all who have aided in this humble undertaking, heartiest thanks are given, and especially to its publishers who have accorded to it their coveted approval and the benefit of their large facilities for making the volume widely known. may the lessons of kindness and dependence here taught with so much poetical beauty and with such mingled justice, pathos and humor, find a permanent lodgment in the hearts of all who may read them! a. f. boston, mass., u. s. a., june, . contents by titles. introduction a prayer he prayeth best our morality on trial sympathy mercy results and duties of man's supremacy justice to the brute creation can they suffer? growth of humane ideas moral lessons duty to animals not long recognized natural rights "dumb" upward care for the lowest trust say not see, through this air the right must win animated nature animal happiness no grain of sand humanity, mercy, and benevolence living creatures nothing alone man's rule dumb souls virtue little by little loyalty animals and human speech pity learn from the creatures pain to animals what might have been village sounds buddhism old hindoo truth our pets egyptian ritual brotherhood a birthday address suffering to lydia maria child vivisection nobility acts of mercy the good samaritan love children at school membership of the church feeling for animals heroic effect of cruelty aspiration the poor beetle the consummation persevere a vision speak gently questions heroes for the sake of the innocent animals ring out fame and duty no ceremony true leaders be kind to dumb creatures action "in him we live" firm and faithful heart service exulting sings in holy books the bell of atri among the noblest the fallen horse the horse the birth of the horse to his horse sympathy for horse and hound the blood horse the cid and bavieca the king of denmark's ride do you know the bedouin's rebuke from "the lord of butrago" "bay billy" the ride of collins graves paul revere's ride sheridan's ride good news to aix dying in harness plutarch's humanity the horses of achilles the war horse pegasus in pound the horse from "the foray" on landseer's picture, "waiting for master" the waterfowl sea fowl the sandpiper the birds of killingworth the magpie the mocking-bird early songs and sounds the sparrow's note the glow-worm st. francis to the birds wordsworth's skylark shelley's skylark hogg's skylark the sweet-voiced quire a caged lark the woodlark keats's nightingale lark and nightingale flight of the birds a child's wish the humming-bird the humming-bird's wedding the hen and the honey-bee song of the robin sir robin the dear old robins robins quit the nest lost--three little robins the terrible scarecrow and robins the song sparrow the field sparrow the sparrow piccola and sparrow little sparrow the swallow the emperor's bird's-nest to a swallow building under our eaves the swallow, the owl, and the cock's shrill clarion in the "elegy" the statue over the cathedral door the bird let loose the brown thrush the golden-crowned thrush the thrush the aziola the marten judge you as you are robert of lincoln my doves the doves of venice song of the dove what the quail says chick-a-dee-dee the linnet hear the woodland linnet the parrot the common question why not do it, sir, to-day to a redbreast phoebe to the stork the storks of delft the pheasant the herons of elmwood walter von der vogelweid the legend of the cross-bill pretty birds the little bird sits the living swan the stormy petrel to the cuckoo birds at dawn evening songs little brown bird life's sign a bird's ministry of birds birds in spring the canary in his cage who stole the bird's-nest who stole the eggs what the birds say the wren's nest on another's sorrow the shepherd's home the wood-pigeon's home the shag the lost bird the bird's must know the bird king shadows of birds the bird and the ship a myth cuvier on the dog a hindoo legend ulysses and argus tom william of orange saved by his dog the bloodhound helvellyn llewellyn and his dog looking for pearls rover to my dog "blanco" the beggar and his dog don geist's grave on the death of a favorite old spaniel epitaph in grey friars' churchyard from an inscription on the monument of a newfoundland dog the dog johnny's private argument the harper "flight" the irish wolf-hound six feet there's room enough for all his faithful dog the faithful hound the spider's lesson the spider and stork the homestead at evening the cattle of a hundred farms cat-questions the newsboy's cat the child and her pussy the alpine sheep little lamb cowper's hare turn thy hasty foot aside the worm turns grasshopper and cricket the honey-bees cunning bee an insect the chipmunk mountain and squirrel to a field-mouse a sea-shell the chambered nautilus hiawatha's brothers unoffending creatures september the lark the swallow returning birds the birds thrush linnet nightingale songsters mohammedanism--the cattle the spider and the dove the young doves forgiven prayers dumb mouths the parsees hindoo the tiger value of animals societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals introduction. * * * * * the bible. and god saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.--gen. i. . but the seventh day is the sabbath of the lord thy god: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates.--ex. xx. . for every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. i know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine.--psa. l. , . the lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works. the eyes of all wait upon thee: and thou givest them their meat in due season. thou openest thine hand, and satisfiest the desire of every living thing.--psa. cxlv. , , . a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.--prov. xii. . open thy mouth for the dumb in the cause of all such as are appointed to destruction.--prov. xxxi. . but ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee.--job xii. . thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray, and hide thyself from them: thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother. and if thy brother be not nigh unto thee, or if thou know him not, then thou shalt bring it unto thine own house, and it shall be with thee until thy brother seek after it, and thou shalt restore it to him again. in like manner shalt thou do with his ass; and so shalt thou do with his raiment: and with all lost things of thy brother's, which he hath lost, and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise: thou mayest not hide thyself. thou shalt not see thy brother's ass or his ox fall down by the way, and hide thyself from them: thou shalt surely help him to lift them up again.--deut. xxii. - . who _is_ a god like unto thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by the transgression of the remnant of his heritage? he retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy. he will turn again, he will have compassion upon us; he will subdue our iniquities: and thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.--mic. vii. , . doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom, and stretch her wings toward the south? doth the eagle mount up at thy command, and make her nest on high?--job xxxix. , . go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise: which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. --prov. vi. - . and the lord sent nathan unto david. and he came unto him, and said unto him, there were two men in one city: the one was rich, and the other poor. the rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds: but the poor man had nothing save one little ewe-lamb, which he had bought and nourished up: and it grew up together with him, and with his children; it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a daughter. and there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his own flock, and of his own herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was come to him; but took the poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the man that was come to him. and david's anger was greatly kindled against the man; and he said to nathan, as the lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die. and he shall restore the lamb fourfold, because he did this thing, and because he had no pity.-- sam. xii. - . praise ye the lord from the heavens: praise him in the heights. praise ye him, all his angels: praise ye him, all his hosts. beasts and all cattle: creeping things, and flying fowl.--psa. cxlviii. , , . yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, o lord of hosts, my king and my god.--psa. lxxxiv. . and should not i spare nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than sixscore thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand, and also much cattle?--jonah iv. . for the scripture saith, thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.-- tim. v. . blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. matt. v. . behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly father feedeth them.--matt. vi. . are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before god?--luke xii. . voices for the speechless. * * * * * a prayer. maker of earth and sea and sky, creation's sovereign, lord and king, who hung the starry worlds on high, and formed alike the sparrow's wing: bless the dumb creatures of thy care, and listen to their voiceless prayer. for us they toil, for us they die, these humble creatures thou hast made; how shall we dare their rights deny, on whom thy seal of love is laid? teach thou our hearts to hear their plea, as thou dost man's in prayer to thee! emily b. lord. * * * * * he prayeth best. o wedding guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide, wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seeméd there to be. o sweeter than the marriage feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company!-- to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends, old man, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! farewell! farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all. s. t. coleridge. * * * * * our morality on trial. bishop butler affirmed that it was on the simple fact of a creature being _sentient_, i.e. capable of pain and pleasure, that rests our responsibility to save it pain and give it pleasure. there is no evading this obligation, then, as regards the lower animals, by the plea that they are not moral beings; it is _our_ morality, not _theirs_, which is in question. miss f. p. cobbe. * * * * * "never," said my aunt, "be mean in anything; never be false, never be cruel. avoid those three vices, trot, and i can always be hopeful of you." c. dickens, in _david copperfield_. * * * * * sympathy. wherefore it is evident that even the ordinary exercise of this faculty of sympathy implies a condition of the whole moral being in some measure right and healthy, and that to the entire exercise of it there is necessary the entire perfection of the christian character, for he who loves not god, nor his brother, cannot love the grass beneath his feet and the creatures that fill those spaces in the universe which he needs not, and which live not for his uses; nay, he has seldom grace to be grateful even to those that love and serve him, while, on the other hand, none can love god nor his human brother without loving all things which his father loves, nor without looking upon them every one as in that respect his brethren also, and perhaps worthier than he, if in the under concords they have to fill their part is touched more truly. ruskin. * * * * * mercy. the quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 'tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown: his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. but mercy is above this sceptred sway: it is enthroned in the hearts of kings; it is an attribute to god himself; and earthly power doth then show likest god's when mercy seasons justice. therefore,... though justice be thy plea, consider this,-- that, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation. we do pray for mercy; and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy. shakespeare: _merchant of venice_, act , sc. . * * * * * results and duties of man's supremacy. and in that primeval account of creation which the second chapter of genesis gives us, the first peculiar characteristic of the human being is that he assumes the rank of the guardian and master of every fowl of the air and every beast of the field. they gather round him, he names them, he classifies them, he seeks for companionship from them. it is the fit likeness and emblem of their relation to him in the course of history. that "earnest expectation of the creature" which the apostle describes, that, "stretching forth the head" of the whole creation towards a brighter and better state as ages have rolled on, has received even here a fulfilment which in earlier times could not have been dreamed of. the savage animals have, before the tread of the lord of creation, gradually disappeared. those creatures which show capacity for improvement have been cherished and strengthened and humanized by their intercourse with man. the wild horse has been brought under his protecting care, has become a faithful ministering servant, rejoicing in his master's voice, fondled by his master's children. the huge elephant has had his "half-reasoning" powers turned into the faculties of a gentle, benevolent giant, starting aside from his course to befriend a little child, listening with the docility of a child to his driver's rebuke or exhortation. the light, airy, volatile bird seems to glow with a new instinct of affection and of perseverance under the shelter of the firm hand and eye of man. the dog, in all eastern nations, even under the old testament itself, represented as an outcast, the emblem of all that was unclean and shameful, has, through the gentile western nations, been admitted within the pale of human fellowship. truly, if man has thus, as it were, infused a soul into the dumb, lawless animals, what a community of feeling, what tenderness should it require from him in dealing with them. what a heartless, in one word, what an _inhuman_ spirit is implied by any cruelty towards those, his dependents, his followers, his grateful, innocent companions, placed under his charge by him who is at once their father and ours. remember our common origin and our common infirmities. remember that we are bound to feel for their hunger, their thirst, their pains, which they share with us, and which we, the controllers of their destiny, ought to alleviate by the means which our advancing civilization enables us to use for ourselves. remember how completely each of us is a god to them, and, as a god, bound to them by godlike duties. dean stanley. * * * * * justice to the brute creation. the rights of all creatures are to be respected, but especially of those kinds which man domesticates and subsidizes for his peculiar use. their nearer contact with the human world creates a claim on our loving-kindness beyond what is due to more foreign and untamed tribes. respect that claim. "the righteous man," says the proverb, "regardeth the life of his beast." note that word "righteous." the proverb does not say the merciful man, but the righteous, the just. not mercy only, but justice, is due to the brute. your horse, your ox, your kine, your dog, are not mere chattels, but sentient souls. they are not your own so proper as to make your will the true and only measure of their lot. beware of contravening their nature's law, of taxing unduly their nature's strength. their powers and gifts are a sacred trust. the gift of the horse is his fleetness, but when that gift is strained to excess and put to wager for exorbitant tasks, murderous injustice is done to the beast. they have their rights, which every right-minded owner will respect. we owe them return for the service they yield, all needful comfort, kind usage, rest in old age, and an easy death. rev. dr. hedge. * * * * * can they suffer? the day may come when the rest of the animal creation may acquire those rights which never could have been withheld from them but by the hand of tyranny. it may come one day to be recognized that the number of legs, or the villosity of the skin, are reasons insufficient for abandoning a sensitive being to the caprice of a tormentor. what else is it that should trace the insuperable line? is it the faculty of reason, or perhaps the faculty of discourse? but a full-grown horse or dog is beyond comparison a more rational as well as a more conversable animal than an infant of a day, a week, or even a month old. but suppose the case were otherwise, what could it avail? the question is not "can they reason?" nor "can they speak?" but "can they suffer?" bentham. * * * * * growth of humane ideas. the disposition to raise the fallen, to befriend the friendless, is now one of the governing powers of the world. every year its dominion widens, and even now a strong and growing public opinion is enlisted in its support. many men still spend lives that are merely selfish. but such lives are already regarded with general disapproval. the man on whom public opinion, anticipating the award of the highest tribunal, bestows its approbation, is the man who labors that he may leave other men better and happier than he found them. with the noblest spirits of our race this disposition to be useful grows into a passion. with an increasing number it is becoming at least an agreeable and interesting employment. on the monument to john howard in st. paul's, it is said that the man who devotes himself to the good of mankind treads "an open but unfrequented path to immortality." the remark, so true of howard's time, is happily not true of ours. mackenzie's _nineteenth century._ * * * * * moral lessons. and let us take to ourselves the moral lessons which these creatures preach to all who have studied and learned to love what i venture to call the moral in brutes. look at that faithful servant, the ox! what an emblem in all generations of patient, plodding, meek endurance and serviceable toil! of the horse and the dog, what countless anecdotes declare the generous loyalty, the tireless zeal, the inalienable love! no human devotion has ever surpassed the recorded examples of brutes in that line. the story is told of an arab horse who, when his master was taken captive and bound hand and foot, sought him out in the dark amidst other victims, seized him by the girdle with his teeth, ran with him all night at the top of his speed, conveyed him to his home, and then, exhausted with the effort, fell down and died. did ever man evince more devoted affection? surely, something of a moral nature is present also in the brute creation. if nowhere else we may find it in the brute mother's care for her young. through universal nature throbs the divine pulse of the universal love, and binds all being to the father-heart of the author and lover of all. therefore is sympathy with animated nature, a holy affection, an extended humanity, a projection of the human heart by which we live, beyond the precincts of the human house, into all the wards of the many creatured city of god, as he with his wisdom and love is co-present to all. sympathy with nature is a part of the good man's religion. rev. dr. hedge. * * * * * whenever any trait of justice, or generosity, or far-sighted wisdom, or wide tolerance, or compassion, or purity, is seen in any man or woman throughout the whole human race, as in the fragments of a broken mirror we see the reflection of the divine image. dean stanley. * * * * * duty to animals not long recognized. it is not, however, to be reckoned as surprising, that our forefathers did not dream of such a thing as duty to animals. they learned very slowly that they owed duties to _men_ of other races than their own. only in the generation which recognized thoroughly for the first time that the negro was a man and brother, did it dawn that beyond the negro there were other still humbler claimants for benevolence and justice. within a few years, passed both the emancipation of the west indian slaves and the first act for prevention of cruelty to animals, of which lord erskine so truly prophesied that it would prove not only an honor to the parliament of england, but an era in the civilization of the world. miss f. p. cobbe. * * * * * natural rights. but what is needed for the present is due regard for the natural rights of animals, due sense of the fact that they are not created for man's pleasure and behoof alone, but have, independent of him, their own meaning and place in the universal order; that the god who gave them being, who out of the manifoldness of his creative thought let them pass into life, has not cast them off, but is with them, in them, still. a portion of his spirit, though unconscious and unreflecting, is theirs. what else but the spirit of god could guide the crane and the stork across pathless seas to their winter retreats, and back again to their summer haunts? what else could reveal to the petrel the coming storm? what but the spirit of god could so geometrize the wondrous architecture of the spider and the bee, or hang the hill-star's nest in the air, or sling the hammock of the tiger-moth, or curve the ramparts of the beaver's fort, and build the myriad "homes without hands" in which fish, bird, and insect make their abode? the spirit of god is with them as with us,--consciously with us, unconsciously with them. we are not divided, but one in his care and love. they have their mansions in the father's house, and we have ours; but the house is one, and the master and keeper is one for us and them. rev. dr. hedge. * * * * * "dumb." i can hardly express to you how much i feel there is to be thought of, arising from the word "dumb" applied to animals. dumb animals! what an immense exhortation that is to pity. it is a remarkable thing that this word dumb should have been so largely applied to animals, for, in reality, there are very few dumb animals. but, doubtless, the word is often used to convey a larger idea than that of dumbness; namely, the want of power in animals to convey by sound to mankind what they feel, or, perhaps, i should rather say, the want of power in men to understand the meaning of the various sounds uttered by animals. but as regards those animals which are mostly dumb, such as the horse, which, except on rare occasions of extreme suffering, makes no sound at all, but only expresses pain by certain movements indicating pain--how tender we ought to be of them, and how observant of these movements, considering their dumbness. the human baby guides and governs us by its cries. in fact, it will nearly rule a household by these cries, and woe would betide it, if it had not this power of making its afflictions known. it is a sad thing to reflect upon, that the animal which has the most to endure from man is the one which has the least powers of protesting by noise against any of his evil treatment. arthur helps. * * * * * upward. his parent hand from the mute shell-fish gasping on the shore, to men, to angels, to celestial minds, forever leads the generations on to higher scenes of being; while supplied from day to day with his enlivening breath, inferior orders in succession rise to fill the void below. akenside: _pleasures of imagination._ * * * * * care for the lowest. i would not enter on my list of friends (though graced with polished manners and fine sense, yet wanting sensibility) the man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. an inadvertent step may crush the snail that crawls at evening in the public path; but he that has humanity, forewarned, will tread aside, and let the reptile live. the creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, and charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, a visitor unwelcome, into scenes sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, the chamber, or refectory, may die: a necessary act incurs no blame. not so when, held within their proper bounds, and guiltless of offence, they range the air, or take their pastime in the spacious field: there they are privileged; and he that hunts or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, disturbs the economy of nature's realm, who, when she formed, designed them an abode. the sum is this: if man's convenience, health, or safety, interfere, his rights and claims are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. else they are all--the meanest things that are-- as free to live, and to enjoy that life, as god was free to form them at the first, who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons to love it too. cowper. * * * * * trust. oh, yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill, to pangs of nature, sins of will, defects of doubt and taints of blood; that nothing walks with aimless feet; that not one life shall be destroyed, or cast as rubbish to the void, when god hath made the pile complete; that not a worm is cloven in vain; that not a moth with vain desire is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, or but subserves another's gain. tennyson. * * * * * say not. say not, the struggle naught availeth, the labor and the wounds are vain, the enemy faints not, nor faileth, and as things have been they remain. if hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; it may be, in yon smoke concealed, your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, and, but for you, possess the field. for while the tired waves, vainly breaking, seem here no painful inch to gain, far back, through creeks and inlets making, comes silent, flooding in, the main. and not by eastern windows only, when daylight comes, comes in the light; in front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly! but westward, look, the land is bright. a. h. clough. * * * * * see, through this air. see, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, all matter quick, and bursting into birth. above, how high progressive life may go! around, how wide! how deep extend below! vast chain of being! which from god began, natures ethereal, human, angel, man, beast, bird, fish, insect, which no eye can see, no glass can reach; from infinite to thee; from thee to nothing. on superior powers were we to press, inferior might on ours; or in the full creation leave a void, where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed: from nature's chain whatever link you strike, tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. all are but parts of one stupendous whole, whose body nature is, and god the soul; that, changed through all, and yet in all the same, great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame; warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; lives through all life, extends through all extent, spreads undivided, operates unspent; breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, as full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; as full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, as the rapt seraph that adores and burns: to him no high, no low, no great, no small; he fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. pope. * * * * * the right must win. oh, it is hard to work for god, to rise and take his part upon this battle-field of earth, and not sometimes lose heart! ill masters good; good seems to change to ill with greatest ease; and, worst of all, the good with good is at cross purposes. it is not so, but so it looks; and we lose courage then; and doubts will come if god hath kept his promises to men. workman of god! oh lose not heart, but learn what god is like; and in the darkest battle-field thou shalt know where to strike. for right is right, since god is god; and right the day must win; to doubt would be disloyalty, to falter would be sin! faber. * * * * * animated nature. nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, but animated nature sweeter still to soothe and satisfy the human ear. ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one the livelong night: nor these alone whose notes nice-fingered art must emulate in vain; but coying rooks, and kites that swim sublime in still repeated circles, screaming loud, the jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl that hails the rising moon, have charms for me. sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, and only there, please highly for their sake. cowper. * * * * * animal happiness. the heart is hard in nature, and unfit for human fellowship, as being void of sympathy, and therefore dead alike to love and friendship both, that is not pleased with sight of animals enjoying life, nor feels their happiness augment his own. the bounding fawn that darts along the glade when none pursues, through mere delight of heart, and spirits buoyant with excess of glee; the horse as wanton, and almost as fleet, that skips the spacious meadow at full speed, then stops, and snorts, and throwing high his heels, starts to the voluntary race again; the very kine that gambol at high noon, the total herd receiving first from one that leads the dance a summons to be gay, though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth their efforts, yet resolved with one consent to give such act and utterance as they may to ecstasy too big to be suppressed-- these and a thousand images of bliss, with which kind nature graces every scene, where cruel man defeats not her design, impart to the benevolent, who wish all that are capable of pleasure pleased, a far superior happiness to theirs, the comfort of a reasonable joy. cowper. * * * * * no grain of sand. the very meanest things are made supreme with innate ecstasy. no grain of sand but moves a bright and million-peopled land, and hath its edens and its eves, i deem. for love, though blind himself, a curious eye hath lent me, to behold the heart of things, and touched mine ear with power. thus, far or nigh, minute or mighty, fixed or free with wings, delight, from many a nameless covert sly, peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar sings. laman blanchard. * * * * * humanity, mercy, and benevolence. when that great and far-reaching softener of hearts, the sense of our failures and offences, is vividly present, the position we hold to creatures who have never done wrong is always found inexpressibly touching. to be kind to them, and rejoice in their happiness, seems just one of the few ways in which we can act a godlike part in our little sphere, and display the mercy for which we hope in turn. the only befitting feeling for human beings to entertain toward brutes is--as the very word suggests--the feeling of _humanity_; or, as we may interpret it, the sentiment of sympathy, as far as we can cultivate fellow feeling; of pity so far so we know them to suffer; of mercy so far as we can spare their sufferings; of kindness and benevolence, so far as it is in our power to make them happy. miss f. p. cobbe. * * * * * living creatures. what call'st thou solitude? is mother earth with various living creatures, and the air replenished, and all these at thy command to come and play before thee? know'st thou not their language and their ways? they also know, and reason not contemptibly; with these find pastime, and bear rule; thy realm is large. _paradise lost_, bk. . * * * * * nothing alone. one all-extending, all-preserving soul connects each being, greatest with the least; made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; all served, all serving: nothing stands alone: the chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. pope. * * * * * man's rule. thou gavest me wide nature for my kingdom, and power to feel it, to enjoy it. not cold gaze of winder gav'st thou me alone, but even into her bosom's depth to look, as it might be the bosom of a friend; the grand array of living things thou madest to pass before me, mak'st me know my brothers in silent bush, in water, and in air. _blackie's translation of goethe's faust._ * * * * * dumb souls. even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent, he caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent, and cherished all her little sharp-nosed young, till the small race with hope and terror clung about his footsteps, till each new-reared brood, remoter from the memories of the wood more glad discerned their common home with man. this was the work of jubal: he began the pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be, spread the sweet ties that bind the family o'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress, and shared his pain with patient helpfulness. george eliot: _legend of jubal_. * * * * * nor must we childishly feel contempt for the study of the lower animals, since in all nature's work there is something wonderful. and if any one thinks the study of other animals despicable, he must despise the study of his own nature. aristotle. * * * * * virtue. thus born alike, from virtue first began the diff'rence that distinguished man from man: he claimed no title from descent of blood; but that which made him noble made him good. dryden. * * * * * little by little. little by little the time goes by-- short if you sing through it, long if you sigh. little by little--an hour, a day, gone with the years that have vanished away; little by little the race is run, trouble and waiting and toil are done! little by little the skies grow clear; little by little the sun comes near; little by little the days smile out gladder and brighter on pain and doubt; little by little the seed we sow into a beautiful yield will grow. little by little the world grows strong, fighting the battle of right and wrong: little by little the wrong gives way, little by little the right has sway; little by little all longing souls struggle up nearer the shining goals! little by little the good in men blossoms to beauty for human ken; little by little the angels see prophecies better of good to be; little by little the god of all lifts the world nearer the pleading call. _cincinnati humane appeal_. * * * * * loyalty. life may be given in many ways and loyalty to truth be sealed as bravely in the closet as the field, so generous is fate; but then to stand beside her, when craven churls deride her, to front a lie in arms, and not to yield, this shows, methinks, god's plan and measure of a stalwart man, limbed like the old heroic breeds, who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, not forced to frame excuses for his birth, fed from within with all the strength he needs. j. r. lowell. * * * * * animals and human speech. animals have much more capacity to understand human speech than is generally supposed. the hindoos invariably talk to their elephants, and it is amazing how much the latter comprehend. the arabs govern their camels with a few cries, and my associates in the african desert were always amused whenever i addressed a remark to the big dromedary who was my property for two months; yet at the end of that time the beast evidently knew the meaning of a number of simple sentences. some years ago, seeing the hippopotamus in barnum's museum looking very stolid and dejected, i spoke to him in english, but he did not even open his eyes. then i went to the opposite corner of the cage, and said in arabic, "i know you; come here to me." he instantly turned his head toward me; i repeated the words, and thereupon he came to the corner where i was standing, pressed his huge, ungainly head against the bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a touch of delight while i stroked his muzzle. i have two or three times found a lion who recognized the same language, and the expression of his eyes, for an instant, seemed positively human. bayard taylor. * * * * * pity. and i, contented with a humble theme, have poured my stream of panegyric down the vale of nature, where it creeps and winds among her lovely works, with a secure and unambitious course, reflecting clear if not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. and i am recompensed, and deem the toils of poetry not lost, if verse of mine may stand between an animal and woe, and teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. cowper. * * * * * learn from the creatures. see him from nature, rising slow to art! to copy instinct, that was reason's part; thus then to man the voice of nature spake:-- "go, from the creatures thy instructions take; learn from the birds what food the thickets yield; learn from the beasts the physic of the field; thy arts of building from the bee receive; learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave; learn of the little nautilus to sail, spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. here, too, all forms of social union find, and hence let reason, late, instruct mankind: here subterranean works and cities see; there towns aerial on the waving tree. learn each small people's genius, policies, the ant's republic, and the realm of bees: how those in common all their wealth bestow, and anarchy without confusion know; and these forever, though a monarch reign, their sep'rate cells and properties maintain. mark what unvaryed laws preserve each state, laws wise as nature, and as fixed as fate. in fine, thy reason finer webs shall draw, entangle justice in her net of law, and right, too rigid, harden into wrong; still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway, thus let the wiser make the rest obey; and, for those arts mere instinct could afford, be crowned as monarchs, or as god adored." pope. * * * * * pain to animals. granted that any practice causes more pain to animals than it gives pleasure to man; is that practice moral or immoral? and if exactly in proportion as human beings raise their heads out of the slough of selfishness, they do not answer "immoral," let the morality of the principle of utility be forever condemned. john stuart mill. * * * * * what might have been. it might have been that the sky was green, and the grass serenely blue; it might have been that grapes on thorns and figs on thistles grew; it might have been that rainbows gleamed before the showers came; it might have been that lambs were fierce and bears and tigers tame; it might have been that cold would melt and summer heat would freeze; it might have been that ships at sea would sail against the breeze-- and there may be worlds unknown, dear, where we would find the change from all that we have seen or heard, to others just as strange-- but it never could be wise, dear, in haste to act or speak; it never could be noble to harm the poor and weak; it never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain; it never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed or gain; and there could not be a world, dear, while god is true above, where right and wrong were governed by any law but love. kate lawrence. * * * * * village sounds. sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, up yonder hill the village murmur rose; there as i passed with careless steps and slow, the mingling notes came softening from below; the swain responsive to the milkmaid sung: _the sober herd that lowed to meet their young; the noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool:_ the playful children just let loose from school; _the watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind_, and the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,-- these all in sweet confusion sought the shade, and filled each pause the nightingale had made. goldsmith. * * * * * buddhism. the buddhist duty of universal love enfolds in its embraces not only the brethren and sisters of the new faith, not only our neighbors, _but every thing that has life_. t. w. rhys davids. * * * * * as a mother, even at the risk of her own life, protects her son, her only son, so let a man _cultivate good-will without measure toward all beings_. let him cultivate good-will without measure, unhindered love and friendliness toward the whole world, above, below, around. standing, walking, sitting, or lying, let him be firm in this mind so long as he is awake; this state of heart, they say, is the best in the world. _metta sutta._ * * * * * he who lives pure in thought, free from malice, contented, leading a holy life, _feeling tenderly for all creatures_, speaking wisely and kindly, humbly and sincerely, has the deity ever in his breast. the eternal makes not his abode within the breast of that man who covets another's wealth, who _injures living creatures_, who is proud of his iniquity, whose mind is evil. _dhammapada._ * * * * * from the asoka inscriptions. the discontinuance of the murder of human beings and of cruelty to animals, respect for parents, obedience to father and mother, obedience to holy elders, these are good deeds.--_no. iv._ and now the joyful chorus resounds again and again that henceforward not a single animal shall be put to death.--_no. v._ in a summary of the inscriptions by arthur lillie, in "buddhism and early buddhism," he says, they require also, for the benefit of both beast and men, "that gardens be cultivated everywhere of healing shrubs and herbs." [the inscriptions were written on "rocks, temples, and monuments" in india for the instruction of the people, by order of the emperor asoka, who lived about years before christ.] * * * * * old hindoo. god is within this universe, and yet outside this universe; whoever beholds all living creatures as in him, and him the universal spirit, as in all, henceforth regards no creature with contempt. _quoted by_ rev. j. e. carpenter. * * * * * truth. it fortifies my soul to know that though i perish, truth is so, that howsoe'er i stray and range, whate'er i do, thou dost not change. i steadier step when i recall that, if i slip, thou dost not fall. arthur hugh clough. * * * * * our pets. we, dying, fondly hope the life immortal to win at last; yet all that live must through death's dreary portal at length have passed. and from the hope which shines so bright above us, my spirit turns, and for the lowlier ones, that serve and love us, half sadly yearns. never a bird its glad way safely winging through those blest skies? never, through pauses in the joyful singing, its notes to rise? not one of those who toil's severest burdens so meekly bear, to find at last of faithful labor's guerdons an humble share? ah, well! i need not question; gladly rather, i'll trust in all-- assured that not without our heavenly "father" the sparrows fall. and if he foldeth in a sleep eternal their wings to rest; or waketh them to fly the skies supernal-- he knoweth best? mary sheppard. * * * * * egyptian ritual. god is the causer of pleasure and light, _maker of grass for the cattle_, and of fruitful trees for man, _causing the fish to live in the river and the birds to fill the air_, lying awake when all men sleep, to seek out the good of his creatures. _quoted by_ rev. j. e. carpenter. * * * * * brotherhood. there is a higher consanguinity than that of the blood which runs through our veins,--that of the blood which makes our hearts beat with the same indignation and the same joy. and there is a higher nationality than that of being governed by the same imperial dynasty,--that of our common allegiance to the father and ruler of all mankind. max mÜller. * * * * * a birthday address. to anthony ashley cooper, seventh earl of shaftesbury, k. g., april , . for eighty years! many will count them over, but none but he who knoweth all may guess what those long years have held of high endeavor, of world-wide blessing and of blessedness. for eighty years the champion of the right of hapless child neglected and forlorn; of maniac dungeoned in his double night; of woman overtasked and labor-worn; of homeless boy, in streets with peril rife; of workman, sickened in his airless den; of indian parching for the streams of life; of negro slave in bond of cruel men. o friend of all the friendless 'neath the sun, whose hand hath wiped away a thousand tears, whose fervent lips and clear strong brain have done god's holy service, lo! these eighty years,-- how meet it seems thy grand and vigorous age should find beyond man's race fresh pangs to spare, and for the wronged and tortured brutes engage in yet fresh labors and ungrudging care! oh, tarry long amongst us! live, we pray, hasten not yet to hear thy lord's "well done!" let this world still seem better while it may contain one soul like thine amid its throng. whilst thou art here our inmost hearts confess, truth spake the kingly seer of old who said,-- "found in the way of god and righteousness, a crown of glory is the hoary head." miss f. p. cobbe. * * * * * suffering. pain, terror, mortal agonies which scare thy heart in man, to brutes thou wilt not spare. are these less sad and real? pain in man bears the high mission of the flail and fear; in brutes 'tis purely piteous. henry taylor. * * * * * to lydia maria child. who knows thy love most royal power, with largess free and brave, which crowns the helper of the poor, the suffering and the slave. yet springs as freely and as warm, to greet the near and small, the prosy neighbor at the farm, the squirrel on the wall. eliza scudder. * * * * * vivisection. it is the simple idea of dealing with a living, conscious, sensitive, and intelligent creature as if it were dead and senseless matter, against which the whole spirit of true humanity revolts. it is the notion of such absolute despotism as shall justify, not merely taking life, but converting the entire existence of the animal into a misfortune which we denounce as a misconception of the relations between the higher and lower creatures. a hundred years ago had physiologists frankly avowed that they recognized no claims on the part of the brutes which should stop them from torturing them, they would have been only on a level with their contemporaries. but to-day they are behind the age. as i have said ere now, the battle of mercy, like that of freedom, "once begun, though often lost, is always won." miss f. p. cobbe. * * * * * nobility. from yon blue heavens above us bent the grand old gardener and his wife smile at the claims of long descent. howe'er it be, it seems to me 'tis only noble to be good; kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than norman blood. a. tennyson. * * * * * acts of mercy. yes, any act of mercy, even to the humblest and lowliest of god's creatures, is an act that brings us near to god. although "the mercy of god," as the psalmist says, "reaches to the heavens, although his judgments are like the great deep," yet still, as the psalmist adds, it is the same mercy, the same justice as that which we know in ourselves. "thou preservest both man and beast; how exalted is thy mercy, o lord; therefore the children of men take refuge under the shadow of thy wings." that mercy which we see in the complex arrangements of the animal creation, extending down to the minutest portions of their frames--that same divine mercy it is which we are bid to imitate. he whose soul burns with indignation against the brutal ruffian who misuses the poor, helpless, suffering horse, or dog, or ass, or bird, or worm, shares for the moment that divine companion wrath which burns against the oppressors of the weak and defenceless everywhere. he who puts forth his hand to save from ill treatment, or add to the happiness of any of those dumb creatures, has opened his heart to that divine compassion which our heavenly father has shown to the whole range of created things--which our blessed saviour has shown to the human race, his own peculiar charge, by living and dying for us. "be ye merciful" to dumb animals, for ye have a common nature with them. be ye merciful, for the worst part of the nature of brutes is to be unmerciful. be ye merciful, for ye are raised far above them, to be their appointed lords and guardians. be ye merciful, for ye are made in the image of him who is all-merciful and all-compassionate. dean stanley. * * * * * the good samaritan. he beheld the poor man's need; bound his wounds, and with all speed set him on his own good steed, and brought him to the inn. when our judge shall reappear, thinkest thou this man will hear, wherefore didst thou interfere with what concerned not thee? no! the words of christ will run "whatsoever thou hast done to the poor and suffering one that hast thou done to me." anon. * * * * * love. thus, when christianity announced its fundamental idea of love, it, by an immovable logic, enveloped all things in that affection, and every dumb brute of the street comes within the colored curtains of the sanctuary. the humane society is a branch of god's church, and we christian church-members are all members of all such associations, so far as we are intelligent members of the church of christ. love does not mean love of me or you, but it means love always and for all. prof. swing. * * * * * children at school. if children at school can be made to understand how it is just and noble to be humane even to what we term inferior animals, it will do much to give them a higher character and tone through life. there is nothing meaner than barbarous and cruel treatment of the dumb creatures, who cannot answer us or resent the misery which is so often needlessly inflicted upon them. john bright. * * * * * membership of the church. love and charity being the basis of christianity, it is as much a question for the church to ask, when a person wishes to be admitted into her bosom, "are you kind to animals?" as it is to ask, "do you believe in such or such a doctrine?" certainly the question would be pertinent to christian life and consonant with the fundamental and distinguishing principle of the christian religion; and the mere asking of it at so solemn a juncture could not but do much to assimilate and draw closer the heart and life of the novitiate to him who sees every sparrow that falls. e. hathaway. * * * * * feeling for animals. the power of feeling for animals, realizing their wants and making their pains our own, is one which is most irregularly shown by human beings. a timon may have it, and a howard be devoid of it. a rough shepherd's heart may overflow with it, and that of an exquisite fine gentleman and distinguished man of science may be as utterly without it as the nether millstone. one thing i think must be clear: till man has learnt to feel for all his sentient fellow-creatures, whether in human or in brutal form, of his own class and sex and country, or of another, he has not yet ascended the first step towards true civilization nor applied the first lesson from the love of god. miss f. p. cobbe. * * * * * heroic. nay, on the strength of that same element of self-sacrifice, i will not grudge the epithet "heroic" which my revered friend darwin justly applies to the poor little monkey who once in his life did that which was above his duty; who lived in continual terror of the great baboon, and yet, when the brute had sprung upon his friend the keeper, and was tearing out his throat, conquered his fear by love, and, at the risk of instant death, sprung in turn upon his dreaded enemy, and hit and shrieked until help arrived. charles kingsley. * * * * * effect of cruelty. the effect of the barbarous treatment of inferior creatures on the minds of those who practise it is still more deplorable than its effects upon the animals themselves. the man who kicks dumb brutes kicks brutality into his own heart. he who can see the wistful imploring eyes of half-starved creatures without making earnest efforts to relieve them, is on the road to lose his manhood, if he has not already lost it. and the boy who delights in torturing frogs or insects, or robbing birds'-nests, or dogging cattle and hogs wantonly and cruelly, can awaken no hope of an honorable after life. e. hathaway. * * * * * aspiration. oh may i join the choir invisible of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence: live in pulses stirred to generosity: in deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn for miserable aims that end with self; in thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, and with their mild persistence urge men's search to vaster issues. george eliot. * * * * * the poor beetle. the sense of death is most in apprehension; and the poor beetle that we tread upon, in corporal sufferance finds a pang as great as when a giant dies. _measure for measure_, act , sc. . * * * * * the consummation. it is little indeed that each of us can accomplish within the limits of our little day. small indeed is the contribution which the best of us can make to the advancement of the world in knowledge and goodness. but slight though it be, if the work we do is real and noble work, it is never lost; it is taken up into and becomes an integral moment of that immortal life to which all the good and great of the past, every wise thinker, every true and tender heart, every fair and saintly spirit, have contributed, and which, never hasting, never resting, onward through ages is advancing to its consummation. rev. dr. caird. * * * * * persevere. salt of the earth, ye virtuous few who season human kind! light of the world, whose cheering ray illumes the realms of mind! where misery spreads her deepest shade, your strong compassion glows; from your blest lips the balm distils that softens mortal woes. proceed: your race of glory run, your virtuous toils endure; you come, commissioned from on high, and your reward is sure. mrs. barbauld. * * * * * a vision. when 'twixt the drawn forces of night and of morning, strange visions steal down to the slumbers of men, from heaven's bright stronghold once issued a warning, which baffled all scorning, when brought to my ken. methought there descended the saints and the sages, with grief-stricken aspect and wringing of hands, till dreamland seemed filled with the anguish of ages, the blots of time's pages, the woes of all lands. and i, who had deemed that their bliss knew no morrow (half vexed with their advent, half awed with their might)-- cried, "come ye from heaven, earth's aspect to borrow, to mar with weird sorrow the peace of the night?" they answered me sternly, "thy knowledge is mortal; thou hear'st not as we must, the plaints without tongue: the wrongs that come beating the crystalline portal, inflicted by mortals on those who are dumb. "ye bleed for the nation, ye give to the altar, ye heal the great sorrows that clamor and cry, yet care not how oft 'neath the spur and the halter, the brutes of the universe falter and die. "yet jesus forgets not that while ye ensnared him, and drove him with curses of burden and goad, these gentle ones watched where the magi declared him, and often have spared him the long desert road. "they crumble to dust; but we, watchers remaining, attest their endurance through centuries past, oh, fear! lest in future to judgment attaining, these woes, uncomplaining, confront you at last!" julia c. verplanck. * * * * * speak gently. speak gently! it is better far to rule by love than fear: speak gently! let not harsh words mar the good we might do here. speak gently! 'tis a little thing, dropped in the heart's deep well, the good, the joy, which it may bring, eternity shall tell. * * * * * o, it is excellent to have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant. _measure for measure_, act , sc. . * * * * * questions. is there not something in the pleading eye of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns the law that bids it suffer? has it not a claim for some remembrance in the book, that fills its pages with the idle words spoken of man? or is it only clay, bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, yet all his own to treat it as he will, and when he will to cast it at his feet, shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore? my dog loves me, but could he look beyond his earthly master, would his love extend to him who--hush! i will not doubt that he is better than our fears, and will not wrong the least, the meanest of created things. o. w. holmes. * * * * * heroes. the heroes are not all six feet tall, large souls, may dwell in bodies small, the heart that will melt with sympathy for the poor and the weak, whoe'er it be, is a thing of beauty, whether it shine in a man of forty or lad of nine. _scattered seed._ * * * * * for the sake of the innocent animals. during his march to conquer the world, alexander, the macedonian, came to a people in africa, who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in peaceful huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. they led him to the hut of their chief, and placed before him golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold. "do you eat gold in this country?" said alexander. "i take it for granted," replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find eatables in thine own country. for what reason, then, art thou come among us?" "your gold has not tempted me hither," said alexander; "but i would become acquainted with your manner and customs." "so be it," rejoined the other; "sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth thee." at, the close of this conversation two citizens entered, as into their court of justice. the plaintiff said: "i bought of this man a piece of land, and as i was making a deep drain through it, i found a treasure. this is not mine, for i only bargained for the land, and not for any treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and yet the former owner of the land will not receive it." the defendant answered: "i hope i have a conscience as well as my fellow-citizen. i sold him the land with all its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and consequently the treasure inclusively." the chief, who was also their supreme judge, recapitulated their words, in order that the parties might see whether or not he understood them aright. then, after some reflection, he said, "thou hast a son, friend, i believe?" "yes." "and thou (addressing the other) a daughter?" "yes." "well, then, let thy son marry thy daughter, and bestow the treasure on the young couple for a marriage portion." alexander seemed surprised and perplexed. "think you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him. "oh, no!" replied alexander; "but it astonishes me." "and how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the case have been decided in your country?" "to confess the truth," said alexander, "we should have taken both into custody, and have seized the treasure for the king's use." "for the king's use!" exclaimed the chief. "does the sun shine on that country?" "oh, yes." "does it rain there?" "assuredly." "wonderful! but are there tame animals in the country that live on the grass and green herbs?" "very many, and of many kinds." "ay, that must then be the cause," said the chief; "for the sake of those innocent animals the all-gracious being continues to let the sun shine and the rain drop down on your own country, since its inhabitants are unworthy of such blessings." unknown. * * * * * ring out. ring out a slowly dying cause, and ancient forms of party strife; ring in the nobler modes of life, _with sweeter manners, purer laws._ ring out false pride in place and blood, the civic slander and the spite; ring in the love of truth and right, _ring in the common love of good._ ring in the valiant man and free, _the larger heart, the kindlier hand;_ ring out the darkness of the land, ring in the christ that is to be. a. tennyson. * * * * * fame and duty. "what shall i do, lest life in silence pass?" "and if it do, and never prompt the bray of noisy brass, what need'st thou rue? remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute; the shallows roar: worth is the ocean,--fame is but the bruit along the shore." "what shall i do to be forever known?" "thy duty ever." "this did full many who yet slept unknown." "oh, never, never! think'st thou perchance that they remain unknown whom thou know'st not? by angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown-- divine their lot." "what shall i do to gain eternal life?" "discharge aright _the simple dues with which each day is rife, yea, with thy might_. ere perfect scheme of action thou devise, will life be fled, where he, who ever acts as conscience cries, shall live though dead." schiller. * * * * * no ceremony. no ceremony that to great ones 'longs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, become them with one half so good a grace as mercy does. if he had been as you, and you as he, you would have slipt like him; but he, like you, would not have been so stern. _measure for measure_, act , sc. . * * * * * true leaders. languor is not in your heart, weakness is not in your word, weariness not in your brow. ye alight in our van! at your voice. panic, despair flee away. ye move through the ranks, recall the stragglers, refresh the outworn, praise, reinspire the brave. order, courage return; eyes rekindling, and prayers follow your steps as you go. ye fill up the gaps in our files, strengthen the wavering line, stablish, continue our march, on, to the bound of the waste, on, to the city of god. matthew arnold. * * * * * be kind to dumb creatures. a song. be kind to dumb creatures, be gentle, be true, for food and protection they look up to you; for affection and help to your bounty they turn. oh, do not their trusting hearts wantonly spurn! _chorus:_ be kind to dumb creatures, nor grudge them your care, god gave them their life, and your love they must share; and he who the sparrow's fall tenderly heeds, will lovingly look on compassionate deeds. the brave are the tender,--then do not refuse to carefully cherish the brutes you must use; make their life's labor sweet, not dreary and sad, their working and serving you, easy and glad. _chorus:_ "be kind," etc. he made them and blessed them, the least are his care: the swallow that wings her swift flight through the air, the dog on your hearthstone, the horse in your barn, the cow in your pasture, the sheep on your farm. _chorus:_ "be kind," etc. _our dumb animals._ * * * * * action. do something! do it soon! with all thy might; an angel's wing would droop if long at rest, and god inactive were no longer blest. some high or humble enterprise of good contemplate till it shall possess thy mind, become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, and kindle in thy heart a flame refined: pray heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind to this high purpose: to begin, pursue, with thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind; strength to complete, and with delight review, and strength to give the praise where all is due. wilcox. * * * * * "in him we live." the measureless gulfs of air are full of thee: thou art, and therefore hang the stars: they wait and swim, and shine in god who bade them be, and hold their sundering voids inviolate. a god concerned (veiled in pure light) to bless, with sweet revealing of his love, the soul; _towards things piteous, full of piteousness; the cause, the life, and the continuing whole. he is more present to all things he made than anything unto itself can be; full-foliaged boughs of eden could not shade afford, since god was also 'neath the tree._ jean ingelow. * * * * * firm and faithful. be firm and be faithful; desert not the right; the brave are the bolder, the darker the night; then up and be doing, though cowards may fail; thy duty pursuing, dare all, and prevail. if scorn be thy portion, if hatred and loss, if stripes or a prison, remember the cross! god watches above thee, and he will requite; stand firm and be faithful, desert not the right. norman mcleod. * * * * * heart service. our hearts' pure service, love, be thine, who clothest all with rights divine, whose great soul burns, though ne'er so dim, in all that walk, or fly, or swim. all father! who on mercy's throne hear'st thy dumb creatures' faintest moan,-- thy love be ours, and ours shall be returned in deeds to thine and thee. rev. h. bernard carpenter. * * * * * exulting sings. sweet morn! from countless cups of gold thou liftest reverently on high more incense fine than earth can hold, to fill the sky. _the lark by his own carol blest_, from thy green harbors eager springs; and his large heart in little breast exulting sings. the fly his jocund round unweaves, _with choral strain the birds salute the voiceful flocks_, and nothing grieves, and naught is mute. to thousand tasks of fruitful hope, with skill against his toil, man bends and finds his work's determined scope where'er he wends. from earth, and earthly toil and strife, to deathless aims his love may rise, each dawn may wake to better life, with purer eyes. john sterling. * * * * * in holy books. in holy books we read how god hath spoken to holy men in many different ways; but hath the present worked no sign nor token? is god quite silent in these latter days? the word were but a blank, a hollow sound, if he that spake it were not speaking still; if all the light and all the shade around were aught but issues of almighty will. so, then, _believe that every bird that sings_, and every flower that stars the elastic sod, and every thought the happy summer brings, to the pure spirit is a word of god. hartley coleridge. * * * * * the bell of atri. at atri in abruzzo, a small town of ancient roman date, but scant renown, one of those little places that have run half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, and then sat down to rest, as if to say, "i climb no farther upward, come what may,"-- the re giovanni, now unknown to fame, so many monarchs since have borne the name, had a great bell hung in the market-place beneath a roof, projecting some small space, by way of shelter from the sun and rain. then rode he through the streets with all his train, and, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, made proclamation, that whenever wrong was done to any man, he should but ring the great bell in the square, and he, the king, would cause the syndic to decide thereon. such was the proclamation of king john. how swift the happy days in atri sped, what wrongs were righted, need not here be said. suffice it that, as all things must decay, the hempen rope at length was worn away, unravelled at the end, and strand by strand, loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, till one, who noted this in passing by, mended the rope with braids of briony, so that the leaves and tendrils of the vine hung like a votive garland at a shrine. by chance it happened that in atri dwelt a knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports and prodigalities of camps and courts;-- loved, or had loved them: for at last, grown old, his only passion was the love of gold. he sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, to starve and shiver in a naked stall, and day by day sat brooding in his chair, devising plans how best to hoard and spare. at length he said: "what is the use or need to keep at my own cost this lazy steed, eating his head off in my stables here, when rents are low and provender is dear? let him go feed upon the public ways; i want him only for the holidays." so the old steed was turned into the heat of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; and wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. one afternoon, as in that sultry clime it is the custom in the summer-time, with bolted doors and window-shutters closed, the inhabitants of atri slept or dozed; when suddenly upon their senses fell the loud alarum of the accusing bell! the syndic started from his deep repose, turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose and donned his robes, and with reluctant pace went panting forth into the market-place, where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung reiterating with persistent tongue, in half-articulate jargon, the old song: "some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!" but ere he reached the belfry's light arcade he saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, no shape of human form of woman born, but a poor steed dejected and forlorn, who with uplifted head and eager eye was tugging at the vines of briony. "domeneddio!" cried the syndic straight, "this is the knight of atri's steed of state! he calls for justice, being sore distressed, and pleads his cause as loudly as the best." meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd had rolled together like a summer cloud, and told the story of the wretched beast in five-and-twenty different ways at least, with much gesticulation and appeal to heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. the knight was called and questioned; in reply did not confess the fact, did not deny; treated the matter as a pleasant jest, and set at naught the syndic and the rest, maintaining, in an angry undertone, that he should do what pleased him with his own. and thereupon the syndic gravely read the proclamation of the king; then said: "pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, but cometh back on foot, and begs its way; fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds! these are familiar proverbs; but i fear they never yet have reached your knightly ear. what fair renown, what honor, what repute can come to you from starving this poor brute? he who serves well and speaks not, merits more then they who clamor loudest at the door. therefore the law decrees that, as this steed served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed to comfort his old age, and to provide shelter in stall, and food and field beside." the knight withdrew abashed; the people all led home the steed in triumph to his stall. the king heard and approved, and laughed in glee, and cried aloud: "right well it pleaseth me! church-bells at best but ring us to the door; but go not in to mass; my bell doth more: it cometh into court and pleads the cause of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; and this shall make, in every christian clime, the bell of atri famous for all time." _tales of a wayside inn, second day, ._ * * * * * among the noblest. "yes, well your story pleads the cause of those dumb mouths that have no speech, only a cry from each to each in its own kind, with its own laws; something that is beyond the reach of human power to learn or teach,-- an inarticulate moan of pain, like the immeasurable main breaking upon an unknown beach." thus spake the poet with a sigh; then added, with impassioned cry, as one who feels the words he speaks, the color flushing in his cheeks, the fervor burning in his eye: "among the noblest in the land, though he may count himself the least, that man i honor and revere who without favor, without fear, in the great city dares to stand the friend of every friendless beast, and tames with his unflinching hand the brutes that wear our form and face, the were-wolves of the human race!" _tales of a wayside inn, second day, ._ * * * * * the fallen horse. mr. george herbert's love to music was such that he went usually twice every week, on certain appointed days, to the cathedral church in salisbury. when rector of bemerton, in one of his walks to salisbury, he saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that was fallen under his load; they were both in distress, and needed present help, which mr. herbert perceiving, put off his canonical coat and helped the poor man to unload, and after to load his horse. the poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man; and was so like the good samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, "_that if he loved himself_, he should be merciful to his beast." thus he left the poor man: and at his coming to his musical friends at salisbury, they began to wonder that mr. george herbert, who used to be so trim and clean, came into that company so soiled and discomposed; but he told them the occasion. and when one of the company told him "he had disparaged himself by so dirty an employment," his answer was: "that the thought of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight; and that the omission of it would have upbraided and made discord in his conscience, whensoever he should pass by that place; for if i be bound to pray for all that be in distress, i am sure that i am bound, so far at it is in my power, to practise what i pray for. and though i do not wish for a like occasion every day, yet let me tell you, i would not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy, and i praise god for this occasion." izaak walton's _lives_. * * * * * the horse. hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with his trembling mane? hast thou taught him to bound like the locust? how majestic his snorting! how terrible! he paweth in the valley; he exulteth in his strength, and rusheth into the midst of arms. he laugheth at fear; he trembleth not, and turneth not back from the sword. against him rattle the quiver, the flaming spear, and the lance. with rage and fury he devoureth the ground; he will not believe that the trumpet soundeth. at every blast of the trumpet, he saith, aha! and snuffeth the battle afar off,-- the thunder of the captains, and the war-shout. _job, chap._ , noyes' _translation_. * * * * * the birth of the horse. from the arabic. when allah's breath created first the noble arab steed,-- the conqueror of all his race in courage and in speed,-- to the south-wind he spake: from thee a creature shall have birth, to be the bearer of my arms and my renown on earth. then to the perfect horse he spake: fortune to thee i bring; fortune, as long as rolls the earth, shall to thy forelock cling. without a pinion winged thou art, and fleetest with thy load; bridled art thou without a rein, and spurred without a goad. bayard taylor. * * * * * to his horse. come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! on my shoulder lay thy glossy head! fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, here's the half of hassan's scanty bread. thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! and thou know'st my water-skin is free: drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, and my strength and safety lie in thee. bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: thou art glad when hassan mounts the saddle,-- thou art proud he owns thee: so am i. let the sultan bring his boasted horses, prancing with their diamond-studded reins; they, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness when they course with thee the desert plains! we have seen damascus, o my beauty! and the splendor of the pashas there; what's their pomp and riches? why, i would not take them for a handful of thy hair! bayard taylor. * * * * * sympathy for horse and hound. yet pity for a horse o'erdriven, and love in which my hound has part, can hang no weight upon my heart, in its assumptions up to heaven: and i am so much more than these as thou, perchance, art more than i, and yet i would spare them sympathy, and i would set their pains at ease. tennyson's _in memoriam._ * * * * * the blood horse. gamarra is a dainty steed, strong, black, and of a noble breed, full of fire, and full of bone, with all his line of fathers known; fine his nose, his nostrils thin, but blown abroad by the pride within! his mane is like a river flowing, and his eyes like embers glowing in the darkness of the night, and his pace as swift as light. look,--how 'round his straining throat grace and shining beauty float! sinewy strength is in his reins, and the red blood gallops through his veins-- richer, redder, never ran through the boasting heart of man. he can trace his lineage higher than the bourbon dare aspire,-- douglas, guzman, or the guelph, or o'brien's blood itself! he, who hath no peer, was born, here upon a red march morn; but his famous fathers dead were arabs all, and arabs bred, and the last of that great line trod like one of a race divine! and yet,--he was but friend to one who fed him at the set of sun by some lone fountain fringed with green; with him, a roving bedouin, he lived (none else would he obey through all the hot arabian day),-- and died untamed upon the sands where balkh amidst the desert stands! barry cornwall. * * * * * the cid and bavieca. the king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true; then to the king ruy diaz spake, after reverence due, "o king! the thing is shameful, that any man beside the liege lord of castile himself, should bavieca ride. "for neither spain nor araby could another charger bring so good as he, and certes, the best befits my king, but, that you may behold him, and know him to the core, i'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the moor." with that the cid, clad as he was, in mantle furred and wide, on bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side; and up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, streamed like a pennon on the wind, ruy diaz' minivere. and all that saw them praised them,--they lauded man and horse, as matchéd well, and rivals for gallantry and force; ne'er had they looked on horsemen might to this knight come near, nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier. thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed, he snapped in twain his nether rein: "god pity now the cid! god pity diaz!" cried the lords,--but when they looked again, they saw ruy diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein; they saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm, like a true lord commanding, and obeyed as by a lamb. and so he led him foaming and panting to the king, but, "no," said don alphonso, "it were a shameful thing, that peerless bavieca should ever be bestrid by any mortal but bivar,--mount, mount again, my cid!" lockhart's _spanish ballads._ * * * * * the king of denmark's ride. word was brought to the danish king, (hurry!) that the love of his heart lay suffering, and pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (oh! ride as though you were flying!) better he loves each golden curl on the brow of that scandinavian girl than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; and his rose of the isles is dying. thirty nobles saddled with speed; (hurry!) each one mounted a gallant steed which he kept for battle and days of need; (oh! ride as though you were flying!) spurs were struck in the foaming flank; worn-out chargers staggered and sank; bridles were slackened, and girths were burst: but ride as they would, the king rode first; for his rose of the isles lay dying. his nobles are beaten, one by one; (hurry!) they have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; his little fair page now follows alone, for strength and for courage trying, the king looked back at that faithful child: wan was the face that answering smiled. they passed the drawbridge with clattering din: then he dropped; and only the king rode in where his rose of the isles lay dying. the king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (silence!) no answer came, but faint and forlorn an echo returned on the cold gray morn, like the breath of a spirit sighing. the castle portal stood grimly wide; none welcomed the king from that weary ride; for, dead in the light of the dawning day, the pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, who had yearned for his voice while dying. the panting steed with a drooping crest stood weary. the king returned from her chamber of rest, the thick sobs choking in his breast; and that dumb companion eying, the tears gushed forth, which he strove to check; he bowed his head on his charger's neck: "o steed, that every nerve didst strain, dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, to the halls where my love lay dying!" caroline elizabeth norton. * * * * * go forth under the open sky and list to nature's teachings. bryant. * * * * * do you know? "yesterday we buried my pretty brown mare under the wild-cherry tree. end of poor bess." when a human being dies, seeming scarce so good or wise, scarce so high in scale of mind as the horse he leaves behind, "lo," we cry, "the fleeting spirit doth a newer garb inherit; through eternity doth soar, growing, greatening, evermore." but our beautiful dumb creatures yield their gentle, generous natures, with their mute, appealing eyes, haunted by earth's mysteries, wistfully upon us cast, loving, trusting, to the last; and we arrogantly say, "they have had their little day; nothing of them but was clay." has all perished? was no mind in that graceful form enshrined? can the love that filled those eyes with most eloquent replies, when the glossy head close pressing, grateful met your hand's caressing; can the mute intelligence, baffling oft our human sense with strange wisdom, buried be "under the wild-cherry tree?" are these elements that spring in a daisy's blossoming, or in long dark grasses wave plume-like o'er your favorite's grave? can they live in us, and fade in all else that god has made! is there aught of harm believing that, some newer form receiving, they may find a wider sphere, live a larger life than here? that the meek, appealing eyes, haunted by strange mysteries, find a more extended field, to new destinies unsealed; or that in the ripened prime of some far-off summer time, ranging that unknown domain, we may find our pets again? helen barron bostwick. * * * * * the bedouin's rebuke. a bedouin of true honor, good nebar, possessed a horse whose fame was spread afar; no other horse was half so proud and strong; his feet were like the north wind swept along; in his curved neck, and in his flashing eye, you saw the harbingers of victory. so, many came to nebar day by day, and longed to take his noble horse away; large sums they offered, and with grace besought. but, all in vain; the horse could not be bought. with these came daher, of another tribe, to see if he might not the owner bribe; yet purposeless,--no money, skill, nor breath could part the owner from his horse till death. then daher, who was subtle, mean, and sly, concluded, next, some stratagem to try; so, clothed in rags, and masked in form and face, he as a beggar walked with limping pace, and, meeting nebar with the horse one day, he fell, and prostrate on the desert lay. the ruse succeeded; for, when nebar found a helpless man in sorrow on the ground, he took him up, and on the noble steed gave him a place; but what a thankless deed! for daher shouted, laughed, and, giving rein, said, "you will never see your horse again!" "take him," said nebar, "but, for mercy's sake, tell no man in what way you choose to take, lest others, seeing what has happened me, omit to do some needed charity." pierced by these words, the robber's keen remorse thwarted his plan, and he returned the horse, shame-faced and sorrowful; then slunk away as if he feared the very light of day! anon. * * * * * from "the lord of butrago." your horse is faint, my king, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,-- his limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; mount, mount on mine, o mount apace, i pray thee, mount and fly! or in my arms i'll lift your grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh! my king, my king! you're wounded sore,--the blood runs from your feet; but only lay a hand before, and i'll lift you to your seat; mount, juan, for they gather fast!--i hear their coming cry,-- mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,--i'll save you, though i die! stand, noble steed! this hour of need,--be gentle as a lamb; i'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,--thy master dear i am,-- mount, juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, drive on, drive on with utmost speed,--my horse shall save my king! lockart's _spanish ballads._ * * * * * "bay billy."--(extracts.) at last from out the centre fight spurred up a general's aid. "that battery must silenced be!" he cried, as past he sped. our colonel simply touched his cap, and then, with measured tread, to lead the crouching line once more the grand old fellow came. no wounded man but raised his head and strove to gasp his name, and those who could not speak nor stir, "god blessed him" just the same. this time we were not half-way up, when, midst the storm of shell, our leader, with his sword upraised, beneath our bayonets fell. and, as we bore him back, the foe set up a joyous yell. just then before the laggard line the colonel's horse we spied, bay billy with his trappings on, his nostrils swelling wide, as though still on his gallant back the master sat astride. right royally he took the place that was of old his wont, and with a neigh that seemed to say, above the battle's brunt, "how can the twenty-second charge if i am not in front?" no bugle-call could rouse us all as that brave sight had done. down all the battered line we felt a lightning impulse run. up! up! the hill we followed bill, and we captured every gun! and then the dusk and dew of night fell softly o'er the plain, as though o'er man's dread work of death the angels wept again, and drew night's curtain gently round a thousand beds of pain. at last the morning broke. the lark sang in the merry skies as if to e'en the sleepers there it bade awake, and rise! though naught but that last trump of all could ope their heavy eyes. and as in faltering tone and slow, the last few names were said, across the field some missing horse toiled up with weary tread, it caught the sergeant's eye, and quick bay billy's name he read. not all the shoulder-straps on earth could still our mighty cheer; and ever from that famous day, when rang the roll-call clear, bay billy's name was read, and then the whole line answered, "here!" frank h. gassaway. * * * * * we cannot kindle when we will, the fire that in the heart resides; but tasks in hours of insight willed, can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. m. arnold. * * * * * the ride of collins graves.--(extracts.) an incident of the flood in massachusetts, may , . what was it, that passed like an ominous breath-- like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? what is it? the valley is peaceful still, and the leaves are afire on top of the hill. it was not a sound--nor a thing of sense-- but a pain, like the pang of the short suspense that thrills the being of those who see at their feet the gulf of eternity! the air of the valley has felt the chill: the workers pause at the door of the mill; the housewife, keen to the shivering air, arrests her foot on the cottage stair, instinctive taught by the mother-love, and thinks of the sleeping ones above. why start the listeners? why does the course of the mill-stream widen? is it a horse-- hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say-- that gallops so wildly williamsburg way! god! what was that, like a human shriek from the winding valley? will nobody speak? will nobody answer those women who cry as the awful warnings thunder by? whence come they? listen! and now they hear the sound of galloping horse-hoofs near; they watch the trend of the vale, and see the rider who thunders so menacingly, with waving arms and warning scream to the home-filled banks of the valley stream. he draws no rein, but he shakes the street with a shout and the ring of the galloping feet; and this the cry he flings to the wind; "to the hills for your lives! the flood is behind!" but onward still, in front of the roaring flood is heard the galloping horse and the warning word. thank god! the brave man's life is spared! from williamsburg town he nobly dared to race with the flood and take the road in front of the terrible swath it mowed. for miles it thundered and crashed behind, but he looked ahead with a steadfast mind; "they must be warned!" was all he said, as away on his terrible ride he sped. john boyle o'reilly. * * * * * paul revere's ride. a hurry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, and beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: that was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, the fate of a nation was riding that night; and the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, kindled the land into flame with its heat. he has left the village and mounted the steep, and beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, is the mystic, meeting the ocean tides; and under the alders, that skirt its edge, now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. it was twelve by the village clock when he crossed the bridge into medford town. he heard the crowing of the cock, and the barking of the farmer's dog, and felt the damp of the river fog, that rises after the sun goes down. it was one by the village clock, when he galloped into lexington. he saw the gilded weathercock swim in the moonlight as he passed, and the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, gaze at him with a spectral glare, as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon. it was two by the village clock, when he came to the bridge in concord town he heard the bleating of the flock, and the twitter of birds among the trees, and felt the breath of the morning breeze blowing over the meadows brown. and one was safe and asleep in his bed who at the bridge would be first to fall, who that day would be lying dead, pierced by a british musket-ball. you know the rest. in the books you have read, how the british regulars fired and fled,-- how the farmers gave them ball for ball, from behind each fence and farm-yard wall, chasing the red-coats down the lane, then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road, and only pausing to fire and load. so through the night rode paul revere; and so through the night went his cry of alarm to every middlesex village and farm,-- a cry of defiance and not of fear, a voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, and a word that shall echo for evermore! for, borne on the night-wind of the past, through all our history, to the last, in the hour of darkness and peril and need, the people will waken and listen to hear the hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, and the midnight message of paul revere. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * sheridan's ride.--(extracts.) up from the south at break of day, bringing to winchester fresh dismay, the affrighted air with a shudder bore, like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door the terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, telling the battle was on once more, and sheridan twenty miles away. but there is a road from winchester town, a good broad highway leading down; and there, through the flush of the morning light, a steed as black as the steeds of night, was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, as if he knew the terrible need; he stretched away with his utmost speed; hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, with sheridan fifteen miles away. under his spurning feet the road like an arrowy alpine river flowed, and the landscape sped away behind like an ocean flying before the wind, and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. but lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with sheridan only five miles away. the first that the general saw were the groups of stragglers, and then the retreating troops, what was done? what to do? a glance told him both, then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, he dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, and the wave of retreat checked its course there, because the sight of the master compelled it to pause. with foam and with dust the black charger was gray; by the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, he seemed to the whole great army to say, "i have brought you sheridan all the way from winchester down, to save the day!" hurrah! hurrah for sheridan! hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! and when their statues are placed on high, under the dome of the union sky, the american soldiers' temple of fame; there with the glorious general's name, be it said, in letters both bold and bright, "here is the steed that saved the day, by carrying sheridan into the fight, from winchester, twenty miles away!" thomas buchanan read. * * * * * good news to aix.--(extract.) i sprang to the stirrup, and joris and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through. behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,-- neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; at boom a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,-- so joris broke silence with "yet there is time!" at aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood, black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper, roland, at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. * * * * * (but "roos" and the "roan" fell dead on the way; the latter, when aix was in sight!) and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is, friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. robert browning. * * * * * dying in harness. only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road, stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy load; only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast to rise. hold! for his toil is over--no more labor for him; see the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes grow dim; see on the friendly stones now peacefully rests his head-- thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead; after the burdened journey, how restful it is to lie with the broken shafts and the cruel load--waiting only to die. watchers, he died in harness--died in the shafts and straps-- fell, and the great load killed him; one of the day's mishaps-- one of the passing wonders marking the city road-- a toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad. passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile, what is the symbol? "only death? why should you cease to smile at death for a beast of burden?" on through the busy street that is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet! what was the sign? a symbol to touch the tireless will. does he who taught in parables speak in parables still? the seed on the rock is wasted--on heedless hearts of men, that gather and sow and grasp and lose--labor and sleep--and then-- then for the prize! a crowd in the street of ever-echoing tread-- the toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness--dead. john boyle * * * * * plutarch's humanity. for my part, i cannot but charge his using his servants like so many beasts of burden, and turning them off, or selling them when they grew old, to the account of a mean and ungenerous spirit which thinks that the sole tie between man and man is interest or necessity. but goodness moves in a larger sphere than justice. the obligations of law and equity reach only to mankind, but kindness and beneficence should be extended to creatures of every species; and these still flow from the breast of a well-natured man, as streams that issue from the living fountain. a good man will take care of his horses and dogs, not only while they are young, but when old and past service. thus the people of athens, when they had finished the temple called hecatompedon, set at liberty the beasts of burden that had been chiefly employed in the work, suffering them to pasture at large, free from any other service. it is said that one of these afterwards came of its own accord to work, and, putting itself at the head of the laboring cattle, marched before them to the citadel. this pleased the people, and they made a decree that it should be kept at the public charge so long as it lived. the graves of cimon's mares, with which he thrice conquered at the olympic games, are still to be seen near his own tomb. many have shown particular marks of regard, in burying the dogs which they had cherished and been fond of; and amongst the rest xantippus of old, whose dog swam by the side of his galley to salamis, when the athenians were forced to abandon their city, and was afterwards buried by him upon a promontory, which to this day is called the dog's grave. we certainly ought not to treat living creatures like shoes or household goods, which, when worn out with use, we throw away; and were it only to learn benevolence to humankind, we should be merciful to other creatures. for my own part, i would not sell even an old ox that had labored for me; much less would i remove, for the sake of a little money, a man grown old in my service, from his usual lodgings and diet; for to him, poor man! it would be as bad as banishment, since he could be of no more use to the buyer than he was to the seller. but cato, as if he took a pride in these things, tells us, that when consul, he left his war-horse in spain to save the public the charge of his conveyance. whether such things as these are instances of greatness or littleness of soul, let the reader judge for himself. _from "cato the censor," in the "lives."_ * * * * * the horses of achilles. the gentleness of chivalry, properly so called, depends on the recognition of the order and awe of lower and loftier animal life, first clearly taught in the myth of chiron, and in his bringing up of jason, Æsculapius, and achilles, but most perfectly by homer, in the fable of the horses of achilles, and the part assigned to them, in relation to the death of his friend, and in prophecy of his own. there is, perhaps, in all the "iliad," nothing more deep in significance--there is nothing in all literature more perfect in human tenderness, and honor for the mystery of inferior life--than the verses that describe the sorrow of the divine horses at the death of patroclus, and the comfort given them by the greatest of gods. ruskin. * * * * * the war horse. sir robert clayton, a british cavalry officer, says of some war horses which had been humanely turned out to perpetual pasture, that while the horses were grazing on one occasion, a violent thunderstorm arose; at once the animals fell into line and faced the blazing lightning under an impression that it was the flash of artillery and the fire of battle. * * * * * pegasus in pound. once into a quiet village, without haste and without heed, in the golden prime of morning, strayed the poet's wingèd steed. it was autumn, and incessant piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, and, like living coals, the apples burned among the withering leaves. loud the clamorous bell was ringing from its belfry gaunt and grim; 'twas the daily call to labor, not a triumph meant for him. not the less he saw the landscape, in its gleaming vapor veiled; not the less he breathed the odors that the dying leaves exhaled. thus, upon the village common, by the school-boys he was found; and the wise men, in their wisdom, put him straightway into pound. then the sombre village crier, ringing loud his brazen bell, wandered down the street proclaiming: there was an estray to sell. and the curious country people, rich and poor, and young and old, came in haste to see the wondrous wingèd steed with mane of gold. thus the day passed, and the evening fell, with vapors cold and dim; but it brought no food nor shelter, brought no straw nor stall, for him. patiently, and still expectant, looked he through the wooden bars, saw the moon rise o'er the landscape. saw the tranquil, patient stars; till at length the bell at midnight sounded from its dark abode, and, from out a neighboring farm-yard, loud the cock alectryon crowed. then, with nostrils wide distended, breaking from his iron chain, and unfolding far his pinions, to those stars he soared again. on the morrow, when the village woke to all its toil and care, lo! the strange steed had departed, and they knew not when nor where. but they found, upon the greensward where his struggling hoofs had trod, pure and bright, a fountain flowing from the hoof-marks in the sod. from that hour, the fount unfailing gladdens the whole region round, strengthening all who drink its waters, while it soothes them with its sound. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * the horse. nay, the man hath no wit, that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey; it is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all; 'tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the world (familiar to us and unknown), to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. _henry v._ act , sec. . * * * * * from "the foray." our steeds are impatient! i hear my blithe gray! there is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain. walter scott. * * * * * on landseer's picture, "waiting for master." the proud steed bends his stately neck and patient waits his master's word, while fido listens for his step, welcome, whenever heard. king charlie shakes his curly ears, secure his home, no harm he fears; above the peaceful pigeons coo their happy hymn, the long day through. what means this scene of quiet joy, this peaceful scene without alloy! kind words, kind care, and tender thought this picture beautiful have wrought. its lesson tells of care for all god's creatures, whether great or small, and they who love "the least of these," are sure a loving god to please. _our dumb animals._ * * * * * the birds. * * * * * the waterfowl. whither, 'midst falling dew, while glow the heavens with the last steps of day far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue thy solitary way? vainly the fowler's eye might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, as, darkly painted on the crimson sky, thy figure floats along. seek'st thou the plashy brink of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, or where the rocking billows rise and sink on the chafed ocean side? there is a power whose care teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- the desert and illimitable air,-- lone wandering, but not lost. all day thy wings have fanned, at that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, though the dark night is near. and soon that toil shall end; soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest and scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend some o'er thy sheltered nest. thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven hath swallowed up thy form--yet on my heart deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, and shall not soon depart. he, who from zone to zone guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, in the long way that i must tread alone will lead my steps aright. w. c. bryant. * * * * * sea fowl. through my north window, in the wintry weather,-- my airy oriel on the river shore,-- i watch the sea-fowl as they flock together where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar. i see the solemn gulls in council sitting on some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late, while overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting, and leave the tardy conclave in debate, those weighty questions in their breasts revolving, whose deeper meaning science never learns, till at some reverend elder's look dissolving, the speechless senate silently adjourns. he knows you! "sportsman" from suburban alleys, stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt; knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies forth to waste powder--as _he_ says, to "hunt." i watch you with a patient satisfaction, well pleased to discount your predestined luck; the float that figures in your sly transaction will carry back a goose, but not a duck. shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him! sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes; still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him; one cannot always miss him if he tries! o thou who carest for the falling sparrow, canst thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget? or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow its one long column scores thy creature's debt? poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, a world grows dark with thee in blinding death; one little gasp,--thy universe has perished, wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath! _from "my aviary," by_ o. w. holmes. * * * * * the sandpiper. across the narrow beach we flit, one little sandpiper and i, and fast i gather, bit by bit, the scattered driftwood bleached and dry. the wild waves reach their hands for it, the wild wind raves, the tide runs high, as up and down the beach we flit,-- one little sandpiper and i. above our heads the sullen clouds scud black and swift across the sky; like silent ghosts in misty shrouds stand out the white lighthouses high. almost as far as eye can reach, i see the close-reefed vessels fly, as fast we flit along the beach,-- one little sandpiper and i. i watch him as he skims along, uttering his sweet and mournful cry. he starts not at my fitful song, or flash of fluttering drapery. he has no thought of any wrong; he scans me with a fearless eye. staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, the little sandpiper and i. comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, when the loosed storm breaks furiously? my driftwood fire will burn so bright! to what warm shelter canst thou fly? i do not fear for thee, though wroth the tempest rushes through the sky: for are we not god's children both, thou, little sandpiper, and i? celia thaxter. * * * * * the birds of killingworth. the robin and the bluebird, piping loud, filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; the sparrows chirped as if they still were proud their race in holy writ should mentioned be; and hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: "give us, o lord, this day our daily bread!" * * * * * thus came the jocund spring in killingworth, in fabulous days, some hundred years ago; and thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, that mingled with the universal mirth, cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; they shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words to swift destruction the whole race of birds. and a town-meeting was convened straightway to set a price upon the guilty heads of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, levied black-mail upon the garden beds and cornfields, and beheld without dismay the awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; the skeleton that waited at their feast, whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. * * * * * rose the preceptor,... to speak out what was in him, clear and strong. * * * * * "plato, anticipating the reviewers, from his republic banished without pity the poets; in this little town of yours, you put to death, by means of a committee, the ballad-singers and the troubadours, the street-musicians of the heavenly city, the birds who make sweet music for us all in our dark hours, as david did for saul. their songs. "the thrush that carols at the dawn of day from the green steeples of the piny wood; the oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, jargoning like a foreigner at his food; the bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, flooding with melody the neighborhood; linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng that dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. "you slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain of a scant handful more or less of wheat, or rye, or barley, or some other grain, scratched up at random by industrious feet, searching for worm or weevil after rain! or a few cherries, that are not so sweet as are the songs these uninvited guests sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. "do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught the dialect they speak, where melodies alone are the interpreters of thought? whose household words are songs in many keys, sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! whose habitations in the tree-tops even are half-way houses on the road to heaven! "think, every morning when the sun peeps through the dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, how jubilant the happy birds renew their old melodious madrigals of love! and when you think of this, remember too 'tis always morning somewhere, and above the awakening continents, from shore to shore, somewhere the birds are singing evermore. their service to man. "think of your woods and orchards without birds! of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams as in an idiot's brain remembered words hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams! will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds make up for the lost music, when your teams drag home the stingy harvest, and no more the feathered gleaners follow to your door? "what! would you rather see the incessant stir of insects in the windrows of the hay, and hear the locust and the grasshopper their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? is this more pleasant to you than the whir of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, or twitter of little field-fares, as you take your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? "you call them thieves and pillagers; but know, they are the winged wardens of your farms, who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, and from your harvest keep a hundred harms. even the blackest of them all, the crow, renders good service as your man-at-arms, crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail, and crying havoc on the slug and snail. the claims of gentleness and reverence. "how can i teach your children gentleness, and mercy to the weak, and reverence for life, which, in its weakness or excess, is still a gleam of god's omnipotence, or death, which, seeming darkness, is no less the selfsame light, although averted hence, when by your laws, your actions, and your speech, you contradict the very things i teach?" * * * * * the birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, a bounty offered for the heads of crows. * * * * * the result of their destruction. devoured by worms, like herod, was the town, because, like herod, it had ruthlessly slaughtered the innocents. from the trees spun down the canker-worms upon the passers-by, upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, who shook them off with just a little cry; they were the terror of each favorite walk, the endless theme of all the village talk. the farmers grew impatient, but a few confessed their error, and would not complain, for after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining, is to let it rain. then they repealed the law, although they knew it would not call the dead to life again; as school-boys, finding their mistake too late, draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. that year in killingworth the autumn came without the light of his majestic look, the wonder of the falling tongues of flame, the illumined pages of his doom's-day book. a few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, and drowned themselves despairing in the brook, while the wild wind went moaning everywhere, lamenting the dead children of the air! the return of the birds. but the next spring a stranger sight was seen, a sight that never yet by bard was sung, as great a wonder as it would have been if some dumb animal had found a tongue! a wagon, overarched with evergreen, upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, all full of singing birds, came down the street, filling the air with music wild and sweet. from all the country round these birds were brought, by order of the town, with anxious quest, and, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought in woods and fields the places they loved best, singing loud canticles, which many thought were satires to the authorities addressed, while others, listening in green lanes, averred such lovely music never had been heard! h. w. longfellow. * * * * * the magpie. "man is unjust, but god is just; and finally justice triumphs; and well i remember a story, that often consoled me, when as a captive i lay in the old french fort at port royal." this was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it when his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. "once in an ancient city, whose name i no longer remember, raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of justice stood in the public square, upholding the scales in his left hand, and in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. but in course of time the laws of the land were corrupted; might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty ruled with an iron rod. then it chanced in a nobleman's palace that a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. she, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of justice. as to her father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, and in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." h. w. longfellow, in _evangeline_. * * * * * the mocking-bird. then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, that the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied bacchantes. single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, as when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. h. w. longfellow, in _evangeline_. * * * * * early songs and sounds. to hear the lark begin his flight, and singing startle the dull night from his watch-tower in the skies till the dappled dawn doth rise; then to come, in spite of sorrow, and at my window bid good-morrow through the sweet-briar, or the vine, or the twisted eglantine; while the cock with lively din scatters the rear of darkness thin; and to the stack, or the barn door, stoutly struts his dames before; oft listening how the hounds and horn cheerly rouse the slumbering morn from the side of some hoar hill, through the high wood echoing shrill. john milton. * * * * * the sparrow's note. i thought the sparrow's note from heaven, singing at dawn on the alder bough; i brought him home, in his nest, at even, he sings the song, but it pleases not now, for i did not bring home the river and sky; he sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. r. w. emerson. * * * * * the glow-worm. nor crush a worm, whose useful light might serve, however small, to show a stumbling-stone by night, and save man from a fall. cowper. * * * * * st. francis to the birds. up soared the lark into the air, a shaft of song, a wingèd prayer, as if a soul, released from pain, were flying back to heaven again. st. francis heard; it was to him an emblem of the seraphim; the upward motion of the fire, the light, the heat, the heart's desire. around assisi's convent gate the birds, god's poor who cannot wait, from moor and mere and darksome wood came flocking for their dole of food. "o brother birds," st. francis said, "ye come to me and ask for bread, but not with bread alone to-day shall ye be fed and sent away. "ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, with manna of celestial words; not mine, though mine they seem to be, not mine, though they be spoken through me. "oh, doubly are ye bound to praise the great creator in your lays; he giveth you your plumes of down, your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. "he giveth you your wings to fly and breathe a purer air on high, and careth for you everywhere, who for yourselves so little care!" with flutter of swift wings and songs together rose the feathered throngs, and singing scattered far apart; deep peace was in st. francis' heart. he knew not if the brotherhood his homily had understood; he only knew that to one ear the meaning of his words was clear. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * wordsworth's skylark. ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, those quivering wings composed, that music still! to the last point of vision, and beyond, mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain, ('twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing all independent of the leafy spring. leave to the nightingale her shady wood; a privacy of glorious light is thine; whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood of harmony, with instinct more divine; type of the wise who soar, but never roam; true to the kindred points of heaven and home! wordsworth. * * * * * shelley's skylark.--(extracts.) hail to thee, blithe spirit! bird thou never wert, that from heaven, or near it, pourest thy full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. higher still and higher from the earth thou springest, like a cloud of fire, the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. teach us, sprite or bird, what sweet thoughts are thine: i have never heard praise of love or wine that panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. chorus hymeneal or triumphal chant matched with thine, would be all but an empty vaunt-- a thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. what objects are the fountains of thy happy strain? what fields, or waves, or mountains? what shapes of sky or plain? what love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? better than all measures of delightful sound, better than all treasures that in books are found, thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know, such harmonious madness from my lips would flow the world should listen then, as i am listening now! p. b. shelley. * * * * * hogg's skylark. bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place,-- oh to abide in the desert with thee! wild is the day and loud far in the downy cloud, love gives it energy, love gave it birth. where, on thy dewy wing, where art thou journeying? thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. o'er fell and mountain sheen, o'er moor and mountain green, o'er the red streamer that heralds the day, over the cloudlet dim, over the rainbow's rim, musical cherub, soar, singing, away! then, when the gloaming comes, low in the heather blooms sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place, oh to abide in the desert with thee! james hogg. * * * * * a skylark wounded on the wing doth make a cherub cease to sing. he who shall hurt a little wren shall never be beloved by men. w. blake. * * * * * the sweet-voiced quire. lord, should we oft forget to sing a thankful evening hymn of praise, this duty, they to mind might bring, who chirp among the bushy sprays. for in their perches they retire, when first the twilight waxeth dim; and every night the sweet-voiced quire shuts up the daylight with a hymn. ten thousand fold more cause have we to close each day with praiseful voice, to offer thankful hearts to thee, and in thy mercies to rejoice. george wither, . * * * * * a caged lark. a cruel deed it is, sweet bird, to cage thee up prisoner for life, with just a cup and a box of seed, and sod to move on barely one foot square, hung o'er dark street, midst foul and murky air. from freedom brought, and robbed of every chance of wing, thou couldst have had no heart to sing, one would have thought. but though thy song is sung, men little know the yearning source from which those sweet notes flow. poor little bird! as often as i think of thee, and how thou longest to be free, my heart is stirred, and, were my strength but equal to my rage, methinks thy cager would be in his cage. the selfish man! to take thee from thy broader sphere, where thousands heard thy music clear, on nature's plan; and where the listening landscape far and wide had joy, and thou thy liberty beside. a singing slave made now; with no return but food; no mate to love, nor little brood to feed and save; no cool and leafy haunts; the cruel wires chafe thy young life and check thy just desires. brave little bird! still striving with thy sweetest song to melt the hearts that do thee wrong, i give my word to stand with those who for thy freedom fight, who claim for thee that freedom as thy right. _chambers's journal._ * * * * * the woodlark. i have a friend across the street, we never yet exchanged a word, yet dear to me his accents sweet-- i am a woman, he a bird. and here we twain in exile dwell, far from our native woods and skies, and dewy lawns with healthful smell, where daisies lift their laughing eyes. never again from moss-built nest shall the caged woodlark blithely soar; never again the heath be pressed by foot of mine for evermore! yet from that feathered, quivering throat a blessing wings across to me; no thrall can hold that mellow note, or quench its flame in slavery. when morning dawns in holy calm, and each true heart to worship calls, mine is the prayer, but his the psalm, that floats about our prison walls. and as behind the thwarting wires the captive creature throbs and sings, with him my mounting soul aspires on music's strong and cleaving wings. my chains fall off, the prison gates fly open, as with magic key; and far from life's perplexing straits, my spirit wanders, swift and free. back to the heather, breathing deep the fragrance of the mountain breeze, i hear the wind's melodious sweep through tossing boughs of ancient trees. beneath a porch where roses climb i stand as i was used to stand, where cattle-bells with drowsy chime make music in the quiet land. fast fades the dream in distance dim, tears rouse me with a sudden shock; lo! at my door, erect and trim, the postman gives his double knock. and a great city's lumbering noise arises with confusing hum, and whistling shrill of butchers' boys; my day begins, my bird is dumb. _temple bar._ * * * * * keats's nightingale. thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! no hungry generations tread thee down: the voice i heard this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown: perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of ruth, when sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn; the same that ofttimes hath charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. forlorn! the very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self! adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do, deceiving elf. adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hill-side: and now 'tis buried deep in the next valley-glades was it a vision, or a waking dream? fled is that music:--do i wake or sleep? j. keats. * * * * * lark and nightingale. color and form may be conveyed by words, but words are weak to tell the heavenly strains that from the throats of these celestial birds rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains; there was the meadow-lark with voice as sweet, but robed in richer raiment than our own; and as the moon smiled on his green retreat, the painted nightingale sang out alone. words cannot echo music's wingèd note, one voice alone exhausts their utmost power; 'tis that strange bird, whose many-voicèd throat mocks all his brethren of the woodlawn bower, to whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is given, the musical, rich tongues that fill the grove; now, like the lark, dropping his notes from heaven, now cooing the soft notes of the dove. oft have i seen him, scorning all control, winging his arrowy flight, rapid and strong, as if in search of his evanished soul, lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; and as i wandered on and upward gazed, half lost in admiration, half in fear, i left the brothers wondering and amazed, thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. denis florence maccarthy. * * * * * flight of the birds. meanwhile the tepid caves, and fens, and shores, their brood as numerous hatch from the egg that soon bursting with kindly rupture, forth disclosed their callow young; but feathered soon and fledge they summed their pens; and, soaring the air sublime, with clang despised the ground, under a cloud in prospect: there the eagle and the stork on cliffs and cedar-tops their eyries build; part loosely wing the region; part, more wise, in common ranged in figure, wedge their way, intelligent of seasons, and set forth their aery caravan, high over seas flying, and over lands, with mutual wing easing their flight; so steers the prudent crane her annual voyage, borne on winds; the air floats as they pass, fanned with unnumbered plumes: from branch to branch the smaller birds with song solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings till even; nor then the solemn nightingale ceased warbling, but all night tuned her soft lays: others, on silver lakes and rivers, bathed their downy breasts; the swan with archèd neck between her white wings, mantling proudly, rows her state with oary feet; yet oft they quit the dank, and, rising on stiff pennons, tower the mid aerial sky: others on ground walked firm; the crested cock, whose clarion sounds the silent hours; and the other, whose gay train adorns him, colored with the florid hue of rainbows and starry eyes. milton: _paradise lost_, book . * * * * * a child's wish. i would i were a note from a sweet bird's throat! i'd float on forever, and melt away never! i would i were a note from a sweet bird's throat! but i am what i am! as content as a lamb. no new state i'll covet; for how long should i love it? no, i'll be what i am,-- as content as a lamb! _poetry for children._ * * * * * the humming-bird. emerald-plumèd, ruby-throated, flashing like a fair star where the humid, dew-becoated, sun-illumined blossoms are-- see the fleet humming-bird! hark to his humming, heard loud as the whirr of a fairy king's car! sightliest, sprightliest, lightest, and brightest one, child of the summer sun, shining afar! brave little humming-bird! every eye blesses thee; sunlight caresses thee, forest and field are the fairer for thee. blooms, at thy coming stirred, bend on each brittle stem, nod to the little gem, bow to the humming-bird, frolic and free. now around the woodbine hovering, now the morning-glory covering, now the honeysuckle sipping, now the sweet clematis tipping, now into the bluebell dipping; hither, thither, flashing, bright'ning, like a streak of emerald lightning: round the box, with milk-white plox; round the fragrant four-o'-clocks; o'er the crimson quamoclit, lightly dost thou wheel and flit; into each tubèd throat dives little ruby-throat. bright-glowing airy thing, light-going fairy thing, not the grand lyre-bird rivals thee, splendid one!-- fairy-attended one, green-coated fire-bird! shiniest fragile one, tiniest agile one, falcon and eagle tremble before thee! dim is the regal peacock and lory, and the pheasant, iridescent, pales before the gleam and glory of the jewel-change incessant, when the sun is streaming o'er thee! hear thy soft humming, like a sylph's drumming! _californian._ * * * * * the humming-bird's wedding a little brown mother-bird sat in her nest, with four sleepy birdlings tucked under her breast, and her querulous chirrup fell ceaseless and low, while the wind rocked the lilac-tree nest to and fro. "lie still, little nestlings! lie still while i tell, for a lullaby story, a thing that befell your plain little mother one midsummer morn, a month ago, birdies--before you were born. "i'd been dozing and dreaming the long summer night, till the dawn flushed its pink through the waning moonlight; when--i wish you could hear it once!--faintly there fell all around me the silvery sound of a bell. "then a chorus of bells! so, with just half an eye, i peeped from the nest, and those lilies close by, with threads of a cobweb, were swung to and fro by three little rollicking midgets below. "then the air was astir as with humming-birds' wings! and a cloud of the tiniest, daintiest things that ever one dreamed of, came fluttering where a cluster of trumpet-flowers swayed in the air. "as i sat all a-tremble, my heart in my bill-- 'i will stay by the nest,' thought i, 'happen what will;' so i saw with these eyes by that trumpet-vine fair, a whole fairy bridal train poised in the air. "such a bit of a bride! such a marvel of grace! in a shimmer of rainbows and gossamer lace; no wonder the groom dropped his diamond-dust ring, which a little elf-usher just caught with his wing. "then into a trumpet-flower glided the train, and i thought (for a dimness crept over my brain, and i tucked my head under my wing), 'deary me! what a sight for a plain little mother like me!'" mary a. lathbury. * * * * * the hen and the honey-bee. a lazy hen, the story goes, loquacious, pert, and self-conceited, espied a bee upon a rose, and thus the busy insect greeted: "i've marked you well for many a day, in garden blooms and meadow clover; now here, now there, in wanton play, from morn till night an idle rover. "while i discreetly bide at home, a faithful wife, the best of mothers, about the fields you idly roam, without the least regard for others. "while i lay eggs and hatch them out, you seek the flowers most sweet and fragrant; and, sipping honey, stroll about, at best a good for nothing vagrant." "nay," said the bee, "you do me wrong: i'm useful, too,--perhaps you doubt it: because, though toiling all day long, i scorn to make a fuss about it. "come now with me and see my hive, and note how folks may work in quiet; to useful arts much more alive than you with all your cackling riot!" john g. saxe. * * * * * song of the robin. when the willows gleam along the brooks, and the grass grows green in sunny nooks, in the sunshine and the rain i hear the robin in the lane singing "cheerily, cheer up, cheer up; cheerily, cheerily, cheer up." but the snow is still along the walls and on the hill. the days are cold, the nights forlorn, for one is here and one is gone. "tut, tut. cheerily, cheer up, cheer up; cheerily, cheerily, cheer up." when spring hopes seem to wane, i hear the joyful strain-- a song at night, a song at morn, a lesson deep to me is borne, hearing, "cheerily, cheer up, cheer up; cheerily, cheerily, cheer up." _masque of poets._ * * * * * sir robin. rollicking robin is here again. what does he care for the april rain? care for it? glad of it. doesn't he know that the april rain carries off the snow, and coaxes out leaves to shadow his nest, and washes his pretty red easter vest, and makes the juice of the cherry sweet, for his hungry little robins to eat? "ha! ha! ha!" hear the jolly bird laugh. "that isn't the best of the story, by half!" gentleman robin, he walks up and down, dressed in orange-tawney and black and brown. though his eye is so proud and his step so firm, he can always stoop to pick up a worm. with a twist of his head, and a strut and a hop, to his robin-wife, in the peach-tree top, chirping her heart out, he calls: "my dear you don't earn your living! come here! come here! ha! ha! ha! life is lovely and sweet; but what would it be if we'd nothing to eat?" robin, sir robin, gay, red-vested knight, now you have come to us, summer's in sight. you never dream of the wonders you bring,-- visions that follow the flash of your wing. how all the beautiful by-and-by around you and after you seems to fly! sing on, or eat on, as pleases your mind! well have you earned every morsel you find. "aye! ha! ha! ha!" whistles robin. "my dear, let us all take our own choice of good cheer!" lucy larcom. * * * * * the dear old robins. there's a call upon the housetop, an answer from the plain, there's a warble in the sunshine, a twitter in the rain. and through my heart, at sound of these, there comes a nameless thrill, as sweet as odor to the rose, or verdure to the hill; and all the joyous mornings my heart pours forth this strain: "god bless the dear old robins who have come back again." for they bring a thought of summer, of dreamy, precious days, of king-cups in the summer, making a golden haze; a longing for the clover blooms, for roses all aglow, for fragrant blossoms where the bees with droning murmurs go; i dream of all the beauties of summer's golden reign, and sing: "god keep the robins who have come back again." anon. * * * * * robins quit the nest. "now, robins, my darlings, i think it is best," said old mother bird, "that you all quit the nest. you've grown very plump, and the nest is so small that really there isn't quite room for you all. "the day is so fair and the sun is so bright, i think i can teach you to fly before night: and, when you have learned, you can go where you please, as high as the gable,--yes! high as the trees. "come, dickey, hop out, and stand up here by me; the rest of you stand on the branch of the tree; don't be frightened, my dears; there's no danger at all, for mother will not let her dear birdies fall. "now all spread your wings. ah! but that is too high; just see how _i_ do it. now, all again try! ah! that is much better. now try it once more. bravo! much better than ever before! "now flutter about, up and down, here and there: my dears, you'll be flying before you're aware. now carefully drop from the tree to the ground; there's nothing to fear, for there's grass all around. "all starting but robbie. 'afraid you shall fall?' ah! don't be a craven, be bravest of all. now up and now down, now away to yon spire: go on: don't be frightened: fly higher and higher." * * * * * "i've waited one hour, right here on the tree: not one of my robins has come back to me. how soon they forget all the trouble they bring! never mind: i'll fly up on the tree-top and sing." mrs. c. f. berry. * * * * * lost--three little robin's. oh, where is the boy, dressed in jacket of gray, who climbed up a tree in the orchard to-day, and carried my three little birdies away? they hardly were dressed, when he took from the nest my three little robins, and left me bereft. o wrens! have you seen, in your travels to-day, a very small boy, dressed in jacket of gray, who carried my three little robins away? he had light-colored hair, and his feet were both bare. ah me! he was cruel and mean, i declare. o butterfly! stop just one moment, i pray: have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray, who carried my three little birdies away? he had pretty blue eyes, and was small of his size. ah! he must be wicked, and not very wise. o bees! with your bags of sweet nectarine, stay; have you seen a boy dressed in jacket of gray, and carrying three little birdies away? did he go through the town, or go sneaking aroun' through hedges and byways, with head hanging down? o boy with blue eyes, dressed in jacket of gray! if you will bring back my three robins to-day, with sweetest of music the gift i'll repay; i'll sing all day long my merriest song, and i will forgive you this terrible wrong. bobolinks! did you see my birdies and me-- how happy we were on the old apple-tree? until i was robbed of my young, as you see? oh, how can i sing, unless he will bring my three robins back, to sleep under my wing? mrs. c. f. berry: _songs for our darlings_. * * * * * the terrible scarecrow and robins. the farmer looked at his cherry-tree, with thick buds clustered on every bough. "i wish i could cheat the robins," said he. "if somebody only would show me how! "i'll make a terrible scarecrow grim, with threatening arms and with bristling head; and up in the tree i'll fasten him, to frighten them half to death," he said. he fashioned a scarecrow all tattered and torn,-- oh, 'twas a horrible thing to see! and very early, one summer morn, he set it up in his cherry-tree. the blossoms were white as the light sea-foam, the beautiful tree was a lovely sight; but the scarecrow stood there so much at home that the birds flew screaming away in fright. but the robins, watching him day after day, with heads on one side and eyes so bright, surveying the monster, began to say, "why should this fellow our prospects blight? "he never moves round for the roughest weather, he's a harmless, comical, tough old fellow. let's all go into the tree together, for he won't budge till the fruit is mellow!" so up they flew; and the sauciest pair 'mid the shady branches peered and perked, selected a spot with the utmost care, and all day merrily sang and worked. and where do you think they built their nest? in the scarecrow's pocket, if you please, that, half-concealed on his ragged breast, made a charming covert of safety and ease! by the time the cherries were ruby-red, a thriving family hungry and brisk, the whole long day on the ripe food fed. 'twas so convenient! they saw no risk! until the children were ready to fly, all undisturbed they lived in the tree; for nobody thought to look at the guy for a robin's flourishing family! celia thaxter. * * * * * the song sparrow. a little gray bird with a speckled breast, under my window has built his nest; he sits on at twig and singeth clear a song that overfloweth with cheer: "love! love! love! let us be happy, my love. sing of cheer." sweet and true are the notes of his song; sweet--and yet always full and strong, true--and yet they are never sad, serene with that peace that maketh glad: "life! life! life! oh, what a blessing is life; life is glad!" of all the birds, i love thee best, dear sparrow, singing of joy and rest; rest--but life and hope increase, joy--whose spring is deepest peace: "joy! life! love! oh, to love and live is joy,-- joy and peace." miss harriet e. paine: _bird songs of new england._ * * * * * the field sparrow. a bubble of music floats the slope of the hillside over-- a little wandering sparrow's notes-- on the bloom of yarrow and clover. and the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaf on his ripple of song are stealing; for he is a chartered thief, the wealth of the fields revealing. one syllable, clear and soft as a raindrop's silvery patter, or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft, in the midst of the merry chatter of robin and linnet and wren and jay, one syllable, oft-repeated: he has but a word to say, and of that he will not be cheated. the singer i have not seen; but the song i arise and follow the brown hills over, the pastures green, and into the sunlit hollow. with the joy of a lowly heart's content i can feel my glad eyes glisten, though he hides in his happy tent, while i stand outside and listen. this way would i also sing, my dear little hillside neighbor! a tender carol of peace to bring to the sunburnt fields of labor, is better than making a loud ado. trill on, amid clover and yarrow: there's a heart-beat echoing you, and blessing you, blithe little sparrow! lucy larcom. * * * * * the sparrow. glad to see you, little bird; 'twas your little chirp i heard: what did you intend to say? "give me something this cold day?" that i will, and plenty too; all the crumbs i saved for you. don't be frightened: here's a treat. i will wait and see you eat. shocking tales i hear of you; chirp, and tell me, are they true? robbing all the summer long; don't you think it very wrong? thomas says you steal his wheat; john complains his plums you eat, choose the ripest for your share, never asking whose they are? but i will not try to know what you did so long ago: there's your breakfast; eat away; come and see me every day. _child's book of poetry._ * * * * * piccola and sparrow. poor, sweet piccola! did you hear what happened to piccola, children dear? 'tis seldom fortune such favor grants as fell to this little maid of france. 'twas christmas-time, and her parents poor could hardly drive the wolf from the door, striving with poverty's patient pain only to live till summer again. no gifts for piccola! sad were they when dawned the morning of christmas day; their little darling no joy might stir, st. nicholas nothing would bring to her! but piccola never doubted at all that something beautiful must befall every child upon christmas day, and so she slept till the dawn was gray. and, full of faith, when at last she woke, she stole to her shoe as the morning broke; such sounds of gladness tilled all the air, 'twas plain st. nicholas had been there! in rushed piccola sweet, half wild: never was seen such a joyful child. "see what the good saint brought!" she cried, and mother and father must peep inside. now such a story who ever heard? there was a little shivering bird! a sparrow, that in at the window flew, had crept into piccola's tiny shoe! "how good piccola must have been!" she cried as happy as any queen, while the starving sparrow she fed and warmed, and danced with rapture, she was so charmed. children, this story i tell to you, of piccola sweet and her bird, is true. in the far-off land of france, they say, still do they live to this very day. celia thaxter. * * * * * little sparrow. touch not the little sparrow who doth build his home so near us. he doth follow us, from spot to spot, amidst the turbulent town, and ne'er deserts us. to all other birds the woods suffice, the rivers, the sweet fields, and nature in her aspect mute and fair; but he doth herd with men. blithe servant! live, feed, and grow cheerful! on my window's ledge i'll leave thee every morning some fit food in payment for thy service. barry cornwall. * * * * * the swallow. a swallow in the spring came to our granary, and beneath the eaves essayed to make a nest, and there did bring wet earth and straw and leaves. day after day she toiled with patient art; but, ere her work was crowned, some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled, and dashed it to the ground. she found the ruin wrought; but, not cast down, forth from the place she flew, and, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought, and built her nest anew. but scarcely had she placed the last soft feather on its ample floor, when wicked hands, on chance, again laid waste, and wrought the ruin o'er. but still her heart she kept, and toiled again; and last night, hearing calls, i looked,--and, lo! three little swallows slept within the earth-made walls. what truth is here, o man! hath hope been smitten in its early dawn? have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, truth, or plan? have faith, and struggle on! r. s. andros. * * * * * the emperor's bird's-nest. once the emperor charles of spain, with his swarthy, grave commanders, i forget in what campaign, long besieged, in mud and rain, some old frontier town of flanders. up and down the dreary camp, in great boots of spanish leather, striding with a measured tramp, these hidalgos, dull and damp, cursed the frenchmen, cursed the weather. thus as to and fro they went, over upland and through hollow, giving their impatience vent, perched upon the emperor's tent, in her nest, they spied a swallow. yes, it was a swallow's nest, built of clay and hair of horses, mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, found on hedge-rows east and west, after skirmish of the forces. then an old hidalgo said, as he twirled his gray mustachio, "sure this swallow overhead thinks the emperor's tent a shed, and the emperor but a macho!" hearing his imperial name coupled with those words of malice, half in anger, half in shame, forth the great campaigner came slowly from his canvas palace. "let no hand the bird molest," said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!" adding then, by way of jest, "golondrina is my guest, 'tis the wife of some deserter!" swift as bowstring speed, a shaft, through the camp was spread the rumor, and the soldiers, as they quaffed flemish beer at dinner, laughed at the emperor's pleasant humor. so unharmed and unafraid sat the swallow still and brooded, till the constant cannonade through the walls a breach had made, and the siege was thus concluded. then the army, elsewhere bent, struck its tents as if disbanding, only not the emperor's tent, for he ordered, ere he went, very curtly, "leave it standing!" so it stood there all alone, loosely flapping, torn and tattered, till the brood was fledged and flown, singing o'er those walls of stone which the cannon-shot had shattered. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * to a swallow building under our eaves. thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing-- hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing thou too must rest. but much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell, i'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well to build thy nest. for thou hast passed fair places in thy flight; a world lay all beneath thee where to light; and, strange thy taste, of all the varied scenes that met thine eye-- of all the spots for building 'neath the sky-- to choose this waste. did fortune try thee? was thy little purse perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, felt here secure? ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! thou know'st it not. of all god's creatures, man alone is poor. what was it, then? some mystic turn of thought, caught under german eaves, and hither brought, marring thine eye for the world's loveliness, till thou art grown a sober thing that dost but mope and moan, not knowing why? nay, if thy mind be sound, i need not ask, since here i see thee working at thy task with wing and beak. a well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, at which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, nor more need'st seek. in truth, i rather take it thou hast got by instinct wise much sense about thy lot, and hast small care whether an eden or a desert be thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free to skim the air. god speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest with little ones all in good time be blest. i love thee much; for well thou managest that life of thine, while i! oh, ask not what i do with mine! would i were such! mrs. thomas carlyle. * * * * * the swallow, the owl, and the cock's shrill clarion in the "elegy." the curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, the ploughman homeward plods his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me. now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, and all the air a solemn stillness holds, save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, and drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower the moping owl does to the moon complain of such as, wandering near her secret bower, molest her ancient, solitary reign. beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, each in his narrow cell forever laid, the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. the breezy call of incense-breathing morn, the swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, no more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. gray. * * * * * the statue over the cathedral door. forms of saints and kings are standing the cathedral door above; yet i saw but one among them who hath soothed my soul with love. in his mantle,--wound about him, as their robes the sowers wind,-- bore he swallows and their fledglings, flowers and weeds of every kind. and so stands he calm and child-like, high in wind and tempest wild; oh, were i like him exalted, i would be like him, a child! and my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,-- to the doors of heaven would bear, calling, even in storm and tempest, round me still these birds of air. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * the bird let loose. the bird let loose in eastern skies, when hastening fondly home, ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies where idle warblers roam; but high she shoots through air and light, above all low delay, where nothing earthly bounds her flight, nor shadow dims her way. so grant me, god, from every care and stain of passion free, aloft, through virtue's purer air, to hold my course to thee! no sin to cloud, no lure to stay my soul, as home she springs;-- thy sunshine on her joyful way, thy freedom in her wings! t. moore. * * * * * the brown thrush. there's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "he's singing to me! he's singing to me!" and what does he say, little girl, little boy? "oh, the world's running over with joy! don't you hear? don't you see? hush! look! in my tree i'm as happy as happy can be!" and the brown thrush keeps singing, "a nest do you see, and five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, or the world will lose some of its joy! now i'm glad! now i'm free! and always shall be, if you never bring sorrow to me." so the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, to you and to me, to you and to me; and he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "oh, the world's running over with joy! don't you know? don't you see? but long it won't be, unless we are as good as can be?" lucy larcom. * * * * * the golden-crowned thrush. in the hot midsummer noontide, when all other birds are sleeping, still one in the silent forest, like a sentry, watch in keeping, singing in the pine-tops spicy: "i see, _i_ see, _i see_, _i_ see." no one ever sees _you_, atom! you are hidden too securely. i have sought for hours to find you. it is but to tease us, surely, that you sing in pine-tops spicy: "i see, _i_ see, _i see_, _i_ see." harriet e. paine: _bird songs of new england._ * * * * * the thrush. beside the cottage in which ellen dwelt stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig a thrush resorts, and annually chants, at morn and evening from that naked perch, while all the undergrove is thick with leaves, a time-beguiling ditty, for delight of his fond partner, silent in the nest. "ah why," said ellen, sighing to herself, "why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge, and nature that is kind in woman's breast, and reason that in man is wise and good, and fear of him who is a righteous judge,-- why do not these prevail for human life, to keep two hearts together, that began their spring-time with one love, and that have need of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet to grant, or be received; while that poor bird,-- oh come and hear him! thou who hast to me been faithless, hear him, _though a lowly creature, one of god's simple children that yet know not the universal parent, how he sings as if he wished the firmament of heaven should listen, and give back to him the voice of his triumphant constancy and love;_ the proclamation that he makes, how far his darkness doth transcend our fickle light!" wordsworth. * * * * * the aziola. "do you not hear the aziola cry? methinks she must be nigh," said mary, as we sate in dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought, and i, who thought, this aziola was some tedious woman, asked, "who is aziola?" how elate i felt to know that it was nothing human, no mockery of myself to fear or hate; and mary saw my soul, and laughed and said, "disquiet yourself not, 'tis nothing but a little downy owl." sad aziola! many an eventide thy music i had heard by wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, and fields and marshes wide, such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, the soul ever stirred; unlike and far sweeter than them all. sad aziola! from that moment i loved thee and thy sad cry. shelley. * * * * * the marten. this guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve, by his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath smells wooingly here. no jutty, frieze, buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle. where they most breed and haunt, i have observed the air is delicate. _macbeth_, act , sc. . * * * * * judge you as you are? how would you be if he which is the top of judgment should but judge you as you are? oh, think on that, and mercy then will breathe within your lips like man new made. _measure for measure_, act , sc. . * * * * * robert of lincoln. merrily singing on briar and weed, near to the nest of his little dame, over the mountain-side or mead, robert of lincoln is telling his name. bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; snug and safe in that nest of ours, hidden among the summer flowers; chee, chee, chee. robert of lincoln is gayly drest, wearing a bright-black wedding coat; white are his shoulders, and white his crest, hear him call his merry note: bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, spink, spank, spink; look what a nice new coat is mine, sure there was never a bird so fine; chee, chee, chee. six white eggs on a bed of hay, freckled with purple, a pretty sight! there as the mother sits all day, robert is singing with all his might. nice good wife, that never goes out, keeping house while i frolic about. summer wanes,--the children are grown; fun and frolic no more he knows, robert of lincoln's a humdrum crone: off he flies, and we sing as he goes,-- "when you can pipe in that merry old strain, robert of lincoln come back again." w. c. bryant. * * * * * my doves. my little doves have left a nest upon an indian tree, whose leaves fantastic take their rest or motion from the sea; for, ever there, the sea-winds go with sunlit paces to and fro. the tropic flowers looked up to it, the tropic stars looked down, and there my little doves did sit, with feathers softly brown, and glittering eyes that showed their right to general nature's deep delight. my little doves were ta'en away from that glad nest of theirs, across an ocean rolling gray, and tempest clouded airs. my little doves,--who lately knew the sky and wave by warmth and blue! and now, within the city prison, in mist and dullness pent, with sudden upward look they listen for sounds of past content-- for lapse of water, swell of breeze, or nut-fruit falling from the trees. soft falls their chant as on the nest beneath the sunny zone; for love that stirred it in their breast has not aweary grown, and 'neath the city's shade can keep the well of music clear and deep. so teach ye me the wisest part, my little doves! to move along the city-ways with heart assured by holy love, and vocal with such songs as own a fountain to the world unknown. mrs. browning. * * * * * the doves of venice. i stood in the quiet piazza, where come rude noises never; but the feet of children, the wings of doves, are sounding on forever. and the cooing of their soft voices, and the touch of the rippling sea, and the ringing clock of the armèd knight, came through the noon to me. while their necks with rainbow gleaming, 'neath the dark old arches shone, and the campanile's shadow long, moved o'er the pavement stone. and from every "coigne of vantage," where lay some hidden nest, they fluttered, peeped, and glistened forth, sacred, serene, at rest. i thought of thy saint, o venice! who said in his tenderness, "i love thy birds, my father dear, our lives they cheer and bless! "for love is not for men only; to the tiniest little things give room to nestle in our hearts; give freedom to all wings!" and the lovely, still piazza, seemed with his presence blest, and i, and the children, and the doves, partakers of his rest. laura winthrop johnson. * * * * * song of the dove. there sitteth a dove so white and fair, all on the lily spray, and she listeneth how, to jesus christ, the little children pray. lightly she spreads her friendly wings, and to heaven's gate hath sped, and unto the father in heaven she bears the prayers which the children have said. and back she comes from heaven's gate, and brings--that dove so mild-- from the father in heaven, who hears her speak, a blessing for every child. then, children, lift up a pious prayer, it hears whatever you say, that heavenly dove, so white and fair, that sits on the lily spray. frederika bremer. * * * * * what the quail says. whistles the quail from the covert, whistles with all his might, high and shrill, day after day, "children, tell me, what does he say?" _ginx_--(the little one, bold and bright, sure that he understands aright)-- "he says, 'bob white! bob white!'" calls the quail from the cornfield, thick with stubble set; misty rain-clouds floating by hide the blue of the august sky. "what does he call now, loud and plain?" _gold locks_--"that's a sign of rain! he calls 'more wet! more wet!'" pipes the quail from the fence-top, perched there full in sight, quaint and trim, with quick, bright eye, almost too round and plump to fly, whistling, calling, piping clear, "what do _i_ think he says? my dear, he says 'do right! do right!'" mrs. clara doty bates. * * * * * chick-a-dee-dee. the snowflakes are drifting round windows and door; the chilly winds whistle "remember the poor;" remember the birds, too, out on yonder tree; i hear one just singing a chick-a-dee-dee. throw out a few crumbs! you've enough and to spare; they need through the winter your kindness and care; and they will repay you with heartiest glee, by constantly singing a chick-a-dee-dee. each morning you'll see them go hopping around, though little they find on the cold frozen ground; yet never disheartened! on each bush and tree, they merrily carol a chick-a-dee-dee. oh! sweet little songster; so fearless and bold! your little pink feet--do they never feel cold? have you a warm shelter at night for your bed, where under your wing you can tuck your brown head? though cold grows the season you seem not to care, but cheerily warble though frosty the air; though short are the days, and the nights are so long, and most of your playmates are scattered and gone. the snowflakes are drifting round window and door, and chilly winds whistle behind and before, yet never discouraged, on each bush and tree, you'll hear the sweet carol of chick-a-dee-dee. mrs. c. f. berry. * * * * * the linnet. what is the happiest morning song? the linnet's. he warbles, blithe and free, in the sunlit top of the old elm-tree, joyous and fresh, and hopeful and strong. the trees are not high enough, little bird; you mount and wheel, and eddy and soar, and with every turn yet more and more your wonderful, ravishing music is heard. a crimson speck in the bright blue sky, do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow? is not heaven _within_, when you carol so? then why, dear bird, must you soar so high? he answers nothing, but soars and sings; he heeds no doubtful question like this. he only bubbles over with bliss, and sings, and mounts on winning wings. harriet e. paine: _bird songs of new england._ * * * * * hear the woodland linnet. books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: come, hear the woodland linnet, how sweet his music! on my life, there's more of wisdom in it. and hark! how blithe the throstle sings! he, too, is no mean preacher: come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher. sweet is the love which nature brings: our meddling intellect misshapes the beauteous forms of things: we murder to dissect. enough of science and of art: close up these barren leaves: come forth, and bring with you a heart that watches and receives. w. wordsworth. * * * * * the parrot. a true story. the deep affections of the breast that heaven to living things imparts, are not exclusively possessed by human hearts. a parrot, from the spanish main, full young and early caged came o'er, with bright wings, to the bleak domain of mulla's shore. to spicy groves where he had won his plumage of resplendent hue, his native fruits, and skies, and sun, he bade adieu. for these he changed the smoke of turf, a heathery land and misty sky, and turned on rocks and raging surf his golden eye. but petted in our climate cold, he lived and chattered many a day: until with age, from green and gold his wings grew gray. at last when blind, and seeming dumb, he scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, a spanish stranger chanced to come to mulla's shore; he hailed the bird in spanish speech, the bird in spanish speech replied; flapped round the cage with joyous screech, dropt down, and died. t. campbell. * * * * * the common question. behind us at our evening meal the gray bird ate his fill, swung downward by a single claw, and wiped his hookèd bill. he shook his wings and crimson tail, and set his head aslant, and, in his sharp, impatient way, asked, "what does charlie want?" "fie, silly bird!" i answered, "tuck your head beneath your wing, and go to sleep;"--but o'er and o'er he asked the selfsame thing. then, smiling, to myself i said:--how like are men and birds! we all are saying what he says, in actions or in words. the boy with whip and top and drum, the girl with hoop and doll, and men with lands and houses, ask the question of poor poll. however full, with something more we fain the bag would cram; we sigh above our crowded nets for fish that never swam. no bounty of indulgent heaven the vague desire can stay; self-love is still a tartar mill for grinding prayers alway. the dear god hears and pities all; he knoweth all our wants; and what we blindly ask of him his love withholds or grants. and so i sometimes think our prayers might well be merged in one; and nest and perch and hearth and church repeat, "thy will be done." john greenleaf whittier. * * * * * why not do it, sir, to-day? "why, so i will, you noisy bird, this very day i'll advertise you, perhaps some busy ones may prize you. a fine-tongued parrot as was ever heard, i'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you, and say no family should be without you." thus far a gentleman addressed a bird; then to his friend: "an old procrastinator, sir, i am: do you wonder that i hate her? though she but seven words can say, twenty and twenty times a day she interferes with all my dreams, my projects, plans, and airy schemes, mocking my foible to my sorrow: i'll advertise this bird to-morrow." to this the bird seven words did say: "why not do it, sir, to-day?" charles and mary lamb. * * * * * to a redbreast. little bird, with bosom red, welcome to my humble shed! courtly domes of high degree have no room for thee and me; pride and pleasure's fickle throng nothing mind an idle song. daily near my table steal, while i pick my scanty meal:-- doubt not, little though there be, but i'll cast a crumb to thee; well rewarded, if i spy pleasure in thy glancing eye; see thee, when thou'st eat thy fill, plume thy breast and wipe thy bill. come, my feathered friend, again? well thou know'st the broken pane:-- ask of me thy daily store. j. langhorne. * * * * * phoebe. ere pales in heaven the morning star, a bird, the loneliest of its kind, hears dawn's faint footfall from afar, while all its mates are dumb and blind. it is a wee, sad-colored thing, as shy and secret as a maid, that, ere in choir the robins ring, pipes its own name like one afraid. it seems pain-prompted to repeat the story of some ancient ill, but phoebe! phoebe! sadly sweet, is all it says, and then is still. it calls and listens: earth and sky, hushed by the pathos of its fate, listen: no whisper of reply comes from the doom-dissevered mate. phoebe! it calls and calls again, and ovid, could he but have heard, had hung a legendary pain about the memory of the bird; a pain articulate so long in penance of some mouldered crime, whose ghost still flies the furies' thong down the waste solitudes of time; * * * * * phoebe! is all it has to say in plaintive cadence o'er and o'er, like children that have lost their way and know their names, but nothing more. is it in type, since nature's lyre vibrates to every note in man, of that insatiable desire meant to be so, since life began? i, in strange lands at gray of dawn, wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint through memory's chambers deep withdrawn renew its iterations faint. so nigh! yet from remotest years it seems to draw its magic, rife with longings unappeased, and tears drawn from the very source of life. james russell lowell: in _scribner_. * * * * * to the stork. welcome, o stork! that dost wing thy flight from the far-away! thou hast brought us the signs of spring, thou hast made our sad hearts gay. descend, o stork! descend upon our roof to rest; in our ash-tree, o my friend, my darling, make thy nest. to thee, o stork, i complain, o stork, to thee i impart the thousand sorrows, the pain and aching of my heart. when thou away didst go, away from this tree of ours, the withering winds did blow, and dried up all the flowers. dark grew the brilliant sky, cloudy and dark and drear; they were breaking the snow on high, and winter was drawing near. from varaca's rocky wall, from the rock of varaca unrolled, the snow came and covered all, and the green meadow was cold. o stork, our garden with snow was hidden away and lost, and the rose-trees that in it grow were withered by snow and frost. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * the storks of delft. the tradition of the storks at delft (holland), is, however, still alive, and no traveller writes about the city without remembering them. the fact occurred at the time of the great fire which ruined almost all the city. there were in delft innumerable storks' nests. it must be understood that the stork is the favorite bird of holland; the bird of good fortune, like the swallow; welcome to all, because it makes war upon toads and frogs; that the peasants plant poles with circular floor of wood on top to attract them to make their nests, and that in some towns they may be seen walking in the streets. at delft they were in great numbers. when the fire broke out, which was on the d may, the young storks were fledged, but could not yet fly. seeing the fire approach, the parent storks attempted to carry their young out of danger; but they were too heavy; and, after having tried all sorts of desperate efforts, the poor birds were forced to give it up. they might have saved themselves and have abandoned the little ones to their fate, as human creatures often do under similar circumstances. but they stayed upon their nests, gathered their little ones about them, covered them with their wings, as if to retard, as long as possible, the fatal moment, and so awaited death, in that loving and noble attitude. and who shall say if, in the horrible dismay and flight from the flames, that example of self-sacrifice, that voluntary maternal martyrdom, may not have given strength and courage to some weak soul who was about to abandon those who had need of him. de amicis' _holland_. * * * * * the pheasant. see! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs and mounts exulting on triumphant wings. short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, his purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, the vivid green his shining plumes unfold, his painted wings, and breast that flames with gold! pope. * * * * * the herons of elmwood. silent are all the sounds of day; nothing i hear but the chirp of crickets, and the cry of the herons winging their way o'er the poet's house in the elmwood thickets. call to him, herons, as slowly you pass to your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, sing him the song of the green morass, and the tides that water the reeds and rushes. sing him the mystical song of the hern, and the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; for only a sound of lament we discern, and cannot interpret the words you are speaking. sing of the air, and the wild delight of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, the joy of freedom, the rapture of flight through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you; of the landscape lying so far below, with its towns and rivers and desert places; and the splendor of light above, and the glow of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. ask him if songs of the troubadours, or of minnesingers in old black-letter, sound in his ears more sweet than yours, and if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * walter von der vogelweid. vogelweid the minnesinger, when he left this world of ours, laid his body in the cloister, under würtzburg's minster towers. and he gave the monks his treasures, gave them all with this behest: they should feed the birds at noontide daily on his place of rest; saying, "from these wandering minstrels i have learned the art of song; let me now repay the lessons they have taught so well and long." thus the bard of love departed; and, fulfilling his desire, on his tomb the birds were feasted by the children of the choir. day by day, o'er tower and turret, in foul weather and in fair, day by day, in vaster numbers, flocked the poets of the air. on the tree whose heavy branches overshadowed all the place, on the pavement, on the tombstone, on the poet's sculptured face, on the crossbars of each window, on the lintel of each door, they renewed the war of wartburg, which the bard had fought before. there they sang their merry carols, sang their lauds on every side; and the name their voices uttered was the name of vogelweid. till at length the portly abbot murmured, "why this waste of food? be it changed to loaves henceforward for our fasting brotherhood." then in vain o'er tower and turret, from the walls and woodland nests, when the minster bells rang noontide, gathered the unwelcome guests. then in vain, with cries discordant, clamorous round the gothic spire, screamed the feathered minnesingers for the children of the choir. time has long effaced the inscriptions on the cloister's funeral stones, and tradition only tells us where repose the poet's bones. but around the vast cathedral, by sweet echoes multiplied, still the birds repeat the legend, and the name of vogelweid. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * the legend of the cross-bill. on the cross the dying saviour heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling in his pierced and bleeding palm. and by all the world forsaken, sees he how with zealous care at the ruthless nail of iron a little bird is striving there. stained with blood, and never tiring, with its beak it does not cease, from the cross 'twould free the saviour, its creator's son release. and the saviour speaks in mildness: "blest be thou of all the good! bear, as token of this moment, marks of blood and holy rood!" and that bird is called the cross-bill; covered all with blood so clear, in the groves of pine it singeth songs, like legends, strange to hear. h. w. longfellow. * * * * * pretty birds. among the orchards and the groves, while summer days are fair and long, you brighten every tree and bush, you fill the air with loving song. nursery. * * * * * the little bird sits. and what is so rare as a day in june? then, if ever, come perfect days; then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, and over it softly her warm ear lays: whether we look, or whether we listen, we hear life murmur, or see it glisten; every clod feels a stir of might, an instinct within it that reaches and towers, and, groping blindly above it for light, climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; the flush of life may well be seen thrilling back over hills and valleys; the cowslip startles in meadows green, the buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, and there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean to be some happy creature's palace: the little bird sits at his door in the sun, atilt like a blossom among the leaves, and lets his illumined being o'errun with the deluge of summer it receives; his mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, and the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; he sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- in the nice ear of nature which song is the best? james russell lowell. * * * * * the living swan. then some one came who said, "my prince had shot a swan, which fell among the roses here, he bids me pray you send it. will you send?" "nay," quoth siddârtha, "if the bird were dead to send it to the slayer might be well, but the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed the god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing." and devadatta answered, "the wild thing, living or dead, is his who fetched it down; 'twas no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 'tis mine, give me my prize, fair cousin." then our lord laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek and gravely spake, "say no! the bird is mine, the first of myriad things which shall be mine by right of mercy and love's lordliness. for now i know, by what within me stirs, that i shall teach compassion unto men and be a speechless world's interpreter, abating this accursèd flood of woe, not man's alone; but, if the prince disputes, let him submit this matter to the wise and we will wait their word." so was it done; in full divan the business had debate, and many thought this thing and many that, till there arose an unknown priest who said, "if life be aught, the savior of a life owns more the living thing than he can own who sought to slay--the slayer spoils and wastes, the cherisher sustains, give him the bird:" which judgment all found just. _light of asia._ * * * * * the stormy petrel. a thousand miles from land are we, tossing about on the roaring sea-- from billow to bounding billow cast, like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. the sails are scattered abroad like weeds; the strong masts shake like quivering reeds; the mighty cables and iron chains; the hull, which all earthly strength disdains,-- they strain and they crack; and hearts like stone their natural, hard, proud strength disown. up and down!--up and down! from the base of the wave to the billow's crown, and amid the flashing and feathery foam, the stormy petrel finds a home. a home, if such a place may be for her who lives on the wide, wide sea, on the craggy ice, in the frozen air, and only seeketh her rocky lair to warm her young, and to teach them to spring at once o'er the waves on their stormy wing! o'er the deep!--o'er the deep! where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep-- outflying the blast and the driving rain, the petrel telleth her tale--in vain; for the mariner curseth the warning bird which bringeth him news of the storm unheard! ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; yet he ne'er falters--so, petrel, spring once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing! barry cornwall. * * * * * to the cuckoo. hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! thou messenger of spring! now heaven repairs thy rural seat, and woods thy welcome sing. what time the pea puts on the bloom, thou fliest thy vocal vale, an annual guest in other lands another spring to hail. delightful visitant! with thee i hail the time of flowers, and hear the sound of music sweet from birds among the bowers. sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear; thou hast no sorrow in thy song, no winter in thy year! oh, could i fly, i'd fly with thee! we'd make, with joyful wing, our annual visit o'er the globe, attendants on the spring. john logan. * * * * * birds at dawn. the beautiful day is breaking, the first faint line of light parts the shadows of the night, and a thousand birds are waking. i hear the hairbird's slender trill,-- so fine and perfect it doth fill the whole sweet silence with its thrill. a rosy flush creeps up the sky, the birds begin their symphony. i hear the clear, triumphant voice of the robin, bidding the world rejoice. the vireos catch the theme of the song, and the baltimore oriole bears it along, while from sparrow, and thrush, and wood pewee, and, deep in the pine-trees, the chickadee, there's an undercurrent of harmony. the linnet sings like a magic flute, the lark and bluebird touch the lute, the starling pipes to the shining morn with the vibrant note of the joyous horn, the splendid jay is the trumpeter gay, the kingfisher, sounding his rattle,--he may the player on the cymbals be, the cock, saluting the sun's first ray, is the bugler sounding a reveille. "caw! caw!" cries the crow, and his grating tone completes the chord like a deep trombone. but, above them all, the robin sings; his song is the very soul of day, and all black shadows troop away while, pure and fresh, his music rings: "light is here! never fear! day is near! my dear!" miss harriet e. paine. * * * * * evening songs. gliding at sunset in my boat, i hear the veery's bubbling note; and a robin, flying late, sounds the home-call to his mate. then the sun sinks low in the western glow, and the birds go to rest. but hush! far off sings the sweet wood-thrush. he sings--and waits--and sings again, the liquid notes of that holy strain. he ceases, and all the world is still: and then the moon climbs over the hill, and i hear the cry of the whip-poor-will. tranquil, i lay me down to sleep, while the summer stars a vigil keep; and i hear from the sparrow a gentle trill, which means, "good night; peace and good will." miss harriet e. paine. * * * * * little brown bird. a little brown bird sat on a stone; the sun shone thereon, but he was alone. "o pretty bird, do you not weary of this gay summer so long and dreary?" the little bird opened his black bright eyes, and looked at me with great surprise; then his joyous song broke forth, to say, "weary of what? i can sing all day." _posies for children._ * * * * * life's sign. wouldst thou the life of souls discern, not human wisdom nor divine helps thee by aught beside to learn, _love_ is life's only sign. keble. * * * * * a bird's ministry. from his home in an eastern bungalow, in sight of the everlasting snow of the grand himalayas, row on row, thus wrote my friend:-- "i had travelled far from the afghan towers of candahar, through the sand-white plains of sinde-sagar; "and once, when the daily march was o'er, as tired i sat in my tented door, hope failed me, as never it failed before. "in swarming city, at wayside fane, by the indus' bank, on the scorching plain, i had taught,--and my teaching all seemed vain. "no glimmer of light (i sighed) appears; the moslem's fate and the buddhist's fears have gloomed their worship this thousand years. "'for christ and his truth i stand alone in the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown against your temple of ancient stone "'as soon may level it!'" faith forsook my soul, as i turned on the pile to look; then, rising, my saddened way i took to its lofty roof, for the cooler air: i gazed, and marvelled;--how crumbled were the walls i had deemed so firm and fair! for, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, most plainly rent by its roots alone, a beautiful peepul-tree had grown: whose gradual stress would still expand the crevice, and topple upon the sand the temple, while o'er its wreck should stand the tree in its living verdure!--who could compass the thought?--the bird that flew hitherward, dropping a seed that grew, did more to shiver this ancient wall than earthquake,--war,--simoon,--or all the centuries, in their lapse and fall! then i knelt by the riven granite there, and my soul shook off its weight of care, as my voice rose clear on the tropic air:-- "the living seeds i have dropped remain in the cleft: lord, quicken with dew and rain, _then_ temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!" margaret j. preston. * * * * * of birds. see, christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor and preacher to the wisest of men. martin luther. * * * * * birds in spring. listen! what a sudden rustle fills the air! all the birds are in a bustle everywhere. such a ceaseless croon and twitter overhead! such a flash of wings that glitter wide outspread! far away i hear a drumming,-- tap, tap, tap! can the woodpecker be coming after sap? butterflies are hovering over (swarms on swarms) yonder meadow-patch of clover, like snow-storms. through the vibrant air a-tingle buzzingly, throbs and o'er me sails a single bumble-bee. lissom swayings make the willows one bright sheen, which the breeze puffs out in billows foamy green. from the marshy brook that's smoking in the fog i can catch the crool and croaking of a frog. dogwood stars the slopes are studding, and i see blooms upon the purple-budding judas-tree. aspen tassels thick are dropping all about, and the alder-leaves are cropping broader out; mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle, edged with rose; the park bed of periwinkle fresher grows. up and down are midges dancing on the grass: how their gauzy wings are glancing as they pass! what does all this haste and hurry mean, i pray-- all this out-door flush and flurry seen to-day? this presaging stir and humming, thrill and call? _mean?_ it means that spring is coming; that is all! margaret j. preston. * * * * * the canary in his cage. sing away, ay, sing away, merry little bird, always gayest of the gay, though a woodland roundelay you ne'er sung nor heard; though your life from youth to age passes in a narrow cage. near the window wild birds fly, trees are waving round; fair things everywhere you spy through the glass pane's mystery, your small life's small bound: nothing hinders your desire but a little gilded wire. like a human soul you seem shut in golden bars: placed amid earth's sunshine stream, singing to the morning beam, dreaming 'neath the stars; seeing all life's pleasures clear,-- but they never can come near. never! sing, bird-poet mine, as most poets do;-- guessing by an instinct fine at some happiness divine which they never knew. lonely in a prison bright hymning for the world's delight. yet, my birdie, you're content in your tiny cage: not a carol thence is sent but for happiness is meant-- wisdom pure as sage: teaching the pure poet's part is to sing with merry heart. so lie down, thou peevish pen; eyes, shake off all tears; and, my wee bird, sing again: i'll translate your song to men in these future years. "howsoe'er thy lot's assigned, meet it with a cheerful mind." mrs. dinah maria (mulock) craik. * * * * * who stole the bird's-nest. te-whit! te-whit! te-whee! will you listen to me? who stole four eggs i laid, and the nice nest i made? not i, said the cow, moo-oo! such a thing i'd never do. i gave for you a wisp of hay, and did not take your nest away. not i, said the cow, moo-oo! such a thing i'd never do. not i, said the dog, bow-wow! i wouldn't be so mean as that, now, i gave hairs the nest to make, but the nest i did not take. not i, said the dog, bow-wow! i wouldn't be so mean as that, now. not i, said the sheep, oh no! i wouldn't treat a poor bird so! i gave the wool the nest to line, but the nest was none of mine. baa! baa! said the sheep; oh no, i wouldn't treat a poor bird so. i would not rob a bird, said little mary green; i think i never heard of any thing so mean. 'tis very cruel, too, said little alice neal; i wonder if she knew how sad the bird would feel? a little boy hung down his head, and went and hid behind the bed, for he stole that pretty nest from poor little yellow-breast; and he felt so full of shame he didn't like to tell his name. _hymns for mother and children._ * * * * * who stole the eggs? "oh, what is the matter with robin, that makes her cry round here all day? i think she must be in great trouble," said swallow to little blue jay. "i know why the robin is crying," said wren, with a sob in her breast; "a naughty bold robber has stolen three little blue eggs from her nest. "he carried them home in his pocket; i saw him, from up in this tree: ah me! how my little heart fluttered for fear he would come and rob me!" "oh! what little boy was so wicked?" said swallow, beginning to cry; "i wouldn't be guilty of robbing a dear little bird's-nest--not i." "nor i!" said the birds in a chorus: "a cruel and mischievous boy! i pity his father and mother; he surely can't give them much joy. "i guess he forgot what a pleasure the dear little robins all bring, in early spring-time and in summer, by the beautiful songs that they sing. "i guess he forgot that the rule is, to do as you'd be always done by; i guess he forgot that from heaven there looks down an all-seeing eye." mrs. c. f. berry. * * * * * what the birds say. when they chatter together,--the robins and sparrows, bluebirds and bobolinks,--all the day long; what do they talk of? the sky and the sunshine, the state of the weather, the last pretty song; of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles that go to make bird-life so careless and free; the number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder, the promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree; of matches in prospect;--how robin and jenny are planning together to build them a nest; how bobolink left mrs. bobolink moping at home, and went off on a lark with the rest. such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip! such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright! such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard! such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night! o birds in the tree-tops! o robins and sparrows! o bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be may without your glad presence,--the songs that you sing us, and all the sweet nothings we fancy you say? caroline a. mason. * * * * * sweet mercy is nobility's true badge. _titus andronicus_, act , sc. . * * * * * the wren's nest. i took the wren's nest: heaven forgive me! its merry architects so small had scarcely finished their wee hall that, empty still, and neat and fair, hung idly in the summer air. the mossy walls, the dainty door, where love should enter and explore, and love sit carolling outside, and love within chirp multiplied;-- i took the wren's nest; heaven forgive me! how many hours of happy pains through early frosts and april rains, how many songs at eve and morn o'er springing grass and greening corn, what labors hard through sun and shade before the pretty house was made! one little minute, only one, and she'll fly back, and find it--gone! i took the wren's nest: bird, forgive me! thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, ye have before you all the year, and every wood holds nooks for you, in which to sing and build and woo; one piteous cry of birdish pain-- and ye'll begin your life again, forgetting quite the lost, lost home in many a busy home to come. but i? your wee house keep i must, until it crumble into dust. i took the wren's nest: god forgive me! dinah maria (mulock) craik. * * * * * on another's sorrow. can i see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? can i see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief? can i see a falling tear, and not feel my sorrow's share? can a father see his child weep, nor be with sorrow filled? can a mother sit and hear an infant groan, an infant fear? no, no! never can it be! never, never can it be! _and can he who smiles on all hear the wren with sorrows small, hear the small bird's grief and care,_ hear the woes that infants bear-- and not sit beside the nest, pouring pity in their breast, and not sit in the cradle near, weeping tear on infant's tear? and not sit both night and day, wiping all our tears away? oh no! never can it be! never, never can it be! william blake. * * * * * the shepherd's home. my banks they are furnished with bees, whose murmur invites one to sleep; my grottoes are shaded with trees, and my hills are white over with sheep. i seldom have met with a loss, such health do my fountains bestow; my fountains all bordered with moss, where the harebells and violets blow. not a pine in the grove is there seen, but with tendrils of woodbine is bound: not a beech's more beautiful green, but a sweet-brier entwines it around. not my fields in the prime of the year, more charms than my cattle unfold; not a brook that is limpid and clear, but it glitters with fishes of gold. i found out a gift for my fair, i have found where the wood-pigeons breed; but let me such plunder forbear, she will say 'twas a barbarous deed; for he ne'er could be true, she averred, who would rob a poor bird of its young; and i loved her the more when i heard such tenderness fall from her tongue. shenstone (d. ). * * * * * the wood-pigeon's home. come with me, if but in fancy, to the wood, the green soft shade: 'tis a haven, pure and lovely, for the good of mankind made. listen! you can hear the cooing, soft and soothing, gentle sounds, of the pigeons, as they nestle in the branches all around. in the city and the open, man has built or tilled the land; but the home of the wood pigeon bears the touch of god's own hand. anon. * * * * * the shag. "what is that great bird, sister, tell me, perched high on the top of the crag?" "'tis the cormorant, dear little brother; the fishermen call it the shag." "but what does it there, sister, tell me, sitting lonely against the black sky?" "it has settled to rest, little brother; it hears the wild gale wailing high." "but i am afraid of it, sister, for over the sea and the land it gazes, so black and so silent!" "little brother, hold fast to my hand." "oh, what was that, sister? the thunder? did the shag bring the storm and the cloud, the wind and the rain and the lightning?" "little brother, the thunder roars loud. "run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean; look! over the lighthouse it streams; and the lightning leaps red, and above us the gulls fill the air with their screams." o'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly, the little white cottage they gain; and safely they watch from the window the dance and the rush of the rain. but the shag kept his place on the headland, and, when the brief storm had gone by, he shook his loose plumes, and they saw him rise splendid and strong in the sky. clinging fast to the gown of his sister, the little boy laughed as he flew: "he is gone with the wind and lightning! and--i am not frightened,--are you?" celia thaxter. * * * * * the lost bird. my bird has flown away, far out of sight has flown, i know not where. look in your lawn, i pray, ye maidens kind and fair, and see if my beloved bird be there. his eyes are full of light; the eagle of the rock has such an eye; and plumes, exceeding bright, round his smooth temples lie, and sweet his voice and tender as a sigh. look where the grass is gay with summer blossoms, haply there he cowers; and search, from spray to spray, the leafy laurel bowers, for well he loves the laurels and the flowers. find him, but do not dwell, with eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, nor love his song too well; send him, at once, to me, or leave him to the air and liberty. for only from my hand he takes the seed into his golden beak, and all unwiped shall stand the tears that wet my cheek, till i have found the wanderer i seek. my sight is darkened o'er, whene'er i miss his eyes, which are my day, and when i hear no more the music of his lay, my heart in utter sadness faints away. _from the spanish of_ carolina coronado de perry. _translated by_ w. c. bryant. * * * * * the birds must know. the birds must know. who wisely sings will sing as they; the common air has generous wings, songs make their way. no messenger to run before, devising plan; no mention of the place or hour to any man; no waiting till some sound betrays a listening ear; no different voice, no new delays, if steps draw near. "what bird is that? its song is good." and eager eyes go peering through the dusky wood, in glad surprise. then late at night, when by his fire the traveller sits, watching the flame grow brighter, higher, the sweet song flits by snatches through his weary brain to help him rest; when next he goes that road again an empty nest on leafless bough will make him sigh, "ah me! last spring just here i heard, in passing by, that rare bird sing!" but while he sighs, remembering how sweet the song, the little bird on tireless wing, is borne along in other air; and other men with weary feet, on other roads, the simple strain are finding sweet. the birds must know. who wisely sings will sing as they; the common air has generous wings, songs make their way. h. h. * * * * * the bird king. dost thou the monarch eagle seek? thou'lt find him in the tempest's maw, where thunders with tornadoes speak, and forests fly as though of straw; or on some lightning-splintered peak, sceptred with desolation's law, the shrubless mountain in his beak, the barren desert in his claw. alger's _oriental poetry_. * * * * * shadows of birds. in darkened air, alone with pain, i lay. like links of heavy chain the minutes sounded, measuring day, and slipping lifelessly away. sudden across my silent room a shadow darker than its gloom swept swift; a shadow slim and small, which poised and darted on the wall, and vanished quickly as it came. a shadow, yet it lit like flame; a shadow, yet i heard it sing, and heard the rustle of its wing, till every pulse with joy was stirred; it was the shadow of a bird! only the shadow! yet it made full summer everywhere it strayed; and every bird i ever knew back and forth in the summer flew, and breezes wafted over me the scent of every flower and tree; till i forgot the pain and gloom and silence of my darkened room. now, in the glorious open air i watch the birds fly here and there; and wonder, as each swift wing cleaves the sky, if some poor soul that grieves in lonely, darkened, silent walls, will catch the shadow as it falls! h. h. * * * * * the bird and the ship. "the rivers rush into the sea, by castle and town they go; the winds behind them merrily their noisy trumpets blow. "the clouds are passing far and high, we little birds in them play; and everything, that can sing and fly, goes with us, and far away. "i greet thee, bonny boat! whither or whence, with thy fluttering golden band?" "i greet thee, little bird! to the wide sea, i haste from the narrow land. "full and swollen is every sail; i see no longer a hill, i have trusted all to the sounding gale, and it will not let me stand still. "and wilt thou, little bird, go with us? thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, for full to sinking is my house with merry companions all." "i need not and seek not company, bonny boat, i can sing all alone; for the mainmast tall too heavy am i, bonny boat, i have wings of my own. "high over the sails, high over the mast, who shall gainsay these joys? when thy merry companions are still, at last, thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. "who neither may rest, nor listen may, god bless them every one! i dart away, in the bright blue day, and the golden fields of the sun. "thus do i sing my weary song, wherever the four winds blow; and this same song, my whole life long, neither poet nor printer may know." h. w. longfellow. * * * * * a myth. afloating, afloating across the sleeping sea, all night i heard a singing bird upon the topmast tree. "oh, came you from the isles of greece, or from the banks of seine? or off some tree in forests free that fringe the western main?" "i came not off the old world, nor yet from off the new; but i am one of the birds of god which sing the whole night through." "oh, sing and wake the dawning! oh, whistle for the wind! the night is long, the current strong, my boat it lags behind." "the current sweeps the old world, the current sweeps the new; the wind will blow, the dawn will glow, ere thou hast sailed them through." c. kingsley. * * * * * the dog. * * * * * cuvier on the dog. "the domestic dog," says cuvier, "is the most complete, the most singular, and the most useful conquest that man has gained in the animal world. the whole species has become our property; each individual belongs entirely to his master, acquires his disposition, knows and defends his property, and remains attached to him until death; and all this, not through constraint or necessity, but purely by the influences of gratitude and real attachment. the swiftness, the strength, the sharp scent of the dog, have rendered him a powerful ally to man against the lower tribes; and were, perhaps, necessary for the establishment of the dominion of mankind over the whole animal creation. the dog is the only animal which has followed man over the whole earth." * * * * * a hindoo legend. in the mahabhàrata, one of the two great hindoo poems, and of unknown antiquity, there is a recognition of the obligation of man to a dependent creature not surpassed in pathos in all literature. we copy only such portions of the legend as bear upon this point. the hero, yudhistthira, leaves his home to go to mount meru, among the himalayas, to find indra's heaven and the rest he so much desired; and with him, "the five brothers set forth, and draupadi, and the seventh was a dog that followed them." on the way the princess draupadi perished, and, after her, one brother after another, until all had died, and the hero reached his journey's end accompanied only by his dog. lo! suddenly, with a sound which rang through heaven and earth, indra came riding on his chariot, and he cried to the king, "ascend!" _then_, indeed, did the lord of justice look back to his fallen brothers, and thus unto indra he spoke, with a sorrowful heart: "let my brothers, who yonder lie fallen, go with me; not even unto thy heaven would i enter, if they were not there. and yon fair-faced daughter of a king, draupadi the all-deserving, let _her_ too enter with us! o indra, approve my prayer!" indra. in heaven thou shalt find thy brothers,--they are already there before thee; there are they all, with draupadi; weep not, then, o son of bharata! thither have they entered, prince, having thrown away their mortal weeds; but thou alone shalt enter still wearing thy body of flesh. yudhistthira. o indra, and what of this dog? it hath faithfully followed me through; let it go with me into heaven, for my soul is full of compassion. indra. immortality and fellowship with me, and the height of joy and felicity, all these hast thou reached to-day; leave, then, the dog behind thee. yudhistthira. the good may oft act an evil part, but never a part like this; away, then, with that felicity whose price is to abandon the faithful! indra. my heaven hath no place for dogs; they steal away our offerings on earth: leave, then, thy dog behind thee, nor think in thy heart that it is cruel. yudhistthira. to abandon the faithful and devoted is an endless crime, like the murder of a brahmin; never, therefore, come weal or woe, will i abandon yon faithful dog. _yon poor creature, in fear and distress, hath trusted in my power to save it: not, therefore, for e'en life itself will i break my plighted word._ indra. if a dog but beholds a sacrifice, men esteem it unholy and void; forsake, then, the dog, o hero, and heaven is thine own as a reward. already thou hast borne to forsake thy fondly loved brothers, and draupadi; why, then, forsakest thou not the dog? wherefore now fails thy heart? yudhistthira. mortals, when they are dead, are dead to love or hate,--so runs the world's belief; i could not bring them back to life, but while they lived i never left them. to oppress the suppliant, to kill a wife, to rob a brahmin, and to betray one's friend, these are the four great crimes; and _to forsake a dependent i count equal to them_. alger's _oriental poetry_. * * * * * ulysses and argus. this story, from the odyssey, is also of an unknown antiquity. ulysses, after many years of absence, returns to his home to find himself unrecognized by his family. with eumæus ulysses walked about the familiar grounds: thus near the gates conferring as they drew, argus, the dog, his ancient master knew; he, not unconscious of the voice and tread, lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head; bred by ulysses, nourished at his board, but, ah! not fated long to please his lord! to him, his swiftness and his strength were vain; the voice of glory called him o'er the main. till then, in every sylvan chase renowned, with argus, argus, rung the woods around: with him the youth pursued the goat or fawn, or traced the mazy leveret o'er the lawn; now left to man's ingratitude he lay, unhoused, neglected in the public way. he knew his lord: he knew, and strove to meet; in vain he strove to crawl, and kiss his feet; yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes. salute his master, and confess his joys. soft pity touched the mighty master's soul; adown his cheek a tear unhidden stole, stole unperceived: he turned his head and dried the drop humane: then thus impassioned cried: "what noble beast in this abandoned state lies here all helpless at ulysses' gate? his bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise: if, as he seems, he was in better days, some care his age deserves; or was he prized for worthless beauty? therefore now despised: such dogs and men there are, mere things of state, and always cherished by their friends the great." not argus so (eumæus thus rejoined), but served a master of a nobler kind, who never, never, shall behold him more! long, long since perished on a distant shore! oh, had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young, swift as a stag, and as a lion strong: him no fell savage on the plain withstood, none 'scaped him bosomed in the gloomy wood; his eye how piercing, and his scent how true, to wind the vapor in the tainted dew! such, when ulysses left his natal coast: now years unnerve him, and his lord is lost. _odyssey, pope's translation._ * * * * * tom. yes, tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. just listen to this:-- when the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, and i with it, helpless there, full in my view what do you think my eyes saw through the fire that crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher, but robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see the shining? he must have come there after me, toddled alone from the cottage without any one's missing him. then, what a shout-- oh! how i shouted, "for heaven's sake, men, save little robin!" again and again they tried, but the fire held them back like a wall. i could hear them go at it, and at it, and call, "never mind, baby, sit still like a man! we're coming to get you as fast as we can." they could not see him, but i could. he sat still on a beam, his little straw hat carefully placed by his side; and his eyes stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept. the roar of the fire up above must have kept the sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name from reaching the child. but i heard it. it came again and again. o god, what a cry! the axes went faster; i saw the sparks fly where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat that scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet, the great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash, down came the wall! the men made a dash,-- jumped to get out of the way,--and i thought, "all's up with poor little robin!" and brought slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide the sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side, some one rushed by, and went right through the flame, straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came back with him, choking and crying, but--saved! saved safe and sound! oh, how the men raved, shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! then they all rushed at the work again, lest the back wall where i was lying, away from the fire, should fall in and bury me. oh! you'd admire to see robin now: he's as bright as a dime, deep in some mischief, too, most of the time. tom, it was, saved him. now, isn't it true tom's the best fellow that ever you knew? there's robin now! see, he's strong as a log! and there comes tom, too-- yes, tom was our dog. constance fenimore woolson. * * * * * william of orange saved by his dog. on the night of the th and th of september, , a chosen band of six hundred spaniards made an attack within the lines of the dutch army. the sentinels were cut down, the whole army surprised and for a moment powerless. the prince of orange and his guards were in profound sleep; "but a small spaniel dog," says mr. motley, "who always passed the night upon his bed, was a most faithful sentinel. the creature sprang forward, barking furiously at the sound of hostile footsteps, and scratching his master's face with his paws. there was but just time for the prince to mount a horse which was ready saddled, and to effect his escape through the darkness, before his enemies sprang into the tent. his servants were cut down, his master of the horse and two of his secretaries, who gained their saddles a moment later, all lost their lives, and but for the little dog's watchfulness, william of orange, upon whose shoulders the whole weight of his country's fortune depended, would have been led within a week to an ignominious death. to his death, the prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel of the same race in his bed-chamber." motley's _rise of the dutch republic_. * * * * * the mausoleum of william the silent is at delft. it is a sort of small temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by columns between which are four statues representing liberty, providence, justice, and religion. upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the prince in white marble, and _at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved his life at the siege of malines_. de amicis' _holland_. * * * * * the bloodhound. come, herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor! old friend--we must wander the world once more! for no one now liveth to welcome us back; so, come!--let us speed on our fated track. what matter the region,--what matter the weather, so you and i travel, till death, together? and in death?--why, e'en _there_ i may still be found by the side of my beautiful black bloodhound. we've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea, and we've trod on the heights where the eagles be; seen tartar, and arab, and swart hindoo; (how thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;) no joy did divide us; no peril could part the man from his friend of the noble heart; aye, his _friend_; for where, where shall there ever be found a friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound? what, herod, old hound! dost remember the day when i fronted the wolves like a stag at bay? when downward they galloped to where we stood, whilst i staggered with fear in the dark pine wood? dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed? god, god! how i prayed for a friend in need! and--he came! ah, 'twas then, my dear herod, i found that the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound. men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound must forever be lost in the worthless ground: yet "courage," "fidelity," "love" (they say), bear _man_, as on wings, to his skies away. well, herod--go tell them whatever may be, i'll hope i may ever be found by thee. if in sleep,--in sleep; if with skies around, mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound! barry cornwall. * * * * * helvellyn. this fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. the young man had lost his way on helvellyn. time, . i climbed the dark brow of the mighty helvellyn, lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; all was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, and starting around me the echoes replied. on the right, striden-edge round the red-tarn was bending, and catchedicam its left verge was defending, one huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, when i marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, for, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, the much-loved remains of her master defended, and chased the hill-fox and the raven away. how long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? when the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? how many long days and long weeks didst thou number, ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? and, oh! was it meet, that--no requiem read o'er him-- no mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, and thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart? when a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, the tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; with scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, and pages stand mute by the canopied pall: through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; in the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming, lamenting a chief of the people should fall. but meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, to lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, when, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature, and draws his last sob by the side of his dam. and more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, with one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, in the arms of helvellyn and catchedicam. walter scott. * * * * * llewellyn and his dog. the spearmen heard the bugle sound, and cheerily smiled the morn, and many a brach, and many a hound, attend llewellyn's horn. and still he blew a louder blast, and gave a louder cheer; "come, gelert! why art thou the last, llewellyn's horn to hear? "oh, where does faithful gelert roam? the flower of all his race! so true, so brave--a lamb at home, a lion in the chase!" that day llewellyn little loved the chase of hart or hare; and scant and small the booty proved, for gelert was not there. unpleased, llewellyn homeward hied, when near the portal seat, his truant gelert he espied, bounding his lord to greet. but when he gained the castle door, aghast the chieftain stood: the hound was smeared with drops of gore; his lips and fangs ran blood. llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, unused such looks to meet; his favorite checked his joyful guise, and crouched and licked his feet. onward in haste llewellyn passed, (and on went gelert too;) and still, where'er his eyes were cast, fresh blood-drops shocked his view. o'erturned his infant's bed he found, the blood-stained cover rent and all around the walls and ground with recent blood besprent. he called his child--no voice replied; he searched--with terror wild; blood! blood! he found on every side, but nowhere found the child! "monster, by thee my child's devoured!" the frantic father cried, and to the hilt his vengeful sword he plunged in gelert's side. his suppliant, as to earth he fell, no pity could impart; but still his gelert's dying yell, passed heavy o'er his heart. aroused by gelert's dying yell, some slumberer wakened nigh: what words the parent's joy can tell to hear his infant cry! concealed beneath a mangled heap his hurried search had missed: all glowing from his rosy sleep, his cherub boy he kissed. nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread; but the same couch beneath lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-- tremendous still in death. ah, what was then llewellyn's pain! for now the truth was clear; the gallant hound the wolf had slain to save llewellyn's heir. vain, vain was all llewellyn's woe-- "best of thy kind, adieu! the frantic deed which laid thee low this heart shall ever rue." and now a gallant tomb they raise, with costly sculpture decked; and marbles, storied with his praise, poor gelert's bones protect. here never could the spearman pass, or forester unmoved; here oft the tear-besprinkled grass llewellyn's sorrow proved. and here he hung his horn and spear; and oft, as evening fell, in fancy's piercing sounds would hear poor gelert's dying yell. spenser. * * * * * looking for pearls. an oriental legend. the master came one evening to the gate of a far city; it was growing late, and sending his disciples to buy food, he wandered forth intent on doing good, as was his wont. and in the market-place he saw a crowd, close gathered in one space, gazing with eager eyes upon the ground. jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found a noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck,-- a dead dog with a halter round his neck. and those who stood by mocked the object there, and one said scoffing, "it pollutes the air!" another, jeering, asked, "how long to-night shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?" "look at his torn hide," sneered a jewish wit,-- "you could not cut even a shoe from it," and turned away. "behold his ears that bleed," a fourth chimed in; "an unclean wretch indeed!" "he hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried, and spurned the loathsome beast from side to side. then jesus, standing by them in the street, looked on the poor spent creature at his feet, and, bending o'er him, spake unto the men, "_pearls are not whiter than his teeth._" and then the people at each other gazed, asking, "who is this stranger pitying the vile thing?" then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath, "this surely is the man of nazareth; this must be jesus, for none else but he something to praise in a dead dog could see!" and, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head, and from the sight of jesus turned and fled. alger's _eastern poetry_. * * * * * rover. "kind traveller, do not pass me by, and thus a poor old dog forsake; but stop a moment on your way, and hear my woe for pity's sake! "my name is rover; yonder house was once my home for many a year; my master loved me; every hand caressed young rover, far and near. "the children rode upon my back, and i could hear my praises sung; with joy i licked their pretty feet, as round my shaggy sides they clung. "i watched them while they played or slept; i gave them all i had to give: my strength was theirs from morn till night; for them i only cared to live. "now i am old, and blind, and lame, they've turned me out to die alone, without a shelter for my head, without a scrap of bread or bone. "this morning i can hardly crawl, while shivering in the snow and hail; my teeth are dropping, one by one; i scarce have strength to wag my tail. "i'm palsied grown with mortal pains, my withered limbs are useless now; my voice is almost gone you see, and i can hardly make my bow. "perhaps you'll lead me to a shed where i may find some friendly straw on which to lay my aching limbs, and rest my helpless, broken paw. "stranger, excuse this story long, and pardon, pray, my last appeal; you've owned a dog yourself, perhaps, and learned that dogs, like men, can feel." yes, poor old rover, come with me; food, with warm shelter, i'll supply; and heaven forgive the cruel souls who drove you forth to starve and die! j. t. fields. * * * * * to my dog "blanco." my dear dumb friend, low lying there, a willing vassal at my feet, glad partner of my home and fare, my shadow in the street. i look into your great brown eyes, where love and loyal homage shine, and wonder where the difference lies between your soul and mine! for all of good that i have found within myself or humankind, hath royalty informed and crowned your gentle heart and mind. i scan the whole broad earth around for that one heart which, leal and true, bears friendship without end or bound, and find the prize in you. i trust you as i trust the stars; nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride, nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars, can move you from my side! as patient under injury as any christian saint of old, as gentle as a lamb with me, but with your brothers bold; more playful than a frolic boy, more watchful than a sentinel, by day and night your constant joy, to guard and please me well: i clasp your head upon my breast-- and while you whine and lick my hand-- and thus our friendship is confessed and thus we understand! ah, blanco! did i worship god as truly as you worship me, or follow where my master trod with your humility; did i sit fondly at his feet, as you, dear blanco, sit at mine, and watch him with a love as sweet, my life would grow divine! j. g. holland. * * * * * the beggar and his dog. "pay down three dollars for my hound! may lightning strike me to the ground! what mean the messieurs of police? and when and where shall this mockery cease? "i am a poor, old, sickly man, and earn a penny i no wise can; i have no money, i have no bread, and live upon hunger and want, instead. "who pitied me, when i grew sick and poor, and neighbors turned me from their door? and who, when i was left alone in god's wide world, made my fortunes his own? "who loved me, when i was weak and old? and warmed me, when i was numb with cold? and who, when i in poverty pined, has shared my hunger and never whined? "here is the noose, and here the stone, and there the water--it must be done! come hither, poor pomp, and look not on me, one kick--it is over--and thou art free!" as over his head he lifted the band, the fawning dog licked his master's hand; back in an instant the noose he drew, and round his own neck in a twinkling threw. the dog sprang after him into the deep, his howlings startled the sailors from sleep; moaning and twitching he showed them the spot: they found the beggar, but life was not! they laid him silently in the ground, his only mourner the whimpering hound who stretched himself out on the grave and cried like an orphan child--and so he died. _chamisso, tr. by_ c. t. brooks. * * * * * don. this is don, the dog of dogs, sir, just as lions outrank frogs, sir, just as the eagles are superior to buzzards and that tribe inferior. he's a shepherd lad--a beauty-- and to praise him seems a duty, but it puts my pen to shame, sir, when his virtues i would name, sir. "don! come here and bend your head now, let us see your best well-bred bow!" was there ever such a creature! common sense in every feature! "don! rise up and look around you!" blessings on the day we found you. _sell_ him! well, upon my word, sir, that's a notion too absurd, sir. would i sell our little ally, barter tom, dispose of sally? think you i'd negotiate for my _wife_, at any rate? _sell_ our don! you're surely joking, and 'tis fun at us you're poking! twenty voyages we've tried, sir, sleeping, waking, side by side, sir, and don and i will not divide, sir; he's my _friend_, that's why i love him,-- and no mortal dog's above him! he prefers a life aquatic, but never dog was less dogmatic. years ago when i was master of a tight brig called the castor, don and i were bound for cadiz, with the loveliest of ladies and her boy--a stalwart, hearty, crowing one-year infant party, full of childhood's myriad graces, bubbling sunshine in our faces as we bowled along so steady, half-way home, or more, already. how the sailors loved our darling! no more swearing, no more snarling; on their backs, when not on duty, round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,-- singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,-- all the crew took turns in dancing; every tar playing punchinello with the pretty, laughing fellow; even the second mate gave sly winks at the noisy mid-day high jinks. never was a crew so happy with a curly-headed chappy, never were such sports gigantic, never dog with joy more antic. while thus jolly, all together, there blew up a change of weather, nothing stormy, but quite breezy, and the wind grew damp and wheezy, like a gale in too low spirits to put forth one half its merits, but, perchance, a dry-land ranger might suspect some kind of danger. soon our stanch and gallant vessel with the waves began to wrestle, and to jump about a trifle, sometimes kicking like a rifle when 'tis slightly overloaded, but by no means nigh exploded. 'twas the coming on of twilight, as we stood abaft the skylight, scampering round to please the baby, (old bill benson held him, maybe,) when the youngster stretched his fingers towards the spot where sunset lingers, and with strong and sudden motion leaped into the weltering ocean! "_what_ did don do?" can't you guess, sir? he sprang also--by express, sir; seized the infant's little dress, sir, held the baby's head up boldly from the waves that rushed so coldly; and in just about a minute our boat had them safe within it. _sell_ him! would you sell your brother? don and i _love_ one another. j. t. fields. * * * * * geist's grave. four years!--and didst thou stay above the ground, which hides thee now, but four? and all that life, and all that love, were crowded, geist! into no more? only four years those winning ways, which make me for thy presence yearn, called us to pet thee or to praise, dear little friend! at every turn? that loving heart, that patient soul, had they indeed no longer span, to run their course, and reach their goal, and read their homily to man? that liquid, melancholy eye, from whose pathetic, soul-fed springs seemed surging the virgilian cry.[ ] the sense of tears in mortal things-- that steadfast, mournful strain, consoled by spirits gloriously gay, and temper of heroic mould-- what, was four years their whole short day? yes, only four!--and not the course of all the centuries to come, and not the infinite resource of nature, with her countless sum. of figures, with her fulness vast of new creation evermore, can ever quite repeat the past, or just thy little self restore. stern law of every mortal lot! which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, and builds himself i know not what of second life i know not where. but thou, when struck thine hour to go, on us, who stood despondent by, a meek last glance of love didst throw, and humbly lay thee down to die. yet would we keep thee in our heart-- would fix our favorite on the scene, nor let thee utterly depart and be as if thou ne'er hadst been. and so there rise these lines of verse on lips that rarely form them now; while to each other we rehearse: _such ways, such arts, such looks hast thou!_ we stroke thy broad, brown paws again, we bid thee to thy vacant chair, we greet thee by the window-pane, we hear thy scuffle on the stair; we see the flaps of thy large ears quick raised to ask which way we go: crossing the frozen lake appears thy small black figure on the snow! nor to us only art thou dear who mourn thee in thine english home; thou hast thine absent master's tear, dropt by the far australian foam. thy memory lasts both here and there, and thou shalt live as long as we. and after that--thou dost not care? in us was all the world to thee. yet fondly zealous for thy fame, even to a date beyond thine own we strive to carry down thy name, by mounded turf, and graven stone. we lay thee, close within our reach, here, where the grass is smooth and warm, between the holly and the beech, where oft we watched thy couchant form, asleep, yet lending half an ear to travellers on the portsmouth road-- there choose we thee, o guardian dear, marked with a stone, thy last abode! then some, who through the garden pass, when we too, like thyself, are clay, shall see thy grave upon the grass, and stop before the stone, and say:-- _people who lived here long ago did by this stone, it seems, intend to name for future times to know the dachs-hound, geist, their little friend_. matthew arnold. [ ] sunt lacrimæ rerum. * * * * * on the death of a favorite old spaniel. poor old friend, how earnestly would i have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been still the companion of my boyish sports; and as i roamed o'er avon's woody cliffs, from many a day-dream has thy short, quick bark recalled my wandering soul. i have beguiled often the melancholy hours at school, soured by some little tyrant, with the thought of distant home, and i remembered then thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy, returning at the happy holidays, i felt from thy dumb welcome. pensively sometimes have i remarked thy slow decay, feeling myself changed too, and musing much on many a sad vicissitude of life. ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last thy master's parting footsteps to the gate which closed forever on him, thou didst lose thy truest friend, and none was left to plead for the old age of brute fidelity. but fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed; and he who gave thee being did not frame the mystery of life to be the sport of merciless man. there is another world for all that live and move--a better one! where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine infinite goodness to the little bounds of their own charity, may envy thee. robert southey. * * * * * epitaph in grey friars' churchyard. the monument erected at edinburgh to the memory of "grey friars' bobby" by the baroness burdett-coutts has a greek inscription by professor blackie. the translation is as follows: this monument was erected by a noble lady, the baroness burdett-coutts, to the memory of grey friars' bobby, a faithful and affectionate little dog, who followed the remains of his beloved master to the churchyard, in the year , and became a constant visitor to the grave, refusing to be separated from the spot until he died in the year . * * * * * from an inscription on the monument of a newfoundland dog. when some proud son of man returns to earth, unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, the sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, and storied urns record who rests below; when all is done, upon the tomb is seen, not what he was, but what he should have been: but the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, foremost to defend, whose honest heart is still his master's own, who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, denied in heaven the soul he held on earth. * * * * * ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, pass on,--it honors none you wish to mourn; to mark a friend's remains these stones arise; i never knew but one,--and here he lies. lord byron, . * * * * * the dog. poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise, away! thou standest to his heart too near, too close for careless rest or healthy cheer; almost in thee the glad brute nature dies. go scour the fields in wilful enterprise, lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere, herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here, seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes. he cannot go; love holds him fast to thee; more than the voices of his kind thy word lives in his heart; for him thy very rod has flowers: he only in thy will is free. cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd would turn and rend him, pining for his god. emily pfeiffer. * * * * * johnny's private argument. a poor little tramp of a doggie, one day, low-spirited, weary, and sad, from a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away, and followed a dear little lad. whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue, made doggie think, "_here_ is a _good_ boy and true!" so, wagging his tail and expressing his views with a sort of affectionate whine, johnny knew he was saying, "dear boy, if you choose, to be _any_ dog's master, be _mine_." and johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight, and he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight. but alas! on a day that to johnny was sad, a newspaper notice he read, "lost a dog: limped a little, and also he had a spot on the top of his head. whoever returns him to me may believe a fair compensation he'll surely receive." johnny didn't want _money_, not he; 'twasn't _that_ that made him just _sit down to think_, and made a grave look on his rosy face fat, and made those blue eyes of his wink to keep back the tears that were ready to flow, as he thought to himself, "_must_ the dear doggie go?" 'twas an argument johnny was holding just there with his own little conscience so true. "it is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair, there is only one thing you can do; restore to his owner the dog; don't delay, but attend to your duty at once, and to-day!" no wonder he sat all so silent and still, forgetting to fondle his pet-- the poor little boy thinking _hard_ with a _will_; while thought doggie, "what makes him forget, i wonder, to frolic and play with me now, and _why_ does he wear such a sorrowful brow?" well, how did it end? johnny's battle was fought, and the victory given to him: the dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought, tho' it made little johnny's eyes dim. but a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day whenever our johnny is passing that way. mary d. brine. * * * * * the harper. on the green banks of shannon, when sheelah was nigh, no blithe irish lad was so happy as i; no harp like my own could so cheerily play, and wherever i went was my poor dog tray. when at last i was forced from my sheelah to part, she said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), oh, remember your sheelah when far, far away! and be kind, my dear pat, to our poor dog tray. poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure; he constantly loved me although i was poor; when the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away, i had always a friend in my poor dog tray. when the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, and pat and his dog were grown weary and old, how snugly we slept in my old coat of gray! and he licked me for kindness,--my poor dog tray. though my wallet was scant, i remembered his case, nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; but he died at my feet on a cold winter day, and i played a sad lament for my poor dog tray. where now shall i go, poor, forsaken, and blind? can i find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? to my sweet native village, so far, far away, i can never return with my poor dog tray. thomas campbell. * * * * * "flight." never again shall her leaping welcome hail my coming at eventide; never again shall her glancing footfall range the fallow from side to side. under the raindrops, under the snowflakes, down in a narrow and darksome bed, safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving, lieth my beautiful, still and dead. mouth of silver, and skin of satin, foot as fleet as an arrow's flight, statue-still at the call of "steady," eyes as clear as the stars of night. laughing breadths of the yellow stubble now shall rustle to alien tread, and rabbits run in the dew-dim clover safe--for my beautiful lieth dead. "only a dog!" do you say, sir critic? only a dog, but as truth i prize, the truest love i have won in living lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes. frosts of winter nor heat of summer could make her fail if my footsteps led; and memory holds in its treasure-casket the name of my darling who lieth dead. s. m. a. c. in _evening post_. * * * * * the irish wolf-hound. as fly the shadows o'er the grass, he flies with step as light and sure. he hunts the wolf through tostan pass, and starts the deer by lisanoure. the music of the sabbath bells, o con! has not a sweeter sound, than when along the valley swells the cry of john mcdonnell's hound. his stature tall, his body long, his back like night, his breast like snow, his fore leg pillar-like and strong, his hind leg bended like a bow; rough, curling hair, head long and thin, his ear a leaf so small and round; not bran, the favorite dog of fin, could rival john mcdonnell's hound. denis florence maccarthy. * * * * * six feet. my little rough dog and i live a life that is rather rare, we have so many good walks to take, and so few bad things to bear; so much that gladdens and recreates, so little of wear and tear. sometimes it blows and rains, but still the six feet ply; no care at all to the following four if the leading two knows why, 'tis a pleasure to have six feet we think, my little rough dog and i. and we travel all one way; 'tis a thing we should never do, to reckon the two without the four, or the four without the two; it would not be right if any one tried, because it would not be true. and who shall look up and say, that it ought not so to be, though the earth that is heaven enough for him, is less than that to me, for a little rough dog can wake a joy that enters eternity. _humane journal._ * * * * * there's room enough for all. ah, rover, by those lustrous eyes that follow me with longing gaze, which sometimes seem so human-wise, i look for human speech and ways. by your quick instinct, matchless love, your eager welcome, mute caress, that all my heart's emotions move, and loneliest moods and hours bless, i do believe, my dog, that you have some beyond, some future new. why not? in heaven's inheritance space must be cheap where worldly light in boundless, limitless expanse rolls grandly far from human sight. he who has given such patient care, such constancy, such tender trust, such ardent zeal, such instincts rare, and made you something more than dust, may yet release the speechless thrall at death--there's room enough for all. _our continent._ * * * * * his faithful dog. lo, the poor indian! whose untutored mind sees god in clouds, or hears him in the wind; his soul proud science never taught to stray far as the solar walk, or milky way; yet simple nature to his hope has given, behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven; some safer world in depth of woods embraced, some happier island in the watery waste, where slaves once more their native land behold, no fiends torment, no christians thirst for gold. to be, contents his natural desire, he asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; but thinks, admitted to that equal sky, his faithful dog shall bear him company. pope. * * * * * the faithful hound. a traveller, by the faithful hound, half-buried in the snow was found, still grasping in his hand of ice that banner with the strange device, excelsior! h. w. longfellow. * * * * * miscellaneous. * * * * * the spider's lesson. robert, the bruce, in his dungeon stood, waiting the hour of doom; behind him the palace of holyrood, before him--a nameless tomb. and the foam on his lip was flecked with red, as away to the past his memory sped, upcalling the day of his past renown, when he won and he wore the scottish crown: yet come there shadow or come there shine, the spider is spinning his thread so fine. "time and again i have fronted the tide of the tyrant's vast array, but only to see on the crimson tide my hopes swept far away;-- now a landless chief and a crownless king, on the broad, broad earth not a living thing to keep me court, save this insect small, striving to reach from wall to wall:" for come there shadow or come there shine, the spider is spinning his thread so fine. "work! work like a fool, to the certain loss, like myself, of your time and pain; the space is too wide to be bridged across, you but waste your strength in vain!" and bruce for the moment forgot his grief, his soul now filled with the sure belief that, howsoever the issue went, for evil or good was the omen sent: and come there shadow or come there shine, the spider is spinning his thread so fine. as a gambler watches the turning card on which his all is staked,-- as a mother waits for the hopeful word for which her soul has ached,-- it was thus bruce watched, with every sense centred alone in that look intense; all rigid he stood, with scattered breath-- now white, now red, but as still as death: yet come there shadow or come there shine, the spider is spinning his thread so fine. six several times the creature tried, when at the seventh, "see, see! he has spanned it over!" the captive cried; "lo! a bridge of hope to me; thee, god, i thank, for this lesson here has tutored my soul to persevere!" and it served him well, for erelong he wore in freedom the scottish crown once more: and come there shadow or come there shine, the spider is spinning his thread so fine. john brougham. * * * * * the spider and stork. who taught the natives of the field and flood to shun their poison and to choose their food? prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand? who made the spider parallels design sure as de moivre, without rule or line? who bid the stork columbus-like explore heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before? who calls the council, states the certain day, who forms the phalanx, and who points the way? pope. * * * * * the homestead at evening.--evangeline's beautiful heifer. now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, and with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. foremost, bearing the bell, evangeline's beautiful heifer, proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, where was their favorite pasture. behind them followed the watch-dog, patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, when from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor, cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, while aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, echoed back by the barns. anon they sank into stillness; heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. h. w. longfellow: _evangeline_. * * * * * the cattle of a hundred farms. and now, beset with many ills, a toilsome life i follow; compelled to carry from the hills, these logs to the impatient mills, below there in the hollow. yet something ever cheers and charms the rudeness of my labors; daily i water with these arms the cattle of a hundred farms, and have the birds for neighbors. h. w. longfellow: _mad river_. * * * * * cat-questions. dozing, and dozing, and dozing! pleasant enough, dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,-- delicate stuff! waked by a somerset, whirling from cushion to floor; waked to a wild rush for safety from window to door. waking to hands that first smooth us, and then pull our tails; punished with slaps when we show them the length of our nails! these big mortal tyrants even grudge us a place on the mat. do they think we enjoy for our music staccatoes of "scat"? to be treated, now, just as you treat us,-- the question is pat,-- to take just our chances in living, would _you_ be a cat? lucy larcom. * * * * * the newsboy's cat. want any papers, mister? wish you'd buy 'em of me-- ten year old, an' a fam'ly, an' bizness dull, you see. fact, boss! there's tom, an' tibby, an' dad, an' mam, an mam's cat, none on 'em earning money-- what do you think of that? _couldn't dad work_? why yes, boss, he's working for gov'ment now,-- they give him his board for nothin',-- all along of a drunken row. _an' mam_? well, she's in the poorhouse,-- been there a year or so; so i'm taking care of the others, doing as well as i know. _oughtn't to live so_? why, mister, what's a feller to do? some nights, when i'm tired an' hungry, seems as if each on 'em knew-- they'll all three cuddle around me, till i get cheery, and say: well, p'raps i'll have sisters an' brothers, an' money an' clothes, too, some day. but if i do git rich, boss, (an' a lecturin' chap one night said newsboys could be presidents if only they acted right); so, if i was president, mister, the very first thing i'd do, i'd buy poor tom an' tibby a dinner--an' mam's cat, too! none o' your scraps an' leavin's, but a good square meal for all three; if you think i'd skimp my friends, boss, that shows you don't know me. so 'ere's your papers--come take one, gimme a lift if you can-- for now you've heard my story, you see i'm a fam'ly man! e. t. corbett. * * * * * the child and her pussy. i like little pussy, her coat is so warm, and if i don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm; so i'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, but pussy and i very gently will play: she shall sit by my side, and i'll give her some food; and she'll love me, because i am gentle and good. i'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr, and thus show her thanks for my kindness to her. e. taylor. * * * * * the alpine sheep. they in the valley's sheltering care, soon crop the meadow's tender prime, and when the sod grows brown and bare, the shepherd strives to make them climb to airy shelves of pastures green that hang along the mountain's side, where grass and flowers together lean, and down through mists the sunbeams slide: but nought can tempt the timid things the steep and rugged paths to try, though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, and seared below the pastures lie,-- till in his arms their lambs he takes along the dizzy verge to go, then heedless of the rifts and breaks they follow on o'er rock and snow. and in those pastures lifted fair, more dewy soft than lowland mead, the shepherd drops his tender care, and sheep and lambs together feed. maria lowell. * * * * * little lamb. little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee? gave thee life and made thee feed by the stream and o'er the mead; gave thee clothing of delight,-- softest clothing, woolly, bright? gave thee such a tender voice, making all the vales rejoice; little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee? little lamb, i'll tell thee; little lamb, i'll tell thee; he is callen by thy name, for he calls himself a lamb. he is meek, and he is mild; he became a little child. i a child, and thou a lamb, we are called by his name. little lamb, god bless thee! little lamb, god bless thee! william blake. * * * * * cowper's hare. well--one at least is safe. one sheltered hare has never heard the sanguinary yell of cruel man, exulting in her woes. innocent partner of my peaceful home, whom ten long years' experience of my care has made at last familiar, she has lost much of her vigilant instinctive dread, not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand that feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor at evening, and at night retire secure to thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; for i have gained thy confidence, have pledged all that is human in me to protect thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. if i survive thee i will dig thy grave, and when i place thee in it, sighing say, i knew at least one hare that had a friend. cowper. * * * * * turn thy hasty foot aside. turn, turn thy hasty foot aside, nor crush that helpless worm! the frame thy wayward looks deride required a god to form. the common lord of all that move, from whom thy being flowed, a portion of his boundless love on that poor worm bestowed. let them enjoy their little day, their humble bliss receive; oh! do not lightly take away the life thou canst not give! t. gisborne. * * * * * the worm turns. i've despised you, old worm, for i think you'll admit that you never were beautiful even in youth; i've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit; but all's changed now that darwin has told us the truth of your diligent life, and endowed you with fame: you begin to inspire me with kindly regard. i have friends of my own, clever worm, i could name, who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard. it appears that we owe you our acres of soil, that the garden could never exist without you, that from ages gone by you were patient in toil, till a darwin revealed all the good that you do. now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confess your behavior should make poor humanity squirm; for there's many a man on this planet, i guess, who is not half so useful as you, mister worm. punch. * * * * * grasshopper and cricket. green little vaulter in the sunny grass, catching your heart up at the feet of june, sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, whenever the bees lag at the summoning brass; and you, warm little housekeeper, who class with those who think the candles come too soon, loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune nicks the glad silent moments as they pass. o sweet and tidy cousins, that belong one to the fields, the other to the hearth, both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strong at your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth to ring in thoughtful ears this natural song-- indoors and out, summer and winter, mirth. leigh hunt. * * * * * the honey-bees. therefore doth heaven divide the state of man in divers functions, setting endeavor in continual motion; to which is fixed, as an aim or butt, obedience: for so work the honey-bees; creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom. they have a king and officers of sorts: where some, like magistrates, correct at home; others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; which pillage they with merry march bring home to the tent royal of their emperor: who, busied in his majesty, surveys the singing masons building roofs of gold; the civil citizens kneading up the honey; the poor mechanic porters crowding in their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; the sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, delivering o'er to the executioner's pale the lazy, yawning drone. shakespeare: _henry v._, act , sc. . * * * * * cunning bee. said a little wandering maiden to a bee with honey laden, "bee, at all the flowers you work, yet in some does poison lurk." "that i know, my little maiden," said the bee with honey laden; "but the poison i forsake, and the honey only take." "cunning bee with honey laden, that is right," replied the maiden; "so will i, from all i meet, only draw the good and sweet." anon. * * * * * an insect. only an insect; yet i know it felt the sunlight's golden glow, and the sweet morning made it glad with all the little heart it had. it saw the shadows move; it knew the grass-blades glittered, wet with dew; and gayly o'er the ground it went; it had its fulness of content. some dainty morsel then it spied, and for the treasure turned aside; then, laden with its little spoil, back to its nest began to toil. an insect formed of larger frame, called man, along the pathway came. a ruthless foot aside he thrust, and ground the beetle in the dust. perchance no living being missed the life that there ceased to exist; perchance the passive creature knew no wrong, nor felt the deed undue; yet its small share of life was given by the same hand that orders heaven. 'twas for no other power to say, or should it go or should it stay. anon. * * * * * the chipmunk. i know an old couple that lived in a wood-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! and up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! the summer it came, and the summer it went-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! and there they lived on, and they never paid rent-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! their parlor was lined with the softest of wool-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! their kitchen was warm, and their pantry was full-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! and four little babies peeped out at the sky-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! you never saw darlings so pretty and shy-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! now winter came on with its frost and its snow-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! they cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! for, wrapped in their furs, they all lay down to sleep-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! but oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes will peep-- chipperee, chipperee, chip! unknown. * * * * * mountain and squirrel. the mountain and the squirrel had a quarrel; and the former called the latter "little prig." bun replied, "you are doubtless very big; but all sorts of things and weather must be taken in together to make up a year and a sphere; and i think it no disgrace to occupy my place. if i'm not so large as you, you are not so small as i, and not half so spry. i'll not deny you make a very pretty squirrel track. talents differ; all is well and wisely put; if i cannot carry forests on my back, neither can you crack a nut." emerson. * * * * * to a field-mouse. wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! thou need na start awa sae hasty, wi' bickering brattle! i wad be laith to rin and chase thee wi' murd'ring pattle! i'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken nature's social union, and justifies that ill opinion which makes thee startle at me, thy poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal! thou saw the fields lay bare and waste and weary winter comin' fast, and cozie here, beneath the blast, thou thought to dwell, till, crash! the cruel coulter past out thro' thy cell. but, mousie, thou art no thy lane[ ] in proving foresight may be bain: the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley, and lea'e us nought but grief and vain, for promised joy. burns. [ ] not alone. * * * * * a sea-shell. see what a lovely shell, small and pure as a pearl, lying close to my foot. frail, but a work divine, made so fairily well with delicate spire and whorl. how exquisitely minute a miracle of design! the tiny cell is forlorn, void of the little living will that made it stir on the shore. did he stand at the diamond door of his house in a rainbow frill? did he push when he was uncurled, a golden foot or a fairy horn through his dim water-world? slight, to be crushed with a tap of my finger-nail on the sand; small, but a work divine: frail, but of force to withstand, year upon year, the shock of cataract seas that snap the three-decker's oaken spine, athwart the ledges of rock, here on the breton strand. alfred tennyson. * * * * * the chambered nautilus. this is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, sails the unshadowed main,-- the venturous bark that flings on the sweet summer wind its purpled wings in gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, and coral reefs lie bare, where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; wrecked is the ship of pearl! and every chambered cell, where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, as the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, before thee lies revealed,-- its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! year after year beheld the silent toil that spread his lustrous coil; still, as the spiral grew, he left the past year's dwelling for the new, stole with soft steps its shining archway through, built up its idle door, stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, child of the wandering sea, cast from her lap, forlorn! from thy dead lips a clearer note is born than ever triton blew from wreathed horn! while on mine ear it rings, through the deep caves of thought i hear a voice that sings:-- "build thee more stately mansions, o my soul, as the swift seasons roll! leave thy low-vaulted past! let each temple, nobler than the last, shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast, till thou at length art free, leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unwresting sea!" o. w. holmes. * * * * * hiawatha's brothers. when he heard the owls at midnight, hooting, laughing in the forest, "what is that?" he cried in terror; "what is that?" he said, "nokomis?" and the good nokomis answered: "that is but the owl and owlet, talking in their native language, talking, scolding at each other." then the little hiawatha learned of every bird its language, learned their names and all their secrets, how they built their nests in summer, where they hid themselves in winter, talked with them whene'er he met them, called them "hiawatha's chickens." of all beasts he learned the language, learned their names and all their secrets, how the beavers built their lodges, where the squirrels hid their acorns, how the reindeer ran so swiftly, why the rabbit was so timid, talked with them whene'er he met them, called them "hiawatha's brothers." then iagoo, the great boaster, he the marvellous story-teller, he the traveller and the talker, he the friend of old nokomis, made a bow for hiawatha; from a branch of ash he made it, from an oak-bough made the arrows, tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, and the cord he made of deer-skin. then he said to hiawatha: "go, my son, into the forest, where the red deer herd together, kill for us a famous roebuck, kill for us a deer with antlers!" forth into the forest straightway all alone walked hiawatha proudly, with his bow and arrows; and the birds sang ruffed him, o'er him, "do not shoot us, hiawatha!" sang the robin, the opechee, sang the bluebird, the owaissa, "do not shoot us, hiawatha!" up the oak-tree, close beside him, sprang the squirrel, adjidaumo, in and out among the branches, coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, laughed, and said between his laughing, "do not shoot me, hiawatha!" and the rabbit from his pathway leaped aside, and at a distance sat erect upon his haunches, half in fear and half in frolic, saying to the little hunter, "do not shoot me, hiawatha!" but he heeded not, nor heard them, for his thoughts were with the red deer; on their tracks his eyes were fastened, leading downward to the river, to the ford across the river, and as one in slumber walked he. h. w. longfellow: _hiawatha_. * * * * * unoffending creatures. the being that is in the clouds and air, that is in the green leaves among the groves, maintains a deep and reverential care for the unoffending creatures whom he loves. one lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, taught both by what he shows, and what conceals, never to blend our pleasure or our pride with sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. wordsworth. * * * * * september. and sooth to say, yon vocal grove albeit uninspired by love, by love untaught to ring, may well afford to mortal ear an impulse more profoundly dear than music of the spring. but list! though winter storms be nigh unchecked is that soft harmony: there lives who can provide, for all his creatures: and in him, even like the radiant seraphim, these choristers confide. wordsworth. * * * * * the lark. happy, happy liver, with a soul as strong as a mountain river, pouring out praises to the almighty giver. wordsworth. * * * * * the swallow. when weary, weary winter hath melted into air, and april leaf and blossom hath clothed the branches bare, came round our english dwelling a voice of summer cheer: 'twas thine, returning swallow, the welcome and the dear. far on the billowy ocean a thousand leagues are we, yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark, what is it that we see? dear old familiar swallow, what gladness dost thou bring: here rest upon our flowing sail thy weary, wandering wing. mrs. howitt. * * * * * returning birds. birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? "we come from the shores of the green old nile, from the land where the roses of sharon smile, from the palms that wave through the indian sky, from the myrrh trees of glowing araby." mrs. hemans. * * * * * the birds. with elegies of love make vocal every spray. cunningham. * * * * * thrush. whither hath the wood thrush flown from our greenwood bowers? wherefore builds he not again where the wild thorn flowers? bid him come! for on his wings the sunny year he bringeth, and the heart unlocks its springs wheresoe'er he singeth. barry cornwall. * * * * * linnet. within the bush her covert nest a little linnet fondly prest, the dew sat chilly on her breast sae early in the morning. she soon shall see her tender brood the pride, the pleasure o' the wood, among the fresh green leaves bedewed, awake the early morning. burns. * * * * * nightingale. but thee no wintry skies can harm who only needs to sing to make even january charm and every season spring. cowper. * * * * * songsters. little feathered songsters of the air in woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair. savage. * * * * * mohammedanism. the cattle.[ ] the "chapter of the cattle:" heaven is whose, and whose is earth? say allah's, that did choose on his own might to lay the law of mercy. he, at the resurrection, will not lose one of his own. what falleth, night or day, falleth by his almighty word alway. wilt thou have any other lord than allah, who is not fed, but feedeth all flesh? say! for if he visit thee with woe, none makes the woe to cease save he; and if he takes pleasure to send thee pleasure, he is master over all gifts; nor doth his thought forsake the creatures of the field, nor fowls that fly; they are "a people" also: "these, too, i have set," the lord saith, "in my book of record; these shall be gathered to me by and by." with him of all things secret are the keys; none other hath them, but he hath; and sees whatever is in land, or air, or water, each bloom that blows, each foam-bell on the seas. e. arnold: _pearls of the faith_. [ ] _koran_, chap. vi. * * * * * i cannot believe that any creature was created for uncompensated misery; it would be contrary to god's mercy and justice. mary somerville. * * * * * the spider and the dove. the spider and the dove,--what thing is weak if allah makes it strong? the spider and the dove! if he protect, fear thou not foeman's wrong. from mecca to medina fled our lord, the horsemen followed fast; into a cave to shun their murderous rage, mohammed, weary, passed. quoth aba bekr, "if they see me die!" quoth eba foheir, "away!" the guide abdallah said, "the sand is deep, those footmarks will betray." then spake our lord "we are not four but five; he who protects is here. 'come! al-muhaimin' now will blind their eyes; enter, and have no fear." the band drew nigh; one of the koreish cried, "search ye out yonder cleft, i see the print of sandalled feet which turn thither, upon the left!" but when they drew unto the cavern's mouth, lo, at its entering in, a ring-necked desert-dove sat on her eggs; the mate cooed soft within. and right athwart the shadow of the cave a spider's web was spread; the creature hung upon her web at watch; unbroken was each thread; "by thammuz' blood," the unbelievers cried, "our toil and time are lost; where doves hatch, and the spider spins her snare, no foot of man hath crossed!" thus did a desert bird and spider guard the blessed prophet then; for all things serve their maker and their god better than thankless men. _pearls of the faith_. * * * * * the young doves. there came before our lord a certain one who said, "o prophet! as i passed the wood i heard the voice of youngling doves which cried, while near the nest their pearl-necked mother cooed. "then in my cloth i tied those fledglings twain, but all the way the mother fluttered nigh; see! she hath followed hither." spake our lord: "open thy knotted cloth, and stand thou by." but when she spied her nestlings, from the palm down flew the dove, of peril unafeared, so she might succor these. "seest thou not," our lord said, "how the heart of this poor bird "grows by her love, greater than his who rides full-face against the spear-blades? thinkest thou such fire divine was kindled to be quenched? i tell ye nay! put back upon the bough "the nest she claimeth thus: i tell ye nay! from allah's self cometh this wondrous love: yea! and i swear by him who sent me here, he is more tender than a nursing dove, "more pitiful to men than she to these. therefore fear god in whatsoe'er ye deal with the dumb peoples of the wing and hoof." * * * * * _pearls of the faith_. * * * * * forgiven. verily there are rewards for our doing good to dumb animals, and giving them water to drink. a wicked woman was forgiven who, seeing a dog at a well holding out his tongue from thirst, which was near killing him, took off her boot, and tied it to the end of her garment, and drew water in it for the dog, and gave him to drink; and she was forgiven her sin for that act. _table talk of mohammed_. * * * * * prayers. it is recorded of the prophet, that when, being on a journey, he alighted at any place, he did not say his prayers until he had unsaddled his camel. poole's _mohammed_. * * * * * dumb mouths. by these dumb mouths be ye forgiven, ere ye are heard pleading with heaven. _pearls of the faith_. * * * * * the parsees. from the zend avesta. of all and every kind of sin which i have committed against the creatures of ormazd, as stars, moon, sun, and the red-burning fire, the _dog_, the _birds_, the other good creatures which are the property of ormazd, if i have become a sinner against any of these, _i repent_. * * * * * "if a man gives bad food to a shepherd dog, of what sin is he guilty?" ahura mazda[ ] answered: "it is the same guilt as though he should serve bad food to a master of a house of the _first rank_." * * * * * "the dog, i, ahura mazda, have made self-clothed and self-shod, watchful, wakeful, and sharp-toothed, born to take his food from man and to watch over man's goods. "i, ahura mazda, have made the dog strong of body against the evil-doer and watchful over your goods, when he is of sound mind." [ ] ahura mazda or ormazd is the king of light; the good. the zend avesta is of great but uncertain antiquity; believed to be three thousand years old. * * * * * hindoo. he who, seeking his own happiness, does not punish or kill beings who also long for happiness, will find happiness after death. _dhammapada_. whoever in this world harms living beings, and in whom there is no compassion for living beings, let one know him as an outcast. _sutta nipata_. * * * * * the tiger. tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire? what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and, when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand forged thy dread feet? what the hammer? what the chain? in what furnace was thy brain? what the anvil? what dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp? when the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry? william blake. * * * * * value of animals. nobody doubts their general value, as nobody doubts the value of sunlight; but a more practical appreciation may be felt of their moneyed value if we look at that aspect of the question in some of its details. we quote from a hand-book published for the south kensington museum:-- "class i.--_animal substances employed for textile manufactures and clothing._ division i. wool, mohair, and alpaca. division ii. hair, bristles, and whalebone. division iii. silk. division iv. furs. division v. feathers, down, and quills. division vi. gelatin, skins, and leathers. "class ii.--_animal substances used for domestic and ornamental purposes._ division i. bone and ivory. division ii. horns and hoofs. division iii. tortoise-shell. division iv. shells and marines. animal products for manufacture, ornaments, etc. division v. animal oils and fats. "class iii.--_pigments and dyes yielded by animals."_--division i. cochineal and kermes. division ii. lac and its applications. division iii. nutgalls, gall dyes, blood, etc. division iv. sepia, tyrian purple, purree, etc. "class iv.--_animal substances used in pharmacy and in perfumery."_ division i. musk, civet, castorem, hyraceum, and ambergris. division ii. cantharides, leeches, etc. "class v.--_application of waste matters_. division i. entrails and bladders. division ii. albumen, casein, etc. division iii. prussiates of potash and chemical products of bone, etc. division iv. animal manures--guano, coprolites, animal carcases, bones, fish manures, etc." from a table of the value of imports of animal origin brought into the united kingdom in the year , we take a few items:-- "live animals, £ , , . wool of various kinds, £ , , . silk, manufactures of all kinds, £ , , . silk, raw and thrown, £ , , . butter, £ , , . cheese, £ , , . eggs, £ , , . bacon and hams, £ , , . hair of various kinds, £ , , . hides, wet and dry, £ , , . hides, tanned or otherwise prepared, £ , , . guano, £ , , . fish, cured or salted, £ , , ." the value of the domestic stock in great britain and channel islands, in , is stated to have been:-- "horses, , , at £ , £ , , . cattle, , , at £ , £ , , . sheep, , , at £ s., £ , , . swine, , , at £ s., £ , , . total, £ , , ." "when we find," says the compiler of the statistics from which we have quoted, "that the figures give an estimated money value exceeding £ , , sterling, and that to this has to be added all the dairy produce; the poultry and their products for great britain; the annual clip of british wool, which may be estimated at , , lbs., worth at least £ , , ; the hides and skins, tallow, horns, bones, and other offal, horse and cow hair, woollen rags collected, the game and rabbits, the sea and river fisheries; besides the products of our woollen, leather, glove, silk, soap, and comb manufactures retained for home consumption, furs, brushes, and many other articles, we ought to add a great many millions more to the aggregate value or total."--simmonds: _animal products_, p. xix. * * * * * societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals. the first society formed under this name, or for this object, was the "royal," of london, in . the first in america was that of new york, in ; that of pennsylvania, in ; and that of massachusetts, in . they all sprang from the same christian root with the other great voluntary organizations for religious and moral purposes which distinguished the century just passed. all helped to widen the consciousness of the world, and to prepare the way for reformations not then thought of. in this goodly company of voluntary societies, those for the protection of animals are entitled to an honorable place. it is not too much to say that any list would be incomplete without them. but they have gone beyond europe and america, and are spreading over the world. among their devoted members are found the professors of many religions. these "voices," it is hoped, may impel their readers, wherever they may be, to help on, through such societies, a long delayed work of justice to the humbler creatures of god. in many countries the young may find juvenile societies to promote the cause in schools and neighborhoods. but whether inside or outside of organizations, the words of mr. longfellow suggest a universal duty,-- "act, act in the living present, hearts within and god o'erhead." index of subjects and titles. * * * * * achilles, horses of action ahura-mazda aix, good news to alexander allah among the noblest ancient mariner animals and human speech animals, feeling for animals, happiness animals, innocent animals, products animals, suffering another's sorrow arabs argus and ulysses aspiration asoka inscriptions atri in abruzzo aziola baby, human bavieca bay billy beaver bedouin's rebuke bees, the beetle beggar and dog be kind bess, poor bible bird and ship bird king bird, lost bird of the wilderness birds birds and mohammed birds at dawn bird's evening song birds in spring birds learning to fly birds let loose bird's ministry birds must know birds, our teachers birds returning birds, shadows of birthday address birth of the horse blanco bloodhound bluebird bob-o'-link bride brotherhood buddhism butrago, lord of cage canary can they suffer? cat care for the lowest chick-a-dee-dee child, lydia maria chipmunk choir, hymeneal choir, invisible cid and bavieca cock's shrill clarion compassion concord cormorant crane cricket crow cruelty, effect of, on man cuckoo damascus darwin, charles delft dog dog "blanco" dog "don" dog "flight" dogs, dead dogs, domestic dogs, epitaph on dogs "faithful" dog's grave doves do with your own do you know? drudge ducks dumb dumb mouths duty duty and fame dying in harness eagle eggs egyptian ritual elegy elephants emperor's bird's-nest epitaph erskine, lord exulting sings failures fame and duty feathered tribes feeling for animals field sparrow fire firmness and faithfulness foray, the freedom to beasts friend of every friendless beast friends future, the gamarra geist's grave gelert generosity gentleness giant's strength glow-worm god's children good news to aix good samaritan good will grasshoppers graves, collins, ride of grey friars' bobby growth of humane ideas gulls happiness of animals hare harness, dying in harper, the heart service helvellyn hen and honey bee herbert, george herod, my hound heroes herons of elmwood hiawatha's brothers hill-star's nest hippopotamus honor and revere horse. see _rides_. horse horse, birth of horse, blood horse, fallen horse of achilles horse waiting for master horse, war hound howard, john hindoo poem hindooism humanity humming-bird hundred farms hymns immortality india indian in holy books inscriptions insect instinct introduction irish wolf-hound jay june day justice killingworth, birds of kindness kindness to aged creatures king of denmark's ride kites l'allegro lamb lark lark (sky) lark (wood) leaders learn from the creatures legend of cross-bill lexington life is glad lincoln, robert of linnet little brown bird little by little living swan llewellyn and gelert looking for pearls lord of butrago lost love loyalty magpie man's morality on trial man's rule man's supremacy marriage feast martin mausoleum measureless gulfs mercy misery monkey moral lessons mother's care mountain and squirrel mouse, a field myth nautilus natural rights nature, animated nature's teachings nest newfoundland dog newsboy nightingale nobility no ceremony no grain of sand non-interference not born for death not contempt nothing alone odyssey old mill old spaniel one hundred years ago open sky oriole our pets owl ox pain to animals papers parrots parsees peacock peepul tree pegasus in pound persevere petrel, stormy pets, our pheasant phoebe piccola pity plutarch poor dog tray prayers pretty birds pussy quail questions quit the nest reason returning birds ride of collins graves ride of king of denmark ride of paul revere ride of sheridan ride of "the colonel" ride to aix rights must win rights, natural ring out robins roland rooks room enough rover sake of the animals sand, no grain of sandpiper scarecrow sea-fowl sea shell september shadows of birds shaftesbury, earl of shag sheep shepherd's home she-wolf ship of pearl siddârtha sin six feet skylark societies for protection of animals solitude songs sorrow sounds and songs sparrow spider squirrel statue over the cathedral door st. francis stole the eggs stole the nest stork study of animals suffer, can they? suffering sultan swallow swan sympathy tame animals teeth of dog tenderness te whit, te who texts. see _bible_. thrush tiger tiger moth tom tramp trotwood, betsy troubadour trust truth ulysses upward value of animals to man venice, doves of village sounds vireos virtue vision vivisection vogelweid, walter von der waiting for master war-horse waterfowl way to sing wedding guest wedding, the fairy what the birds say whippoorwill who stole the bird's eggs? who stole the bird's nest? who taught? william of orange williamsburg winchester wish, a wolf wolf-hound wood lark wood pigeons workman of god worm worm turns, the wren yudhistthira * * * * * index of authors. akenside, mark alger's oriental poetry amicis, de e. andros, r. s. anonymous. see _unknown._ aristotle arnold, edwin arnold, matthew asoka, emperor barbauld, mrs. bates, mrs. c. d. bentham, jeremy berry, mrs. c. f. bible blackie, professor blake, william blanchard, laman bostwick, helen b. bremer, frederika bright, john brine, mary d. brooks, rev. c. t. brougham, john browning, mrs. e. b. browning, robert bryant, w. c. buddhism. see _hindoo_. burns, robert butler, bishop byron, lord caird, rev. dr. californian campbell, thomas carlyle, mrs. thomas carpenter, rev. h. b. carpenter, rev. j. e. chamber's journal chamisso child's book of poetry cincinnati humane appeal clayton, sir robert clough, arthur h. cobbe, miss f. p. coleridge, hartley coleridge, s. t. corbett, e. t. cornwall, barry cowper, william craik, mrs. dinah m. cunningham, allen cuvier, baron davids, t. w. r. dickens, charles dryden, john egyptian ritual eliot, george emerson, r. w. faber, f. w. fields, james t. gassaway, f. h. gisborne, thomas goethe goldsmith, o. gray h. h. hathaway, e. hedge, rev. dr. f. h. helps, arthur hemans, mrs. herbert, george hindoo hogg, james holland, j. g. holmes, o. w. homer howitt, mary humane journal hunt, leigh hymns for mothers ingelow, jean jackson, mrs. see _h. h._ job johnson, laura w. keats, john keble, j. kingsley, charles lamb, charles and mary langhorne, j. larcom, lucy lathbury, mary a. lawrence, kate lewes, mrs. see _george elliot._ lillie, arthur lockhart, j. g. logan, john longfellow, h. w. lord, miss emily b. lowell, james r. lowell, maria luther, martin mahabhàrata mackenzie maccarthy, denis f. mason, caroline a. masque of poets mcleod, norman mill, john stuart milton, john mohammed moore, thomas motley, j. l. müller, max muloch. see _mrs. dinah m. craik._ norton, mrs. c. e. odyssey o'reilly, john boyle paine, miss harriet e. parseeism perry, carolina coronado de pfeiffer, emily plutarch poole, stanley pope, alexander preston, margaret j. procter. see _barry cornwall._ punch read, t. b. ruskin, john savage, richard saxe, john g. schiller scott, walter scudder, eliza shakespeare, w. shelley, p. b. shenstone, w. sheppard, mary. simmonds somerville, mary southey, robert spenser, w. r. stanley, a. p. sterling, john swing, david taylor, bayard taylor, emily taylor, henry temple bar tennyson, alfred thaxter, mrs. celia unknown verplanck, julia c. walton, izaak whittier, j. g. wilcox wither, george woolson, c. f. wordsworth, w. zend avesta note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -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 the illustrations are by sarah s. stilwell copyright, , 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 "till loveliness comes home" through the bending shrubbery 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 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. mo, $ . . beyond the gates. mo, $ . . the gates between. mo, $ . . men, women, and ghosts. stories. mo, $ . . hedged in. mo, $ . . the silent partner. mo, $ . . the story of avis. mo, $ . . sealed orders, and other stories. mo, $ . . friends: a duet. mo, $ . ; paper, cents. doctor zay. mo, $ . . an old maid's paradise, and burglars in paradise. mo, $ . . the master of the magicians. collaborated with herbert d. ward. mo, $ . ; paper, cents. come forth! collaborated with herbert d. ward. mo, $ . ; paper, cents. fourteen to one. short stories. mo, $ . . donald marcy. mo, $ . . a singular life. mo, $ . . the supply at saint agatha's. illustrated. square mo, $ . . the madonna of the tubs. illustrated. square mo, boards, cents. jack the fisherman. illustrated. square mo, boards, cents. loveliness: a story. illustrated. square mo, $ . . chapters from a life. illustrated. mo, $ . . the story of jesus christ: an interpretation. illustrated. crown vo, $ . . 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 , comma added ("the newsboy, the carrier"). both "cab driver" and "cab-driver" were used in this text.] generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) mrs. leslie's books for little children. the robin redbreast series. books written or edited by a. r. baker, and sold by all booksellers. question books on the topics of christ's sermon on the mount. vol. i. for children. vol. ii. for youth. vol. iii. for adults. lectures on these topics, _in press_. mrs. leslie's sabbath school books. tim, the scissors grinder. sequel to "tim, the scissors grinder." prairie flower. the bound boy. the bound girl. virginia. the two homes; or, earning and spending. the organ-grinder, _in press_. question books. the catechism tested by the bible. vol. i. for children. vol. ii. for adults. the dermott family; or, stories illustrating the catechism. vol. i. doctrines respecting god and mankind. " ii. doctrines of grace. " iii. commandments of the first table. " iv. commandments of the second table. " v. conditions of eternal life. mrs. leslie's home life. vol. i. cora and the doctor. " ii. courtesies of wedded life. " iii. the household angel. mrs. leslie's juvenile series. vol. i. the motherless children. " ii. play and study. " iii. howard and his teacher. " iv. trying to be useful. " v. jack, the chimney sweeper. " vi. the young housekeeper. " vii. little agnes. the little frankie series. little frankie and his mother. little frankie at his plays. little frankie and his cousin. little frankie and his father. little frankie on a journey. little frankie at school. the robin redbreast series. the robins' nest. little robins in the nest. little robins learning to fly. little robins in trouble. little robins' friends. little robins' love one to another. [illustration: little robins learning to fly.] little robins learning to fly. by mrs. madeline leslie, author of "the home life series;" "mrs. leslie's juvenile series," etc. [illustration] boston: crosby and nichols. washington street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. little robins learning to fly. chapter i. mr. robin's poor cousins. early one may morning, fred symmes was sent by his mother upon an errand to the next farm. he did not go around by the road, but jumped over the stone wall, and passed along through the pleasant orchard. as he came near the pear tree, he saw a large robin flying back and forth from it, and stopping to look, soon discovered a nest in the fork formed by two of the lower limbs. what was his surprise, as the robin flew toward the ground, to have it alight on his arm! when he at once recognized it as mr. robin, who had a wife and family in the elm tree near the cottage. "why, what are you doing here this bright morning?" he asked, holding out his finger, upon which the familiar bird readily perched. mr. robin cocked his head, turned up his bright eye, and tried to explain. but as fred did not seem to understand, and kept saying, "i hope you have not forsaken your wife and little nestlings, pretty birdie," he alighted on the ground, picked up a worm, and flew away into the tree. fred quickened his steps, did his errand at the farm, and on his return, found mr. robin had flown away. he climbed into a tree, from which he could look into the nest. there he saw a female bird sheltering her young, who were feebly chirping as she partly rose to meet the intruder. she uttered a cry of distress, and began to flutter her wings; but fred quickly slid down from the tree, and put an end to her alarm. when he reached home, both mr. and mrs. robin were picking up crumbs at the cottage door. "grandpa," said he, when they were seated at breakfast, "i saw something very funny this morning. i found our robin in a pear tree near mr. bacon's farm, feeding a whole nest full of birds." "were they alone?" inquired mr. symmes. "no, father. the mother bird was there; and he fed her too." "i suppose the father has been killed," suggested the old gentleman. "it is very cruel to kill birds when they have little families to take care of. but i have read many instances where birds have assisted each other when in distress: where the male bird has been killed, one of his neighbors has fed and assisted in rearing the young brood, at the same time he attended to the wants of his own family." an hour or two later, grandpa sat in his arm chair under the shade of the graceful elm. fred had brought his tools, and was converting a large wooden box into a playhouse for his little sister. annie stood near him, her apron filled with small bits of broken china, which she called her dishes, and which she was waiting to arrange in her new cupboard. it was very warm; and the boy's forehead was wet with perspiration. he drew his jacket sleeve across his face, as he exclaimed, "there, annie, your house is done." "thank you, thank you, dear brother," cried the little girl, in an ecstasy of delight. she emptied the bright-colored crockery on the ground, and ran to the house for her dolly and two chairs; the latter her mother had made of pieces of smooth cornstalks, fastened together with pins. "o, doesn't it look pretty, grandpa?" she asked, jumping up and down in her glee. "see minnie sitting in her parlor. now i'll set up my dishes. o dear!" she added, with a quick, appealing glance at her brother, "how nice it would be if i had a table!" "well, some time i'll make you one," answered fred, with a smile. "and you can put your dolly's cradle into the bedroom." "o yes," shouted annie, with a cry of joy; and she ran away to fetch it. "i will help you make a table," said grandpa to fred; "and i think we can manage to put together a very pretty one between us." "i want to hear more about birds helping each other," said the boy. "it seems so queer that they should know enough to do it." "it is a most interesting study," answered the old gentleman, "to watch the character and habits of birds, and one which has engaged the attention of many learned men. there is no portion of god's creation in which his wisdom is more displayed than in the formation of birds. each and every variety are exactly fitted for the circumstances in which they are to be placed. for instance, the eagle, who lives on high crags or rocks, almost inaccessible to man, has a short, strong beak, hooked at the end, wings of immense strength, and claws large and sharp. he is gifted with extraordinary clearness of sight. sitting on the summit of a huge rock, or sailing around at a great height in the air, he discerns his prey. sometimes it is a fish just below the surface of the water, or a lamb accidentally separated from its mother. he shoots down, down, and with the speed, sure aim, and straightness of an arrow, pounces upon the prey, and carries it off in his strong talons." "how different from our pretty little robins!" exclaimed fred. "yes, the eagle is a bird of prey, and is formed accordingly. the robin lives upon grubs, insects, or seeds and fruit. it is not necessary, therefore, for him to be possessed of much strength. his beak is just fitted for the kind of labor he must perform in getting his food. it is slightly notched near the end. he is a very social bird, and is remarkable for the bravery with which he defends his young. then there is the pelican of the wilderness, who is furnished with a large pouch, joined to the lower part of his beak, in which he can carry a considerable quantity of food to his young." chapter ii. the hen hawk. while grandpa and fred were talking, they suddenly heard a loud cry of distress from the hen in the coop, quickly followed by the cluck, cluck, with which she summoned her chickens under her wings. presently mr. and mrs. robin seemed to partake of the fright. she uttered continual sharp cries, while her husband flew with quick, violent motions over his nest. fred hastened toward the barn, and saw a large hawk sailing in the air above them. he ran to call his father, who was, fortunately, near at hand. "bring my gun," said mr. symmes, taking down a flask of powder from a high shelf in the shed. "now we'll soon bring him down," he continued, stationing himself at the back door. he took his aim. annie turned pale, and pressed her hands over her ears. then came the report; and, true enough, the great, brown bird fell to the ground just in front of the hen-coop at which it had been aiming. "that was a good shot," remarked grandpa, walking slowly to the place. "i seldom miss fire," said mr. symmes, with a look of honest pride. "my hand is steady, and the gun is a faithful old fellow, that has served honorably in war, and has helped me to get rid of many an enemy." "o, father, see how it flutters! it is not quite dead." "bring it here, child, and i'll put an end to its pain. we should always avoid keeping any living being in misery." he wrung the hawk's neck, though annie screamed, and then began to cry. "why, sis, do you want our chickens and birdies all carried off?" asked fred. "this is a bad bird, and would have stolen them away if father had not killed it. hark! there are the robins now singing us a song to thank us for protecting them." they all stopped for a moment to listen, as the beautiful songsters warbled forth their sweet strains, filling the air with their rich melody. "do you suppose they really know what we have done for them?" inquired the boy. "certainly i do," answered grandpa, "they made known their wants as well as they were able, and in language that it was easy to understand. the little nestlings knew at once, from the cries of their parents, that there was danger near, and joined in the notes of distress. now, while their father and mother sit quietly upon the bough singing their thanks, they feel sure the danger is past, and that no accident will happen to them." "i'm sure the chickies knew," said annie. "they ran in to their mother as quick as they could, and cuddled together under her wings." "they knew just as well," replied her father, "and understood her language as quick as you would if your mother saw a great lion in the yard, and called you, 'annie, come here! run quick into the house, or you will be killed!'?]" in the mean time, fred had been examining the dead hawk, and now exclaimed, "o, what a strong bird this is! i don't wonder smaller ones are afraid of it." "it is of the same family as the eagle and falcon," said grandpa, "though, as you see, its beak is very short, and bends gradually from its base. it is naturally a ferocious bird, but is capable of strong affection for those who treat it with kindness. in england, hawks were formerly much prized, as they were trained to catch game of various sorts, and sometimes became so tame that they would not only come when called, but they would bring home to their owner whatever they took in their flight. "a hawk which was once owned by a gentleman in england, escaped from its owner, after accompanying him on a hunting expedition, and flew hundreds of miles in the short space of about six hours. it alighted on a vessel bound for america from europe, which was nearly midway on her passage, and was recognized by a silver ring on its leg, with the owner's name engraved upon it." "did it remain on board the vessel?" inquired fred, earnestly. "for some days it did, my dear, and then it took its flight." "do you suppose it could find its way back to its master?" asked annie. "o, yes, as easily as the robins in the tree will find their way back to our farm when spring comes again," said grandpa with a smile. "the chickens are all out again now," said the little girl, running to the coop. "yes, indeed!" exclaimed her brother; "they have forgotten all about their fright by this time. grandpa, what would you do with this dead hawk?" "i would dig a hole in the ground and bury it, my dear." chapter iii. learning to fly. the next morning, fred was awakened earlier than usual by a loud and continued chirping in the robins' nest. he dressed himself quickly, and ran to the window, where he saw dick, the largest bird, sitting on the edge of the nest, while his father and mother were hopping from one bough to another, twittering incessantly, and trying to encourage him to try his wings. fred was greatly excited, and ran to the stairs to call his sister, who slept below in the room with her parents. this was indeed an important day in the robins' nest. dick and jack, molly and katy, were now fledged; and it was high time for them to begin to exercise a little. "dick is the oldest, and must try his wings first," said mr. robin, firmly. "i dare not," answered dick. "it makes me dizzy only to look down." "don't stop to look, then," said his mother. "spread out your wings and fly away. try, and you will find it very easy. here, see how i do it." she perched for a moment on the nest by his side, and then slowly raising her wings, flew to the ground. "i know i shall kill myself," muttered the cowardly bird. "let me fly," exclaimed jack. "it looks easy when you do it." "it is easy," said his father. "it is only to make up your mind, 'i can fly if i will,' spread out your wings, and away you go. dick, as you are the oldest, the privilege of leaving the nest first is yours; but if you do not start before i chirp three times, jack may take your place." he then began, "chirp, chirp, chirp;" but the foolish dick did not move. his father was much displeased, and gave him a blow with his beak, pushing him back into the nest. "come, my brave jack," said his mother; "you shall show us how easily you can learn to fly." poor jack's heart beat strangely, as he saw how far it was to the ground. his mother showed him how to move his wings, continually spreading them, flying a yard or two, and then returning. "i am a bird, and must learn some time," chirped jack; "so here goes--" and shutting his eyes, he resolutely let go his hold of the nest, and came down, rather awkwardly, to be sure, but still safely, upon the ground. his mother instantly joined him. "good jack," said she, "i am proud of you;" and she repeatedly touched her beak to his. "i thought i was falling, falling," answered jack; "and now that i am here, i'm afraid i shall be obliged to stay, for it seems impossible to get back." "here, take this worm, my dear," said his mother, "and then mount that little bush." jack did so, and found he could fly a short distance with perfect ease; indeed, he was delighted with the exercise, and, being quite pleased with his mother's praise of his conduct in showing more courage than his brother, he thought, "there was never a happier robin than i am!" "i will leave you," said mrs. robin, "for i see your father cannot persuade dick to venture. you may practise from the bush to the ground and back until i return. there is no danger," she added, as she saw jack turn his head quickly and gaze anxiously around. "all are friends to us; even king, the great dog. and there he is now; so i will stay and introduce you to him." king came walking into the yard, and mrs. robin hopped boldly up to him, calling jack to follow her. she stopped when she was within a few feet of him, and began talking in a loud twitter, every now and then turning her bright eye round upon the young bird. "bow, wow, wow!" barked the dog, in such a loud roar that jack shook all over. but king seemed to understand that mrs. robin had asked his interest in her young fledgling, and he was quite ready to do his part. he walked a step or two forward, and then lay down to survey the new comer at his leisure. at this minute, annie came running to the door with an apron full of crumbs. her face was glowing with pleasure, and her voice was so kind and cheerful, as she called out, "birdie, birdie, pretty birdie," that jack felt acquainted at once. mrs. robin caught one crumb, swallowed it, and then, with a glance of affection at jack, returned to her duties in the tree. the little robin hopped up nearer, and began picking up the bread, ever and anon cocking his funny little head, and chirping pleasantly, as if to thank her for her care. then he returned to the bush, and flew up and down, up and down, while annie laughed, and shouted, and clapped her hands, and called him the smartest bird she ever knew. chapter iv. getting worms. "come, dick," said mrs. robin, in an encouraging tone, after she had related jack's delight at his success. "come, now, or your little sisters will learn to fly before you do." "i don't feel at all afraid," chirped katy; "now jack has learned, i know i can." "that is right, my dear," said her mother. "but come, dick, your father is getting impatient." dick reluctantly hopped up on the side of the nest. "now," said mr. robin, "i will give you one more chance to retrieve your character. spread your wings and fly away, or be content to remain in the nest without food. for i will no longer feed so disobedient and obstinate a bird." mrs. robin hopped from branch to branch uneasily, while her husband was speaking. she would not be guilty of the impropriety of interrupting him; but she feared he was making a threat his parental affection would not allow him to execute. "o, i'm sure dick will try to be as brave as his brother!" she said; "look, how he is enjoying himself, picking his fill, and chirping to the dear little girl!" "i'll chirp one, two, three," said his father, "and don't let me find you here when i'm through." dick, though very much afraid, was more than half inclined to venture. his father's threat of leaving him without food had terrified him; and then he saw jack in the enjoyment of plenty; but he could not quite make up his mind to let go of the nest. "chirp, chirp," cried his father. dick trembled, and at last ventured to hop to the next bough; and before mr. robin had repeated the last chirp, his mother went behind him and pushed him off. poor dick was awfully frightened; but before he had time to scream, he had alighted safely at the foot of the tree. "o dear!" said he, straightening himself up with a braggadocio air. "it's nothing at all. here i am, safe and sound. i can fly now as well as any bird." jack flew from the lilac bush to congratulate him on his success. "i knew you could fly, if you would only make the attempt," said he, kindly. "of course i can fly," answered dick. "i was not at all afraid. i saw you wanted to alight first, and so i held back; that was all." at this answer jack was very angry. he flew at his brother, and was just about to pick him, when he remembered his promise to his mother to strive for peace. "after all," said he, hopping away, "you are not worth quarrelling with. you are a wicked, lying bird." "it is now so late," said mr. robin to his wife, "i think we had better feed molly and katy, and eat our own breakfast, before i go to my cousin's family. when i come back, we will give our daughters their lessons." they flew away first to the garden, when mr. robin stood a moment, as was his custom, looking vacantly around. suddenly he cocked his ear on one side, made a glancing sort of dart with his head and neck, gave one or two little hops, then listened attentively, while his eye glistened with animation and intelligence. he held his beak close down to the ground, then drew back his head and hopped once or twice; then, after a moment's pause to ascertain that all was right, he began to pick with all his might, and presently pulled out a fine worm, which his keen sense of hearing informed him was not far off, and which his hops and pickings had brought to the surface to escape what the poor worm thought was his underground enemy, the mole. after having repeated this process many times, until molly and katy were satisfied, mr. and mrs. robin flew back to the yard, and alighted at the cottage door. here they found the family assembled to watch the motions of the young robins. jack had grown very friendly with annie, and had even ventured to hop up and rest on king's head. it was evident to all, that the dog was delighted with this mark of friendship, though he considered it beneath his dignity to take much notice of the little fellow. dick appeared to be not so great a favorite. fred and his sister had often watched him from the window, and had already given him the name of the greedy bird. now he acted consistently with that character, and seemed wholly occupied with the crumbs, hopping about and picking them up as fast as possible. mrs. robin tried to make an apology for him, at the same time calling him to come forward and speak to his kind friends. but dick could only stop to bow awkwardly, and then return to his food again. indeed, he much wondered how his parents and brother could wish to spend their time in talking, while there was such a feast spread out before them. "now," said mrs. robin to jack, "i must go back to your sisters--will you go with me?" "i will," answered jack. "i want to tell katy what a fine time i have had." so he turned up his head in a very arch way to annie, and after a few pretty little chirps, flew lightly into the top of the lilac bush. dick made no answer, and his mother determined to take no notice of him, but to let him return to the nest when he thought fit. she ascended to the tree, where jack alighted as soon as she did. his little heart panted with the excitement and exertion, but his mother praised him, and his sisters received him with joy. chapter v. sorrow in the nest. "i do not think," said molly, "that i shall ever learn to fly." "o, don't be afraid!" cried jack, soothingly. "we'll all help you." "i am not afraid, but i cannot get away from the nest." "why not?" asked mrs. robin, in surprise. "why not?" repeated jack and katy. "because my foot is fastened to the bottom of it," replied poor molly, in a mournful tone. her mother hopped to her side, and endeavored to remove a long piece of worsted thread, which was woven into the nest, and was now firmly twisted about molly's leg. "how long has this been done?" she asked, in an anxious tone. "i first discovered it last night," said the patient bird. "every time i tried to stir, it bound me firmer than before. i have endeavered to remove it with my beak, but i think i have only made it worse. now i fear i can never learn to fly." "dear molly," said jack, pressing his neck to hers. "i will stay in the nest with you," said the tender-hearted katy. mrs. robin said nothing, but after flying to the top of the tree to see whether her husband was in sight, she began to pull at the string; but every motion made poor molly utter a cry of pain. "i must be content to remain quietly in the nest," she faltered, in a touching tone of sadness. jack and katy began to chirp most piteously, and continued to do so until their father returned. in the mean time dick went on eating until he could scarcely move; and when he began to think it was time to return to the nest, he was so heavy and stupid that he could not raise his wings. he heard the continued chirping of his brother and sister, and said to himself, "probably they are anxious about me; but i will let them see that i can take care of myself." as he said this he tried to feel very brave, but he really longed for the pleasant nest and the shelter of his mother's wings. just then he heard the cockrel crowing right merrily. he had often heard it before; but now it sounded dreadfully loud and near at hand; and indeed it was so, for presently mr. cock came marching by, his head erect, and the comb on his foretop glowing like fire. dick ran to the lilac bush, and trying to conceal himself in some of the lower branches, trembled like a leaf in the wind. here at last he fell asleep, with his head tucked under his wing. when mr. robin returned from his labor of love, he found his wife and family in deep affliction. poor molly lay exhausted at the bottom of the nest, her limb being more firmly secured to it by the exertions of her mother to remove it. jack and katy kept up a succession of plaintive cries, while their mother hopped from one bough to another, her tail jerking and her wings flapping in distress. they all began at once to repeat the sad story of molly's detention, which mr. robin listened to with sharp cries of pain. he hopped into the nest, but the poor bird begged so earnestly not to be disturbed at present, that he postponed trying to remove the string until another day. "come, darlings," said he, "i will sing you a song, to try to cheer your spirits." he flew to the observatory at the top of the tree, and warbled forth,-- "see, the morning lights the skies; open, birdie, ope your eyes; the trees begin to blossom fair, and fling their odors on the air; and every balmy zephyr brings health and sweetness on its wings. the plants within the garden beds begin to lift their pretty heads. we, merry birds, extend our throats, and carol forth our sweetest notes. the hen, with all her little brood, comes clucking round the door for food; around the yard the pigeons fly; the stately geese, with heads so high, are marching off to swim and scream, and sport upon the glassy stream. the fields are smiling all around; you cannot hear one jarring sound; there's nothing harsh, there's nothing sad, but all seems beautiful and glad. o, how delightful all we see! and if to robins, such as we, so much of loveliness is given, how very charming must be heaven!" chapter vi. katy's flight. the next morning molly felt quite refreshed. "my foot," she said, in answer to her mother's inquiries, "feels quite free from pain. i am convinced that it is my lot to remain quietly at home; and i will try to bear it as cheerfully as i can." "dear molly," whispered her mother. "darling sister," repeated jack and katy. dick said nothing, but looked stupidly from one to the other, wondering what they could mean. he had returned to the nest late the previous evening, and had not heard of his sister's affliction. mr. robin sat on his favorite bough, gazing sadly at the poor bird. he had not yet tried to relieve her, and notwithstanding his wife's fears, indulged strong hopes of being able to remove the string without breaking the tender limb. "i cannot be really unhappy," continued molly, looking cheerfully around, "while you are all so kind. to be sure, i have longed for the time when i could fly from bough to bough, or skim through the clear air; and i have hoped, when i was old enough, to find a mate and rear a family of my own in the same sweet, peaceful happiness as our dear parents have reared us; but now i resign all these innocent joys, and find my delight in sharing yours. "come, dear katy," she added, "let me no longer detain you from your morning flight. i long to see how gracefully you will raise your pinions and soar away." "sweetest and best of sisters," murmured katy, in a loving tone, "every moment i love you better than before, and am more sorry to leave you;" and she nestled closely to molly's side. "you will soon return, dear one," said her sister, tenderly; "and remember there will always be one heart in the nest that will welcome you with joy. go now, love, and treasure up all you hear and see, to cheer me in my solitude." while this beautiful interchange of affection was taking place, mr. and mrs. robin, the delighted parents, were sitting near, their hearts every moment swelling with pleasure. "now," said the tender mother to herself, "i am well repaid for all my care and watchfulness of my beloved children; for all my share of the labor of building a nest; for the long days and nights, through cold and rain, that i have sheltered my eggs, until at last i have seen the dear ones come forth. "yes, indeed, and for the anxiety with which i have endeavored to impress virtue and affection upon their young minds. to see them growing up in the interchange of mutual affection, and to hear them give utterance to pure and noble sentiments, far exceed all the joys of my lifetime." one thought of dick, as unlike the others, intruded itself upon her mind; but she would not allow this to interrupt the delight she had experienced. very similar were the thoughts and emotions of mr. robin, but mingled with them was a plan he was forming for the benefit of his dear child. his purpose was to attract to his nest the notice of some kind friend at the cottage. if he could succeed in this, he was perfectly confident that she could be liberated. but now his attention must be given to katy, who, in obedience to her sister's wish, hopped to the side of the nest. "o, dear!" she chirped; "it seems a very long way to the ground." "it's just nothing at all," said dick, spreading his wings and flying away. "i know just how you feel," added jack; "but it is really safe, or our parents would not allow us to try it;--and only think what delightful sails we will have through the bracing air. come, dear; now we'll start." "steady, my little one," called out mr. robin. "open your wings like this. there, that is right; now let go the nest. one moment more, and you'll be safe on the ground." "bravo! pretty bird, bravo!" shouted fred, who had that moment opened the outer door. "that was well done for a beginner. come, hop up this way, and i'll give you some crumbs." "chirp, chirp, chirp," answered little katy, her bright eyes twinkling with pleasure. fred darted into the house, and presently returned with a liberal supply of food. mr. robin caught up the largest piece just as dick was hopping toward it, and ascended with it to the nest. "o, ho!" exclaimed fred, "i suppose there are more birdies in the tree." "yes," said annie, who had run to the door in her night dress, "you know we counted four little mites of robins." "o, don't let that greedy bird get all the best crumbs!" she added, as dick hopped from one piece of bread to another, catching them up as fast as he could. "just see how pretty those act," said fred, pointing to jack and katy. "yes, he stands back to give her a chance, but the greedy one cares for none but himself." chapter vii. mr. robin's appeal. when the tender parents had finished their willing task of feeding molly, they hopped forward close to the very door of the cottage, and seeing the old gentleman sitting in the room, mr. robin made bold to walk in and make known his errand. "i wonder what he is talking about, so very loud and earnest," exclaimed fred, coming in softly behind him. "i don't know; but he is very zealous about it. see how he turns first one eye, then the other, while he twitters away as if his life depended upon making us understand." suddenly robin uttered a sharp cry, and flew away toward the nest; and before they could express their surprise, he was back again, twittering as fast as ever. fred laughed aloud. "how very funny!" he cried. "what does it mean? he never did so before." "i have no doubt he is trying to tell us something; and i fear it is not pleasant news, from his mournful cry." "i wish we could understand," said the boy. "i once read of a man," said grandpa, "who, from his boyhood, had studied the language of birds, and by close attention had acquired such a knowledge of it, that from the song of the parents, he knew where the nests were situated, whether they contained eggs, or whether the brood was hatched. he knew even the number of young birds and their age, before he saw them. this is truly wonderful, and if i had not read it from the best authority, i could hardly credit it. if so, i suppose, by careful observation, we could in many cases understand their different notes, and thus learn their wants and emotions, as well as the birds themselves do. "i was once walking in a wood, and caught sight of a party of jays before they saw me. they were all chattering together and enjoying themselves highly. suddenly one of them uttered a short, deep-toned note, when in an instant all was silent,--and they skulked one by one to a neighboring thicket." "i suppose one of them caught a glimpse of you, and warned the others that you were near enough to listen to their secrets," said fred, with a hearty laugh. grandpa now took his cane and walked to the door, determined, as the appeal was made to him, to watch the motions of the robins, and try to help them if they were in trouble. but though mr. robin kept repeating his flight to the nest, and his effort to talk, nothing could be made of it; and at length the poor father seemed to despair. in the mean time, jack, katy and annie were chatting merrily together; and before this first interview closed, katy had even ventured to take a crumb from annie's mouth. this the child thought the very summit of happiness, and called loudly to her mother to come and share her delight. jack was evidently very proud of his sister; and while this was going on, hopped from one to the other, his small head cocked in a very arch manner. after a time the little ones hopped away, as they wished to fly back to the nest. katy was quite impatient to impart her success to her sister; but when she glanced up into the tree, she was almost in despair. "fly up a few times into this bough," said jack. "it is beautiful exercise." katy did so, and presently, with a beating heart, from the bush mounted to the nest. "o molly!" she cried, "if you had been with us, i should have been the happiest bird that ever lived." "how like her mother she grows!" said mr. robin to himself as he gazed lovingly upon his youngest child. "every time i picked up a crumb i thought of you," said jack--"of you alone here in the nest." "i have scarcely been alone a moment," said molly. "either father or mother has been with me, and they have treated me to a delicious feast. i shall soon become quite reconciled to my situation. but where is dick?" "he is eating, as usual," said mr. robin, in a stern voice. jack and katy now repeated the adventures of the morning, to which their sister listened with great interest. "i can't help thinking about mr. robin," said grandpa, taking his cane and walking out of doors as soon as breakfast was over. "birds have a wonderful instinct; and i have no doubt he was asking my aid about something. they will often fly to man for protection when pursued by an enemy." "i wish you would tell us a story about a bird," said annie, earnestly. the old gentleman seated himself in his chair, and after resting his chin on the top of his cane for a moment, he began: "a beautiful pair of goldfinches once built their nest on a small branch of an olive tree. the female laid the eggs and hatched the young brood, when the parents perceived that the weight of the growing family would soon be too great for the strength of the branch which supported the nest. this fact was evident to the family who lived near, and had watched with interest the proceedings of the birds. "one morning the goldfinches found their nest was giving way, and that something must be done at once, or it would fall. they consulted together, then picked up a string, and with their beaks drew it around the slender twig, and then fastened it to a stronger and higher branch of the tree. thus they saved their falling house." transcriber's note: punctuation has been standardised; spelling has been retained as in the original publication. 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. . _copyright, _, 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. scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. [illustration: book cover] the house that grew mrs molesworth the house that grew [illustration: rolf carefully deposited the little creature.--p. .] the house that grew by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'cuckoo clock,' etc. [illustration] illustrated by alice b. woodward. london macmillan and co limited new york: the macmillan company contents chap. page i. 'it's dreadful, isn't it?' ii. 'muffins, for one thing, i hope' iii. 'it's a wonderful idea, ida' iv. 'geordie stood up and waved his cap' v. 'what _can_ she mean?' vi. 'you do understand so well, mamma' vii. 'no,' said mamma, 'that isn't all' viii. 'i've brought my house with me, like a snail' ix. 'the kind sea, too, auntie dear' x. 'it's another snail' xi. 'i made sure of that,' said rolf xii. 'well--all is well that ends well!' illustrations rolf carefully deposited the little creature _front._ (_p._ ) we were walking on slowly _to face page_ no--there was nothing for it but to lie still ordering denzil about as usual we were out on the terrace, and mrs. trevor coming to meet us 'i can't very well get out,' she said she fastened the one end of the string round his poor little body chapter i 'it's dreadful, isn't it?' mamma sat quite quietly in her favourite corner, on the sofa in the drawing-room, all the time papa was speaking. i think, or i thought afterwards, that she was crying a little, though that isn't her way at all. dods didn't think so, for i asked him, when we were by ourselves. she did not speak any way, except just to whisper to me when i ran up to kiss her before we went out, 'we will have a good talk about it all afterwards, darling. run out now with geordie.' i was very glad to get out of the room, i was so dreadfully afraid of beginning to cry myself. i didn't know which i was the sorriest for--papa or mamma--mamma, i think, though i don't know, either! papa tried to be so cheerful about it; it was almost worse than if he had spoken very sadly. it reminded me of dods when he was a very little boy and broke his arm, and when they let me peep into the room just after the doctor had set it, he smiled and whistled to make out it didn't hurt much, though he was as white as white. poor old doddie! and poor papa! 'it'll be worse for us and for mamma than for papa, won't it, dods?' i said, as soon as we were outside and quite out of hearing. 'they always say that it's the worst for those that are left behind--the going-away ones have the change and bustle, you see.' 'how can i tell?' said dods; 'you ask such stupid things, ida. it's about as bad as it can be for everybody, and i don't see that it makes it any better to go on counting which it's the worst for.' he gave himself a sort of wriggle, and began switching the hedge with the little cane he was carrying; by that and the gruff tone of his voice, i could tell he was feeling very bad, so i didn't mind his being rather cross, and we walked on for a minute or two without speaking. then suddenly dods--i call him dods, but his real name is george, and mamma calls him geordie--stopped short. 'where are you going, ida?' he said. 'i hear those children hallooing over there in the little planting. they'll be down upon us in another moment, tiresome things, if we don't get out of the way, and i certainly don't want them just now.' i didn't either, though i'm very fond of them. but they're _so_ much younger, only seven and eight then, and dods and i were thirteen and fourteen. and we have always gone in pairs. dods and i, and denzil and esmé. besides, of course, the poor little things were not to be told just yet of the strange troubles and sorrows that had come, or were coming, to us. so i agreed with dods that we had better get out of the way. 'esmé is so quick,' i said; 'she'd very likely see there was something the matter, and papa did so warn us not to let them know.' 'humph,' said dods. 'i don't think we need worry about _them_. denzil is as dense as a hedgehog, and as comfortable as a fat dormouse. _he'd_ never worry as long as he has plenty to eat and a jolly warm bed to sleep in. and esmé's just a----' 'a what?' i said, rather vexed, for esmé _is_ a sweet. she's not fat or lazy, and i don't think denzil is--not extra, for such a little boy. 'she's just a sort of a butterfly,' said geordie. '_she'd_ never mind anything for long. she'd just settle down for half a moment and then fly up again as merry as a sandboy.' i could not help bursting out laughing. it was partly, i daresay, that i felt as if i must either laugh or cry. but dods did mix up his--'similes,' i think, is the right word--so funnily! hedgehogs and dormice and butterflies and sandboys, all in a breath. 'i don't see what there is to laugh at,' said geordie, very grumpily again, though he had been getting a little brighter. 'no more do i, i'm sure,' i replied, sadly enough, and then, i think, dods felt sorry. 'where shall we go?' he said gently. 'wherever you like--to the hut, i think. it is always nice there, and we can lock ourselves in if we hear the children coming,' i answered. the hut, as we called it, was our very most favourite place. it was much more than you would fancy from the name, as you will hear before long. but we did not wait to go on talking, till we got there. the children's voices did not come any nearer, but died away in the distance, so we walked on quietly, without hurrying. 'ida,' said geordie after a bit, 'it's dreadful, isn't it?' 'yes,' i agreed; 'i think it is.' the 'it' was the news poor papa had been telling us. we were not quite like most other children, i think, in some ways. i think we--that is, dods and i--were rather more thoughtful, though that sounds like praising ourselves, which i am sure i don't mean. but papa and mamma had always had us a good deal with them and treated us almost like companions, and up to now, though he was getting on for thirteen, dods had never been away at school, only going to kirke, the little town near us, for some lessons with the vicar, and doing some with me and our governess, who came over from kirke every day. so papa had told us what had to be told, almost as if we were grown-up people. we did not understand it quite exactly, for it had to do with business things, which generally mean 'money' things, it seems to me, and which, even now, though i am sixteen past, i don't perfectly understand. and i daresay i shall not explain it all as well as a quite grown-up person would. but i don't think that will matter. this story is just a real account of something rather out of the common, and i am writing it partly as a kind of practice, for i do hope i shall be able to write stories in books some day, and partly because i think it is interesting even if it never gets into a book, and i should like denzil and esmé to read it all over, for fear of their forgetting about it. i must first tell what the news was that we had just heard. poor papa had lost a lot of money! we were not very rich, but we had had quite enough, and our home was--and _is_, i am thankful to say--the sweetest, nicest home in the world. our grandfathers and great-grandfathers back to papa's great-great ones have always lived here and seen to everything themselves, which makes a home nicer than anything else. but a good deal of _papa's_ money came from property a long, long way off--somewhere in the west indies. it had been left to _his_ father by his godmother, and ever since i was quite little i remember hearing papa say what a good thing it was to have some money besides what came from our own property at home. for, as everybody knows, land in england--especially, i think, in our part of it--does not give half as much as it used to, from rents and those sorts of things. and we got into the way--i mean by 'we,' papa and mamma, and grandpapa, no doubt, in his time--of thinking of the west indian money as something quite safe and certain, that could not ever 'go down' like other things. but there came a day, not very long before the one i am writing about, which brought sudden and very bad news. things had gone wrong, dreadfully wrong out at that place--saint silvio's--and it was quite possible that _all_ our money from there would stop for good. the horrid part of it was, that it all came from somebody's wrongdoing--not from earthquakes or hurricanes or outside troubles of that kind--but from real dishonesty on the part of the agents papa had trusted. there was nothing for it but for poor papa himself to go out there, for a year at least, perhaps for two years, to find out everything and see what could be done. there was a _possibility_, papa said, of things coming right, or partly right again, once he was there and able to go into it all himself. but to do this it was necessary that he should start as soon as could be managed; and with the great doubt of our _ever_ being at all well off again, it was also necessary that mamma and we four should be very, very careful about expenses at home, and just spend as little as we could. a piece of good fortune had happened in the middle of all this; at least _papa_ called it good fortune, though i am afraid george and i did not feel as if it was good at all! papa had had an offer from some people to take our house--our own dear eastercove--for a year, or perhaps more. we had often been asked to let it, for it is so beautifully placed--close to the sea, and yet with lovely woods and grounds all round it, which is very uncommon at the sea-side. our pine woods are almost famous, and there are nooks and dells and glens and cliffs that i could not describe if i tried ever so hard, so deliciously pretty and picturesque are they. but till now we had never dreamt of letting it. indeed, we used to feel quite angry, which was rather silly, i daresay, if ever we heard of any offer being made for it. and now the offer that had come was a very good one; it was not only more money than had ever been proposed before, but it came from very nice sort of people, whom the agent knew were quite to be trusted in every way. 'they will take good care of the house and of all our things,' said papa, 'and keep on any of the servants who like to stay.' 'shall we not have _any_ servants then?' dods had asked. 'do you mean that mamma--mamma and ida and the little ones--i don't mind for myself, i'm a boy; i'll go to sea as a common sailor if it would be any good--but do you mean, that we shall be like _really_ poor people?' and here there came a choke in his voice that made me feel as if i could _scarcely_ keep from crying. for i knew what he was thinking of--the idea of mamma, our pretty mamma, with her merry laugh and nice dresses, and soft, white hands, having to work and even scrub perhaps, and to give up all the things and ways she was used to--it was too dreadful! papa looked sorry and went on again quietly-- 'no, no, my boy,' he said; 'don't exaggerate it. of course mamma and you all must have every comfort possible. one servant, anyway--hoskins is sure to stay, and a younger one as well, i _hope_. and there must be no thought of your going to sea, george, or going anywhere, till i come back again. i look to you to take care of them all--that is why i am explaining more to you and ida than many people would to such young ones. but i know you are both very sensible for your age. you see, we are sure of the new rent, thanks to this mr. trevor's offer--and even _that_ would prevent us from being in a desperate position. and, of course, the usual money will go on coming in from the property, though the most of it must go in keeping things in order, in case----' but here papa broke off. 'i know what you were going to say, papa,' said poor dods, growing scarlet; he was certainly very quick-witted,--"in case we have to sell eastercove!" oh, papa! anything but that! i'll work--i'll do _anything_ to make money, so long as we don't have to do that. our old, old home!' he could not say any more, and turned away his head. 'it has not come to that yet, my boy,' said papa, after a moment or two's silence. 'let us keep up heart in the meantime, and hope for the best.' then he went on to tell us some of the plans he and mamma had already begun to make--about our going to live in some little house at kirke, where we should not feel so strange as farther away, though there were objections to this too,--anything at all _nice_ in the shape of even a tiny house there would be dear, as the neighbourhood was much sought after by visitors in winter as well as in summer. for it was considered so very healthy for delicate people; the air was always clear and dry, and the scent of the pine woods so strengthening. papa, however, was doing his best; he and mamma were going there that very afternoon, 'to spy the land,' papa said, trying to speak cheerily. so now i come back to where i began my explanation as to what the 'it' was, that geordie and i agreed was so dreadful. [illustration: we were walking on slowly.] we were walking on slowly to the hut, and just as i had replied, 'i think it is,' we came in sight of it, and something--i don't know what--made us both stop and look at this favourite spot of ours. it was so pretty to-day--perhaps that was it. a sudden clearing brought us out of the wood, through which we had been following a well-worn, narrow path, and the bright, soft light of the early afternoon--of an april afternoon--was falling on the quaint little place. it was more like two or three huts than one, and indeed it really did consist of three or four rooms, which we children had been allowed to consider our own quarters, and to decorate and improve according to our fancy and taste. to begin with, it had been a bathing-house, of two rooms, partly of stone, partly of wood, standing on a little plateau, just at the edge of the pine trees, and well above the sea, so that even in stormy weather the water could not possibly reach it; besides which, i must say that stormy weather in the shape of high tides or great waves never did show itself in this cove. often and often we had sat there, listening to the boom and crash at the foot of the cliffs, round at the other side, as snug and peaceful as if we had been miles inland. and the sands that sloped down from our hut were just perfection, both as to prettiness and niceness for bathing. they shone to-day like gold and silver mixed in the sunshine; and the hut itself, though queerly shaped, looked pretty too. we had managed, in spite of the sandy soil, to get some hardy creepers to grow over it on the inland side, and we had sunk some old tubs filled with good soil in front of the porch--for there was a porch--in which flourished some nice, bushy evergreens, and there was even a tiny terrace with long flower-boxes, where, for six months of the year at least, geraniums and fuchsias, and for part of the time, nice, big, white and yellow and straw-coloured daisies seemed quite at home. it was a _lovely_ place for children to have of their own; and the year before, papa had added two other rooms to it, for our photographing--_iron_ rooms, these were, and not at all ugly, though that would not have mattered much, as they were at the back, beside the little kitchen, where we were allowed to cook our luncheons and teas when we were spending a whole day on the shore. 'dods!' i exclaimed, as we stood there in silence, admiring our mansion, 'we must see about the flowers for the long boxes. it's getting quite time, for bush has settled all about the bedding-out plants--he told me so yesterday--so he'll be able to tell us what he has to spare.' i spoke in utter forgetfulness--but it only lasted a moment--only, that is to say, till i caught the expression of geordie's mournful blue eyes--he _can_ make them look so mournful when he likes--fixed upon me in silent reproach. 'ida,' he said at last, 'what are you thinking of? _what's the use?_' 'oh, dods! oh, dear, dear doddie!' i cried--i don't think i quite knew what i was saying,--'forgive me. oh, how silly and unfeeling i seem! _oh_, doddie!' and then--i am not now ashamed to tell it, for i really had been keeping it in at the cost of a good deal of forcing myself--i just left off trying to be brave or self-controlled or anything, and burst out crying--regular loud crying. i am afraid i almost howled. george looked at me once more, then for a minute or so he turned away. i am not sure if he was crying, anyway he wasn't _howling_. but in an instant or two, while i was rubbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, and feeling rather, or very ashamed, i felt something come round my neck, crushing it up so tightly that i was almost choked, and then doddie's voice in my ear, very gruff, very gruff indeed of course, saying-- 'poor ida, poor old ida! i know it's quite as bad or worse for you. for a _man_ can always go out into the world and fight his way, and have some fun however hard he works.' 'that wouldn't make it any better for _me_, dods,' i said--we both forgot, i think, that he was a good way off being a man just yet,--'you're my only comfort. i don't mean that mamma isn't one, of course; but it's our business now to cheer her up. papa said so ever so many times. i don't really know, though, how i _could_ have cheered her up, or even tried to, if you had been away at school already!' poor george's face darkened at this. it was rather an unlucky speech. he had thought of things already that had never come into my head. one was that it seemed unlikely enough now that papa would ever be able to send him to school at all--i mean, of course, to the big public school, for which his name had been down for ever so long, and on which, like all english boys, his heart was set. for he knew how expensive all public schools are. 'don't talk of school, ida,' he said huskily. 'luckily it's a good year off still,' for it had never been intended that he should go till he was fourteen; 'and,' with a deep sigh, 'we must keep on hoping, i suppose.' 'yes, and working,' i added. 'whatever happens, dods, you must work well, and i'll do my best to help you. mightn't you perhaps gain a scholarship, or whatever you call them, that would make school cost less?' this remark was as lucky as the other had been unfortunate. dods brightened up at once. 'by jove,' he said, 'what a good idea! i never thought of it. i'll tell you what, ida; i'll ask mr. lloyd about it the very first time i see him--that'll be the day after to-morrow, as to-morrow's sunday.' mr. lloyd was the vicar of kirke. i felt quite proud of having thought of something to cheer geordie up, and my tears stopped, and by the time we had got to the hut, we were both in much better spirits. 'it is to be hoped,' i said, 'that papa and mamma _will_ find some kind of a house at kirke, however poky. for you would be very sorry not to go on with mr. lloyd--wouldn't you, dods?' 'of course i should,' he replied heartily. 'he's very kind and very strict. and if i mean to work harder than ever before, as i do now, since you put that jolly idea into my head, it's a good thing he _is_ strict.' when we got to the hut and unlocked the door, we found a good deal to do. for on saturdays we generally--we _meant_ to do it regularly, but i am afraid we sometimes forgot--had a sort of cleaning and tidying up. photographing is very nice and interesting of course, and so is cooking, but they are rather messy! and when you've been doing one or the other nearly all day, it's rather disgusting to have to begin washing up greasy dishes, and chemicalised rags and glasses, and pots and pans, and all the rest of it. i don't mean that we ever cleaned up the photographing things with the kitchen things; we weren't so silly, as, of course, we should not only have spoilt our instruments, but run a good risk of poisoning ourselves too. but the whole lot needed cleaning, and i don't know which were the tiresomest. and the last day we had spent at the hut, we had only half-tidied up, we had got _so_ tired. so there were all the things about, as if they'd been having a dance in the night, like hans andersen's toys, and had forgotten to put themselves to bed after it. dods and i looked at each other rather grimly. 'it's got to be done,' i said. 'it's a shame to see the place so bright and sunny outside and so _dreadfully_ messy indoors.' 'yes,' said dods, 'it is. so fire away, ida. after all----' but he didn't finish his sentence and didn't need to. i knew what he meant--that quite possibly it was the very last time we'd need to have a good cleaning up in the dear old hut. chapter ii 'muffins, for one thing, i hope' the first thing we had to do was really to 'fire away.' that is to say, to light a fire, for of course nothing in the way of washing up or cleaning can be done without hot water, and you cannot get hot water without fire of some kind. but that part of our work we did not dislike at all. we had grown quite clever at making fires and getting them to burn up quickly in the little stove, and we had always, or nearly always, a nice store of beautifully dry wood that we picked up ourselves. and though the hut was so near the sea, it was wonderfully dry. we could leave things there for weeks, without their becoming musty or mouldy. and as the fire crackled up brightly, and after a bit we got the kettle on and it began to sing, our spirits began to rise again a little, to keep it company. 'after all,' i said, 'there really is a good strong _likelihood_ that things won't turn out so badly. papa is very clever, and once he is out there himself, he will find out everything, and perhaps get them put straight once for all. it wouldn't so much matter our having less money than we have had till now, if all the muddle and cheating was cleared up.' 'no, it wouldn't,' geordie agreed, 'and of course it's best to be hopeful. so long as there's no talk of our selling eastercove, ida, i don't feel as if i minded anything.' 'and the great thing is to cheer up poor mamma while papa's away,' i said, 'and not to seem dull or miserable at having to live differently and go without things we've always been used to have. i don't think i shall mind that part of it so _very_ much, dods--shall you?' dods sighed. 'i don't know; i hope not for myself--of course what matters to _me_ is the perhaps not going to a big school. but you have cheered me up about that, ida. i shall hate you and mamma not having a carriage and nice servants and all that, though we must go on hoping it will only be for a bit.' 'and i _do_ hope we can stay on near here,' i said, 'so that at least we can feel that home is close-to. i would rather have ever so little a house at kirke than a much better one farther off--except that, well, i must say i shouldn't like it to be one of those dreadfully stuffy-looking little ones in rows in a street!' 'i'm afraid that's just what it is likely to be,' said dods. 'it will be pretty horrid; there's no use trying to pretend it won't be. but, ida, we're not working at all. we must get on, for papa and mamma will like to find us at home when they come in.' 'especially as to-morrow's sunday,' i added; 'and very likely, if it's as fine as to-day, we may all come down here to tea in the afternoon,' for that was a favourite habit of ours. we children used to consider that we were the hosts on these occasions, and papa and mamma our visitors. so we set to work with a will, without grumbling at the rather big collection of things there were to wash up, and the amount of sweeping and brushing to do. to begin with, we knew we had ourselves to thank for it, as we had left things in a very untidy way the last day we had spent at the hut. then too, even though only an hour or so had passed since we had heard the bad news, i think we had suddenly grown older. i have never felt thoroughly a child again since that morning. for the first time it seemed to come really home to me that life has a serious side to it, and i think--indeed i know--that george felt the same. i don't mean that we were made sad or unhappy, for i don't count that we had ever been very thoughtless children, but we both began to feel that there were certain things we could do, and should do, that no one else could do as well. i think it must be what people call the sense of 'responsibility,' and in some ways it is rather a nice feeling. it makes one feel stronger and braver, and yet more humble too, though that sounds contradictory, for there comes with it a great anxiety to prove worthy of the trust placed in one to do one's best. and just now it was very specially a case of being trusted. papa said he would go away happier, or at least less unhappy, for knowing that he left two 'big' children to take care of mamma, and though i cannot quite explain how, the feeling left by his words had begun to influence us already. we even were extra anxious to do our tidying very well and quickly, as we knew it would please mamma to see we were keeping the promises we had made when she first persuaded papa to let us have the hut for our own, and got it all made nice for us. and by four o'clock or so it did look very nice--i never saw it neater, and we felt we might rest for a few minutes. we had put everything ready for sunday afternoon's tea-party--everything that could be ready, i mean. the cups and saucers and fat brown tea-pot were arranged on the round table of the room we counted our parlour; it was in front of the kitchen, looking towards the sea, and here we did the unmessy part of the photographing, and kept any little ornaments or pictures we had. of the other two rooms one was the 'chemical room,' as we called it, and in a cupboard out of it we hung up our bathing-clothes, and the _fourth_ room, which had originally been the front bathing-house, so to say, or dressing-room, was now a bedroom, all except the bed. that does sound very 'irish,' does it not? but what i mean is that it was furnished simply as a bedroom usually is--only that there was no bed. we had often begged to be allowed to spend a night in the hut, for there was an old sofa that geordie could have slept on quite comfortably in the parlour, or even in the kitchen, and we had saved pocket-money enough to buy a camp bedstead, for which mamma had two or three mattresses and pillows and things like that among the spare ones up in the long garret. but so far we had never got leave to carry our picnicking quite so far. papa would not have minded, for of all things he wanted us to be 'plucky,' and did not even object to my being something of a tomboy; but mamma said she would certainly not sleep all night if she knew we were alone in the hut, and perhaps frightened, or ill, or something wrong with us. so _that_ plan had been put a stop to. 'i wonder what hoskins will give us in the shape of cakes for to-morrow,' i said. 'there is enough tea and sugar for two or three more afternoons'--'more than we shall want,' i added to myself with an inside sigh. hoskins was a sort of half-nurse, half-housekeeper person. she had not been with us _very_ long, only since esmé was born--but she really was very good and dear, and i know she cared for us in a particular way, for her father had been gardener for ages, though ages ago now, as she herself was pretty old, at eastercove. and she wasn't cross, like so many old servants both in books and real life--rather the other way--too "spoiling" of us. she had only one fault. she was a little deaf. 'muffins, for one thing, i hope,' said dods. 'they don't leave off making them till may, and it isn't may yet.' there was a baker in the village--i think i have forgotten to say that there was a very tiny village called eastercove, close to our gates--who was famed for his muffins. 'humph,' i said. 'i don't very much care about them. they are such a bother with toasting and buttering. i think bread and butter--thin and rolled--is quite as good, and some nice cakes and a big one of that kind of gingerbread that you hardly taste the ginger in, and that's like toffee at the top.' i was beginning to feel hungry, for we had not eaten much luncheon, which was our early dinner, and i think that made me talk rather greedily. 'you are a regular epicure about cakes,' said dods. i did not like his calling me that, and i felt my face get red, and i was just going to answer him crossly when i remembered about our great trouble, and thought immediately to myself how silly it would be to squabble about tiny things in a babyish way now. so i answered quietly-- 'well, you see, it is only polite to think of what other people like, if you invite them to tea, and i know papa likes that kind of gingerbread. he ate such a big piece one day that mamma called him a greedy boy.' geordie did not say anything, but i always know when he is sorry for teasing me, and i could see that he was just now. then we locked up and set off home again. as we came out of the pine woods and in sight of the drive we saw the pony carriage, and we ran on, so as to be at the front door when papa and mamma got there. they smiled at us very kindly, and papa said in what he meant to be a cheery voice-- 'well, young people, what have you been about? run in, ida, and hurry up tea. mamma is tired.' yes, poor mamma did look dreadfully tired, and through the outside cheeriness of papa's words and manner i could see that he was feeling very sad and dull. i hurried in, and we were soon all at tea in the pretty drawing-room. george and i did not always have tea downstairs, but to-day somehow there seemed no question of our not doing so. i waited till mamma had had some tea and was looking a little less white and done up, and then i said half-frightenedly-- 'did you see any nice little house at kirke?' though in my heart i felt sure they hadn't, or they would not have come back, looking so disappointed. mamma shook her head. 'i am afraid, dearie,' she began, but papa interrupted her-- 'no,' he said decidedly, 'we saw nothing the least possible to call "nice," except one or two places far and away too dear. and of course we knew already that there are plenty of nice houses to be got, if expense had not to be considered so closely. there is no good beating about the bush with george and ida,' he went on, turning to mamma. 'now that we have so thoroughly taken them into our confidence it is best to tell them everything. and the truth is,' he continued, leaning back in his chair with a rather rueful smile, 'i am really feeling almost in despair. i am afraid we shall have to give up the idea of staying at kirke.' 'yet there are so many advantages about it,' said mamma quickly. 'and there is, after all, that tiny house in the western road.' 'horrid poky little hole,' said papa. 'i cannot bear to think of you in it. i would almost rather you went about in a caravan like the gypsies we passed on the road.' 'yes,' i agreed, '_i_ wouldn't mind that at all--not in summer, at least.' 'ah, but unluckily, my dear child, "it is not always may,"' he replied, though i was pleased to see he held out his cup for some more tea (i have found out that things do seem much worse when one is tired or hungry!) and that his voice sounded more like itself. 'and it isn't always winter either,' said mamma cheerfully. 'let us be as happy as we can while we are together, and enjoy this nice spring weather. i _am_ glad, if sad things had to happen, that they did not come to us in november or december. perhaps mr. lloyd will find some nicer house for us.' 'does he know about--about our having to leave eastercove?' i asked. mamma nodded. 'yes,' she replied. 'we stopped there on our way back, and papa went in and told him.' i felt glad of that. it would prepare him for dods's anxiety about a scholarship. 'by the bye,' mamma continued, 'how fast they are getting on with the new parish room! i was looking at it while i was waiting for you, jack' (that's papa), 'and it seems really finished. are they not beginning to take away the iron room already?' 'lloyd says it is to be sold here, or returned to the makers for what they will give, next week,' papa replied. 'it has served its purpose very well indeed these two or three years. if----' 'if what?' said mamma. poor papa shrugged his shoulders. 'oh, it's no good thinking of it now,' he answered. 'i was only going to say--forgetting--that if geordie and ida liked i might buy it and add it on to the hut. it would make into two capital little bedrooms for very little cost, and lloyd happened to say to-day that the makers would rather sell it for less where it stands than have the expense of taking it back to london. they keep improving these things; it is probably considered old-fashioned already.' geordie and i looked at each other. how lovely it would have been! just what we had always longed for--to be allowed really to _live_ at the hut now and then. and with two more rooms we could have had hoskins with us, and then mamma wouldn't have been nervous about it. but as papa said, there was no use in thinking about it _now_. 'will the people who are coming to live here have the hut too?' i asked. papa did not seem to pay much attention to what i said. he was thinking deeply, and almost started as i turned to him with the question. 'i do not know,' he replied. 'it has not been alluded to.' 'i hope not,' said mamma. 'if we stay at kirke, as i still trust we may, it would be nice to come up there to spend an afternoon now and then. it is so far from the house that we would not seem like intruders. though, of course, once they see how nice it is, they may want to have it as a bathing-box.' 'that's not very likely,' said papa. 'they seem elderly people, and the son is a great sufferer from rheumatism. that is why they have taken such a fancy to this place--the scent of pine woods and the air about them are considered so good for illnesses of that kind. and sea-air suits him too, and they think it a wonderful chance to have all this as well as a dry climate and fairly mild winters. yes--we who live here _are_ uncommonly lucky.' he strolled to the window as he spoke and stood looking out without speaking. then he turned again. 'i'll remember about the hut,' he said. 'i don't fancy these good people would be likely to be fussy or ill-natured or to think you intruding. their letters are so well-bred and considerate.' we felt glad to hear that. 'mamma,' i said, 'we have made the hut so nice and tidy for to-morrow--sunday, you know. you and papa will come and have tea there, won't you? it will be the first time this year' (and 'the last perhaps' seemed whispered into my mind, though i did not utter the words), for the spring-coming had been uncertain and we had all had colds. mamma looked at papa. 'yes,' he said; 'certainly we will. and the little ones too, ida?' 'of course,' i said, and then i went off to talk about cakes--and muffins if possible, to please dods--to hoskins, the result of the interview proving very satisfactory. when i came back to the drawing-room the little ones were there--denzil, solemn as usual; esmé hopping and skipping about and chattering thirteen to the dozen, as usual, too! she is three or four years older now, and beginning to 'sober down,' as they say, so i hope if she ever reads this, which certainly will not be for three or four or more years from now, she will have gone on sobering down, enough to understand what a 'flibbertigibbet' (that is a word of hoskins's which i think very expressive) she was, and not to be hurt at my description of her. for i do love her dearly, and i always have loved her dearly, and i should be sorry for her ever to lose her good spirits, though it is already a comfort that she _sometimes_ sits still now, and listens to what is said to her. all the same, that part of our lives which i am writing this story about, would have been much duller and harder but for our butterfly's funny, merry ways. this afternoon she was especially laughing and mischievous, and it made me feel a little cross. i was tired, i daresay, with all the work we had been doing, _and_ the sadness that had come upon us so suddenly, and i did want to be quiet and talk sensibly. it was a little papa's fault too, i must say. he is sometimes rather like a boy still, though he has four big children. he hates being unhappy! i don't think he would mind my saying so of him, and he got mischievous and teased esmé, to make her say funny things, as she often does. and i suppose i looked rather too grave, for, after a little, mamma whispered to me-- 'ida, dear, don't look so dreadfully unhappy; you almost make me wish we had not told you anything till we were obliged to do so.' 'i don't look worse than geordie,' i replied, in a whisper too, 'or--or,' as i happened just then to catch sight of my younger brother's face, 'than denzil.' at this mamma did burst out laughing--a real merry laugh, which, in spite of my crossness, i was pleased to hear. 'my dear!' she exclaimed, 'who has ever seen denzil anything but solemn! and as he knows nothing, it has certainly not to do with what _we_ are all thinking about. he was the solemnest _baby_ even that ever was seen, though many babies are solemn. i used to feel quite ashamed of my frivolity when denny was only a couple of months old. and--no, poor old geordie is trying to cheer up, so you must too.' yes, it was true. geordie was laughing and playing with esmé and papa, though i know his heart was quite as heavy as mine. geordie is very particularly good in some ways. so i resolved to choke down, or at least to hide, my sadness--and still more the sort of crossness i had been feeling. it was not exactly real ill-tempered crossness, but the kind of hating being unhappy and thinking that other people are unhappy too, which comes with troubles when one isn't used to them especially, and isn't patient and unselfish, though one wants to be. however, i managed to look more amiable after mamma's little warning--still more, i think, after her hearty laugh. her laughing always seems to drive away crossness and gloominess; it is so pretty and bright, and so real. and i was helped too by another thing, though as yet it had scarcely taken shape in my mind, or even in my fancy. but it was there all the same, fluttering about somewhere, as if waiting for me to catch hold of it and make something of it. just yet i did not give myself time to think it out. all i felt was a sort of presentiment that somewhere or somehow there was a way out of our troubles, or rather out of one part of them, and that i was going to find it before long. and i am quite sure that sometimes the thinking a thing out is more than half done by our brains before we know it--much in the same way that we--dods and i--are quite sure that putting a lesson-book under your pillow at night helps you to know what you have to learn out of it by the next morning. lots of children believe this, though none of us can explain it, and we don't like to speak of it for fear of being laughed at. but i don't mind writing about it, as i shall not hear if people do laugh at it or not. anyway it _did_ happen to me this time, that _something_ worked the cobweb ideas that were beginning to float about in my brain into a real touchable or speakable plan, before the 'awake' side of it--of my brain, i mean--knew that anything of the kind was there. i will try to tell quite exactly how this came about. but first i must say that i don't think george was feeling so _very_ bad after all, for the last thing he said to me that evening as we went up to bed was, 'i do hope hoskins has managed to get some muffins for to-morrow.' chapter iii 'it's a wonderful idea, ida' i remember that i fell asleep very quickly that night. of course, like most children when they are well, i generally did. but that night it would not have been very surprising if i had kept awake and even got into a tossing-about, fidgety state, just from thinking about the strange, sudden trouble and change that were coming into our lives. on the contrary, i seemed to drop straight down into unconsciousness almost as soon as my head touched the pillow, and i must have slept several hours straight off without even dreaming, or at least dreaming anything that i could remember. for when i awoke the dawn was creeping in, and though i felt too lazy and comfortable to get up to look out, i knew that sunrise could not be far off. it was that time of early morning when one almost fancies that sun and moon stop a moment or two to say a word to each other on their way, though of course i know enough astronomy now to understand that those fancies _are_ only fancies. and yet there is a kind of truth in them, for the sun and moon, and the stars too, _have_ to do with all of us people living on this earth; indeed, we owe everything to the sun; and so it is not altogether fancy to think of him, great big kind thing that he is, as a wonderful friend, and of the little gentle moon as taking his place, as it were, when he is at work on the other side. and the curious, mingled sort of light in the room, faint and dreamy, though clear too, made me think to myself, 'the sun is saying, "how do you do?" and the moon, "good-bye."' but i soon shut my drowsy eyes again, though not to fall asleep again at once. on the contrary, i grew awaker and awaker, as i began to feel that my mind or memory or brain--i don't know which to call it--had something to tell me. what was it? i seemed almost to be listening. and gradually it came to me--the knowledge of the idea that had been working itself out during my sleep from the thoughts that had been there jumbled up together the day before. and when i got clear hold of what it was, i nearly called out, i felt so struck and startled at first, just as if some one had said it to me, though with astonishing quickness it spread itself out before me as a really possible and even sensible plan, with nothing dreamy or fanciful about it. it was this. 'why should not we all--mamma, that is to say, and we four children--why should we not live altogether at the hut during the year, or more perhaps, that papa would have to be away?' it may seem to those who read this story--if ever there are readers of it--a wild idea that had thus come to me. but 'the proof of the pudding is in the eating,' as hoskins is fond of saying. so please wait a little before you judge. and no sooner had the idea got into words than all the bits of it began to place themselves in order like the pieces of a dissected puzzle-map, or, still better, like the many-coloured skeins of silk in the pretty fairy story where the touch of the wand made them all arrange themselves. still more--no sooner had the first vague thoughts settled down than others came to join them, each finding its own corner in the building that i began to see was not a castle in the air but a good solid piece of work. it would be so healthy and airy, and yet not damp; nor, with proper care, need it be very cold, even in winter. it would be near enough to kirke for geordie to go on with his lessons with mr. lloyd, and for us to feel we had old friends close at hand, who would understand all about us, and very likely be kinder than ever. it would be near enough to home--dear eastercove--indeed, it would be eastercove--for us to take lots of furniture and things from the house to furnish as much more as was needed and to make it comfortable and even pretty, without emptying eastercove house at all. there was, as i have said, such a lot of stored-away extra furniture and old carpets and curtains and blankets and all sorts of things up in the great attic, and hoskins kept them all so nice and tidy, and without moths or mildew or horrible things like that, that it was quite a pleasure to go up there sometimes. it was like a very neat shop for second-hand things, which is more than can be said for most box-rooms or lumber-rooms, i fancy. and the moving these things would be no expense, and there would be no travelling expenses for any of us, and--the last idea that came into my head was the best of all. the old parish room! the iron room that mr. lloyd had told papa about the afternoon before! they wanted to get rid of it and would sell it for almost nothing. even if 'almost nothing' meant--i could not guess how much or how little--a few pounds, perhaps--it would be far, far less than the rent of a house, however small, and it would make into two or even three little rooms, easily. perhaps it would be enough just to divide it by screens or curtains, perhaps---- oh, the 'perhapses' that came crowding into my head when i had thought of the old parish room! i could scarcely lie still another minute--i felt in such a desperate hurry to tell geordie of the wonderful thought that had come to me. but it was still far from getting-up time; i knew it would be very selfish and unkind to wake up poor old dods in what would seem to him the middle of the night, for he was a very sound sleeper, and had hard enough work to get his eyes properly open by seven o'clock. [illustration: no--there was nothing for it but to lie still.] no--there was nothing for it but to lie still and be as patient as i could. it would be interesting to watch the light growing stronger and changing; it was already doing so in a curious way, as the cold, thin moonshine gave place to the sun, even then warmer somehow in its tone than the fullest moon-rays ever are. 'yes,' i thought, 'they have met and passed each other by now, i should think. i wonder--if----' strange to say, i cannot finish the sentence, for i don't know _what_ i was going to wonder! in spite of all my eagerness and excitement i knew nothing more, till--the usual summons, in hoskins's voice-- 'miss ida, my dear, it's the quarter-past. you were sleeping soundly--i could scarcely find it in my heart to awake you. but it's sunday morning, and you know it doesn't do to be late--and a beautiful spring morning too as ever was seen.' i could scarcely believe my ears. 'oh, hoskins!' i exclaimed, 'i _am_ sleepy. i was awake a good bit quite early, and i had no idea i had gone off again. i was _so_ awake, thinking.' the talking thoroughly roused me, and almost at once all the 'thinking' came back to me, so that by the time i was dressed, even though sunday morning dressing needed a little more care and attention than every day's, i had got it all clear and compact and ready, as it were, for geordie's cool inspection. to my great satisfaction he had had a good fit that morning of getting up promptly and being down the first after me, instead of, as often happened, the last after everybody. 'geordie,' i exclaimed, when i caught sight of him standing at the dining-room window, staring out--or perhaps i should say' gazing,' for staring is an ugly word, and the garden that morning was looking so particularly pretty--'geordie, i am just bursting to talk to you. is it any use beginning before papa and mamma come down, do you think?' geordie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'yes,' he said; 'we have five minutes, or ten perhaps. is it anything particular?' 'of course it is,' i replied, 'or i wouldn't say i was bursting to tell it you. and i think and hope it is something that will please you very much. you are to listen well and not interrupt me and say "nonsense," before you have taken it into your mind and thought it over.' i saw he already was looking interested, and i was glad of it. his face had been so sad when he first turned at the sound of my voice, and i well knew why. i can almost always understand geordie and very often guess what he is thinking of. he has such dear blue eyes, but they are the kind that can look very melancholy sometimes. i do hope he will have a happy life when he grows up--i am pretty sure he will deserve it. even now that he has been a good long while at school--big public school, i mean--he is just the same to me as ever. when he comes home for the holidays it seems as if he had never been away. 'i won't interrupt you--or say "nonsense," if i can help it,' he answered, with a little fun in his voice and smile coming in his eyes. then i told him. i need not repeat all i said, as i have written a lot of it already. but it must have been rather hard for geordie not to interrupt me. it all bubbled out so fast--all the splendid ideas and good reasons and perhapses--one on the top of the other, so that if he hadn't been pretty well accustomed to my ways he could scarcely have understood. it was quite interesting and exciting, as i went on, to watch the expression in his face--his cheeks grew pink, then crimson, and his eyes brighter and brighter. i soon saw i was not going to be snubbed. but real want of breath, and then the sound of mamma's skirts coming across the hall with a pretty soft rustle--i don't think any one else's skirts move so nicely; they seem to match her, not like that noisy flustering that is like saying, 'here i am; i expect to be attended to'--made me stop at last. there was only time for george to whisper-- 'it's a wonderful idea, ida. i'll think a lot and then we'll talk about it, by ourselves, first, of course.' 'we mustn't think about it in church,' i replied in the same tone; 'we must _try_, i suppose, dods, not to think of it in church--part of the time, at least. i don't see that it would matter so much during the first lesson, and _perhaps_ one of the psalms, if they are very long ones.' 'no--o, perhaps not,' he said, and then we both ran forward to kiss mamma. she looked at us, and i saw her face brighten when she saw that ours were not very sad or dull. i think she had been afraid that in his wish to help _her_, papa had put too much of the burden on us two, considering how young we were then. 'my darlings!' she said, in a rather low voice, 'my own brave boy and girl,' and i am almost sure the tears came into her eyes. but the smiles came too. 'what a lovely day it is going to be!' she went on, as she glanced out of the window. 'i am so glad. we must put cares aside as much as we can and try to be happy and hopeful.' 'yes, dear mamma,' i answered cheerfully, and with all the delightful exciting ideas in my head, it was quite easy to be bright, as you can understand, 'yes, we _are_ going to have a nice day. geordie and i'--i glanced at him; he had not exactly said so, but i knew he would not mind,--'geordie and i want to go down to the hut very soon after luncheon, if you say we may, to get it all ready for you and papa and the little ones, to come to tea.' 'all right,' said mamma, though i saw a tiny shadow cross her face as i spoke, and i knew she was thinking to herself that very likely it would be our last sunday afternoon tea-party for a very long time, perhaps for ever, as far as the hut was concerned! but these solemn kinds of 'perhapses' are always in our lives, and if we were always thinking of them, it would be more than our minds and hearts could bear. we should not _forget_ them, but i am sure we are not meant to be gloomy about them. still, at the best, even if my grand plan was carried out, there was plenty to be sad about, i knew. poor papa's going so far away, first and worst of all, and worst of course for mamma, for though we loved him dearly, she must love him, i suppose, still more. he came into the room just as these thoughts were flying about my brain. i thought he looked more tired and troubled than mamma--men are not so patient and not always so good at hiding their feelings as _some_ women. at least _i_ think so! we two, however, were really feeling cheerful, and i think our brightness made it easier for mamma to be, at least, less sad than she would otherwise have been. and i said to myself-- 'papa will cheer up too _if_ he likes our idea, and i really can't see why he should not like it.' so breakfast got on pretty well on the whole, and as soon as it was over, dods and i went off for a talk. how we did talk! but first of all--that was so like dods--he pulled out his watch and looked what o'clock it was. 'it's just half-past nine, ida,' he said, 'and we must be quite ready by half-past ten. so let's talk till ten, no longer; it always takes you twenty minutes or half an hour to get dressed for church, and you know it vexes papa to be kept waiting. and to-day it's really very important not to vex him at all, if anything is to come of our plan.' 'very well,' i said; 'i promise to go in at ten.' then we went to one of our favourite garden seats and set to work at our idea. it grew and grew; we kept thinking of new bits to it, each saying something which made the other think of something else, till by ten o'clock we began to feel as if it were all quite settled--'cut and dry.' the very last thing i called out to geordie as we ran in was about a certain old breakfast set of china we had espied in one of our visits to the garret. 'yes,' i was saying, 'those willow pattern cups and things would do beautifully. it wouldn't matter their being odd, for then mamma wouldn't mind if some got broken. and very likely, doddie, things _will_ get broken, more than----' 'what are you talking about, my dear child?' said mamma's voice, and, looking round, i saw that she was just coming out of the drawing-room on her way upstairs to get ready for church. 'you don't mean to say that your tea-things at the hut are all broken?' 'oh no, no, mamma dear,' i replied in a great hurry, and feeling myself grow red, though i don't think she noticed it; 'they are all right--none broken, and only one saucer chipped. but--i was only saying--we _might_ need more some time.' 'ah, well!' said mamma, with a little sigh, 'not at present, at any rate.' and oh how i wished i could tell her of the plan at once! but of course it was best to wait a little. i shall never forget that morning at church, and how _awfully_ difficult it was to give my attention. i found myself counting up the things we should need to make the hut comfortable, even while my voice was saying the responses quite correctly, and any one noticing me would very likely have thought i was being quite good and listening rightly. dods, whom i glanced at now and then, was looking very grave but not unhappy. i felt sure he was being much better than i--i mean about listening to what he heard and thinking of the words he said--though afterwards he told me that he too had found it difficult. 'what was most bothering me,' he said, 'was about the new rooms--the old parish room, i mean. what do you think, ida--should it be made into a dining-room and drawing-room, or----' 'oh no,' i interrupted, 'certainly not. the two front ones looking to the sea must decidedly be the sitting-rooms--the one to the left of the porch, in front of the kitchen, must be the dining-room, and the big dressing-room, the one we have always meant to be a real bedroom, must be the drawing-room. it is quite a nice, large room, and behind it, the 'messy' room must be _yours_, dods, which leaves the parish room to be divided for mamma and esmé and me. denzil can be with you--there's plenty of room.' 'but,' said geordie, 'you're forgetting the servants?' my face fell at this--i should have said that this conversation was on our way down to the hut that afternoon. we could not talk much before then, as we drove back from church with the others, but we set off as soon as we could after we had had dinner. 'yes,' i said, 'i was forgetting them altogether, and what's more, geordie, i haven't the least idea who they are to be, or how many we should have.' 'we must let mamma settle that of course,' he replied. 'hoskins will be one, anyway. still--it's a pity we can't propose some place for them, ida. it makes the whole plan seem rather unfinished and--childish.' 'like the man who built a house for himself and when it was all finished found he had forgotten a staircase!' i said, half laughing, but feeling rather mortified all the same. george did not at once reply. he was thinking. we were close to the hut by this time, and he did not say anything till we had unlocked the door and put down our packages and looked round us. everything was just exactly as we had left it the evening before, but somehow everything seemed different! the truth was, i suppose, that we were looking at it all through different spectacles--yesterday it was only a kind of summer-house or play-room--to-day it was a possible _home_. in some ways i felt as if i had never liked it as much; in others i began to be almost frightened at the ideas i was so full of! but as often happened with us, george's cool, common sense put me right. 'yes,' he said, after he had strolled into the other rooms and stared at them well as if he had never seen them before,--'yes, i don't see why it shouldn't do. and, about the servants, ida. of course papa and mamma must _settle_ everything; but if they do take it up seriously and papa buys the iron room, i rather think it's a good deal larger than we have been counting it. i believe it would divide into three quite well. there might be a partitioned-off little room for me, and a large curtain might do to separate mamma from you and esmé?' 'yes,' i said, my spirits rising again, 'and that would leave the back room for hoskins and whomever else we have--_i_ should like margery--wouldn't you, dods? she is such a good-natured, sturdy little thing. and----' 'we'd better not try to settle too much,' said sensible geordie. 'and you must talk quietly, ida, so as to show we have really thought of it not in a--oh, a babyish way, you know.' i felt a little ruffled at this. 'you'd better tell them all about it yourself, then,' i said; '_i_ don't want any of the honour and glory of it, and if there is any fear of their thinking us silly babies, why, then, we had better give up the whole idea.' 'nonsense, ida,' said geordie. 'it was you who first thought of it, and i think you deserve a lot of credit for it. and i expect you'll get it too. i only want papa and mamma--papa especially--to hear of it at first in the best sort of way.' 'yes--yes, i know!' i exclaimed, 'and you are a sensible old dods as you always are. and see what i have got to please you,' and i held up three lovely, fat muffins. we got the kitchen fire lighted and the tea-table spread in the parlour--i felt inclined to begin calling it 'the dining-room' now--and everything nice and ready before they all came. the first announcement of them was esmé, who flew in as usual, followed very deliberately by denzil. she gave me a hug when she saw the table. 'oh, what a lovely tea!' she said, 'and how delicious the hut looks. oh, _don't_ you wish, ida, we could live here always?' i glanced at dods--we could not help smiling at each other--it seemed a sort of good omen, her saying that, but we did not say anything. then came papa and mamma--they had walked down slowly through the wood, and as they came to the little 'plateau' where stood the hut, i saw them stop and look at it. i _wondered_ if the same idea was in their minds at all. i did not exactly want it to be, for i was rather pleased at being the first finder of it. chapter iv 'geordie stood up and waved his cap' no--papa and mamma had not been thinking of anything of that kind--afterwards mamma told me they had only been saying to each other how sweet and pretty it all looked and--though perhaps they did not say so aloud--feeling no doubt how sad it was that we should so soon have to leave it. but they came in quite brightly, and mamma answered gaily to esmé's exclamations about the 'lovely tea-party.' 'yes,' she said, 'it does look nice. and muffins too'--as geordie glanced up with a very red face from the fire where he was toasting one; 'don't scorch yourself _too_ much, in our service, my dear boy.' 'it's a good bit for myself as well,' said geordie in his rather gruff way. he always spoke like that if he thought he was being praised--above all, the least _over_-praised. 'i like muffins better than any kind of cake or things.' he certainly knew how to toast and butter them to perfection. i remember how very good they were that day. indeed, the tea-party was a great success altogether. after it was over we carried all the cups and saucers and plates into the kitchen, to be ready for margery to wash up, for mamma had left word at home that she was to come down to the hut to do so, which we were very glad of. 'i wanted to be together as much as possible to-day,' said mamma in her kind way. and just as we had cleared away everything in the parlour we saw margery coming, and to my great delight esmé asked if she and denzil might 'help her' in the kitchen, for dods and i had been wondering how we could get rid of the little ones without seeming unkind. so off they ran, and then for a few minutes we four--'big ones,' i was going to say, only that does seem putting geordie and myself too much on a line with papa and mamma, doesn't it?--sat silent. i was feeling rather nervous, not afraid of papa and mamma, but afraid of them thinking it was all a perfectly impossible plan. but at last, after looking at me several times and even giving me two or three little kicks, geordie plunged in, as was his way-- 'ida has something to say to you,' he began. 'it's only fair for her to say it, for it's all her own idea, though we have talked about it a good deal.' papa looked at me very kindly. 'what is it, my little girl?' he said. 'i am sure you know how pleased i--and your mother--will be to do anything we can to--to brighten all these troubles.' he seemed to know by instinct that what i had to say must have to do with what he had told us the day before. yes--only the day before! i could scarcely believe it--it seemed years ago. i felt my face growing red; mamma was looking at me too, and though her eyes were very kind, i grew more and more nervous, and of course i blurted it out quite differently from what i had meant to. 'it isn't only for us ourselves,' i began, 'though we should like it ever so much--awfully much better than anything else. but i feel as if it would be nicer for everybody--for mamma too, and for papa, when you are far away, you know,' and here i turned specially to him, 'not to have to think of us in a strange place and among strange people. and--and--there are lots of little bits of it that seem to fit in so well.' 'but, my dear child, i must interrupt you,' said papa smiling, 'before you go on to the "bits," do tell us what the whole is?' i had really forgotten that i had not done so--my own mind was so full of it, you see. 'oh,' i said, feeling very much ashamed of myself, especially as i knew geordie's blue eyes were fixed on me reproachfully. 'i'm very sorry for being so stupid. it's just this, papa--we've been thinking, at least i thought of it first, and dods has joined in the planning, that--why shouldn't we all, mamma and us four, come to _live_ here, really to live here altogether, while you are away?' papa gazed at me as if he did not understand, and no doubt just at first he did not. 'live _here_,' he repeated, 'but that is just----' 'yes,' i interrupted,--'here, in the hut. i don't mean of course go on living at home, at eastercove, though it would be eastercove too. that's the beauty of it; you would be able to feel that we _were_ at home, and close to all our friends.' but still papa repeated, in a dazed sort of way, i would say 'stupid,' only it would seem rude-- 'live _here_.' (i do think men are far slower at taking up new ideas than women.) 'live _here_,' he said again, till i really wished it would not be disrespectful to give him a little shake, and even dods, who is far patienter and less im----what should i say?--impetuous or impulseful, i must ask mamma which is best, began to look rather provoked. but mamma put it all right. 'yes, jack,' she said, the colour rushing into her face and her eyes sparkling,--'yes, _here_ in the hut, is what the child means, and, really, i think it is an inspiration.' mamma _is_ quick, and she has such a beautifully ready imagination. 'i don't see why we shouldn't. it is perfectly healthy; dry and airy and quite warm except perhaps in the middle of winter, and we surely could find ways and means of making a _dry_ house warm. ida, darling, i believe you have hit upon a way out of our greatest difficulty. _do_ say you think so too, jack!' light was gradually penetrating into papa's mind. 'here in the hut! yes, i wish it were possible,' he said, 'and i agree with you both so far. it _is_ dry and healthy, and might be made warm, but--it is so small! ah!' and he started to his feet, his whole face changing, 'talking of inspirations, i'm not sure but that _i_ have got one too--the------' here to our amazement, mamma's and mine i mean, in _his_ turn up jumped dods, and, respectful or not, interrupted papa in the most barefaced way-- 'stop, stop!' he cried, 'let me say it, dad, do, before you do. i want to have a bit of it. is your inspiration the old parish room? the iron room they want to get rid of? _is_ it?--do say.' they were both so excited it was quite funny to see them, geordie especially, for he is much calmer than papa naturally. papa turned to him smiling-- 'you have guessed it, my boy. yes, we might buy the room and turn it into two or three at least. it could not cost much--our own men could do it, i believe. it has doorways and windows and fireplaces too, i think, all ready, and i believe we can have it for an old song----' 'i hope i shan't be the one chosen to sing it!' exclaimed dods, at which we all laughed, though it was not particularly witty. but we were just in the sort of humour to laugh at the least little piece of fun. 'i wish--upon my word, i wish i could see about it this very afternoon,' went on papa, who was now racing ahead of us all in his eagerness. 'but you can't, dear; it's sunday, you know,' said mamma, patting his arm; 'and we have plenty to think about. there is no fear of mr. lloyd's selling it before to-morrow morning. let us hear some more of your plan, ida, dear.' i was only too ready to tell it--i was bursting to do so, and so was geordie. we set to work and talked--how we did talk!--papa and mamma putting in a word now and then, though they were so kind, understanding our wish to be considered the 'discoverers,' as it were, of the new home, that they really let us talk ourselves out. then we four made a sort of progress through the rooms, papa measuring here and there with the little folding-up foot-rule he always carried in his pocket, and mamma planning where she would put such and such a piece of furniture which could be quite well spared from the almost too full rooms up at the house, not to speak of the stores--treasures they were fast becoming in our eyes now--crowded away in the big garret. 'we must go up there first thing to-morrow morning,' said mamma, 'and have a good look round. i don't believe i know half the things we have--no one does, except hoskins.' 'you will have to take her into your confidence at once, i expect,' said papa. 'yes, i was just thinking so,' mamma replied; 'but i shall wait till you have inquired about the iron room. she knows our troubles already,' she went on, turning to geordie and me; 'she has known about them for some days, and she says whatever we do, or wherever we go, she will not leave us.' 'oh, i _am_ so glad!' exclaimed geordie and i in a breath. 'we thought she would be like that,' i went on; 'and i should hope she'd like the hut far, far better than going away to some horrid little poky house among strangers. and, mamma, don't you think margery would be the best for the other servant.' 'are we to have two?' said mamma laughing. 'your plans are getting quite grand, ida!' 'of course you must have two,' said papa, 'and one of the men to look after things outside. i have an idea about that; geordie and i will talk about it together,' and he nodded to geordie, who looked very pleased at being consulted in this way, as if he were quite big. 'when will you ask about the parish room?' he said to papa. 'may i go with you when you do? perhaps i could help about the measuring.' for they had already settled as to where it should be placed--at one side of the hut, but a little to the back, so that it should not spoil the rather pretty look we were gradually managing to give to the front, by training creepers over the porch, and filling two or three large square tubs with bushy, hardy plants which would stand the winter, and placing them at each side of the long low windows. 'certainly,' said papa. 'we can drive down to kirke immediately after breakfast to-morrow morning. and if it is all right about the room, i will see the man whom, i think, mr. lloyd employed to put it up. he will understand the best way of partitioning it off, and our own men can work under his directions.' so it was in the best of spirits--considering, that is to say, the real sorrow of parting with dear papa, and the real anxiety that _must_ hang over us for many months to come, at least--that we set off home again, esmé chattering about how she had wiped all the tea-cups and saucers, and how margery had said that she could not possibly have 'got through' without her. 'that is not a very elegant expression, my little girl,' said papa. 'don't you think you could say it some other way.' esmé looked rather puzzled. 'you says,' she replied, and at that papa laughed--i think he felt it was out of the frying-pan into the fire,--'you says to mamma or to ida when we're playing croquet, "now see if you can't get through that hoop."' 'but cups and saucers isn't croquet hoops,' said denzil solemnly, at which we all laughed. a very small joke will go a long way when people are all happy together, and each one trying to do his best to please or amuse the others. when i awoke on monday morning it was with much more quietly hopeful feelings than on that sad saturday i could have believed possible. i seemed to myself to have grown years older in the two days, which was partly nice and partly, just a very little, 'frightening.' i was proud of my idea being thought so well of, and i was very anxious to think it out more and more, so as really to help mamma and to prove that it _was_ a good one. so, though it was still very early, i lay quite quietly and did not mind the having a good while to wait till it was time to get up, so busied was my brain in going into all the details which i was able to think about. 'two little beds for esmé and me,' i began. 'let me see which are the smallest, to take up the least room? this one is rather too big, and besides, the people who have taken the house will most likely need it left. i wonder what they will do with this room. i daresay they will use it for visitors. it is so pretty--my own dear room!' for since my last birthday i had had a room to myself, all freshly done up with light chintz curtains and covers and white furniture. but i resolutely put the thought of my regret out of my mind, and went on thinking about the hut. esmé's cot would be big enough for her for a good while, and there was at least one old small bedstead up in the garret, and then dods and i had saved enough money to buy one, as i said. 'we must spend it on _something_ for the hut,' i reflected. 'perhaps we had better ask mamma what would be the most useful.' then my mind went on again about the other rooms and what would be needed for them, and i had just arrived at the chests of drawers when i must have fallen asleep, for when i was awakened by margery and the announcement, 'seven o'clock, miss ida,' i found myself dreaming that i was hanging up curtains in front of the fireplace instead of the window, and wondering how we could prevent their flying up the chimney! after breakfast papa and geordie set off almost immediately for kirke, to catch mr. lloyd before his week's work began again, papa said. and as soon as mamma had finished her regular housekeeping business for the day, she and i went up to the garret together, to spy the land, or rather the stores. i forget if i said that we happened to be in the middle of our easter holidays just then, which was most lucky, was it not? mamma and i really enjoyed ourselves up in the garret. it was all so neat, and not fusty or dusty or musty, and we came upon treasures--as often is the case if you explore a lumber-room--whose very existence even mamma had forgotten. 'i really think, ida,' mamma began, pushing her hair out of her eyes in a pretty way she has; her hair is lovely, so curly and fuzzy, like esmé's, though mine is dreadfully smooth! and theirs never _looks_ messy, however untidy it really may get,--'i really think we could find enough furniture here to do for all the rooms, after a fashion. and we can certainly take a few things away from downstairs without spoiling the look of the house. two beds at least--and one or two small tables. i must have a writing-table for myself--and several of the wicker chairs in the verandah might be spared. yes--i really don't think the furnishing will be much difficulty or expense.' 'and doddie and i have saved sixteen and sixpence, you know, mamma,' i said. 'we meant to buy a camp bedstead for the hut, you know, whenever you would let us furnish the room that is going to be our drawing-room now. so we can still get one for dods if you like, or anything else needed.' 'yes, darling,' said mamma. 'that will be very nice. we can wait a little till we see what is most required.' she spoke quite as seriously as i had done, though i know _now_ that sixteen and sixpence is really not nearly as much money as i then thought it. but that is what has always been so dear about mamma; she never 'snubs' us. and many people, even really very kind people, do hurt children's feelings dreadfully sometimes without in the least meaning it. it is one of the things i mean to try always to remember when i am quite grown-up myself, and it would be very wrong and ungrateful of any of _us_ ever to forget it, for our father and mother have shown us such a good example about it. then mamma went off to write some letters and i to the schoolroom to practise, which had to be done, holidays or no holidays! 'i wonder if we shall have a piano at the hut,' i thought. 'i shan't very much mind if we don't,' for at that time i did not care much for music, not, at least, for my own performances. since then i have come to 'appreciate' it a little better, though i am not at all clever about it, and i am afraid papa and mamma are rather disappointed at this. but esmé is learning the violin and plays already so well that i hope she will make up for me. i kept running to the window--the schoolroom overlooks the drive--every time i heard the sound of wheels, to see if it was papa and geordie coming back, which was very silly, as of course they would have a good deal to do, measuring and seeing the carpenter and arranging it all. but i felt as if i could not settle to anything till i knew about the iron room, as it did seem as if the whole plan depended a good deal on our getting it. and when at last i did catch sight of the dogcart coming swiftly along the avenue, my heart began to beat so fast that i had to stop once or twice to take breath on my way to the hall-door. mamma was there before me, as anxious as i, i do believe, though she was too sensible to show it. but before they got to the house, we knew it was all right. geordie stood up in the cart and waved his cap for us to understand. 'oh, i am so glad!' i cried, and mamma smiled. how strangely things change their--oh, dear, i can't find just the right word; yes, i have it now 'aspects'--in life sometimes. this was monday; on saturday only had we heard _the_ sad news, and here we were, quite in good, almost high spirits again, about a little bettering of what, if we had foreseen it a week ago, we should certainly have thought a cloud with no silver lining! papa and dods jumped down in a moment, and threw the reins to the groom. 'is it----' i began. 'all right,' papa interrupted. 'lloyd is delighted. very kind and sympathising, of course, with us, but so interested in our--i should say,' with a smile to me, 'ida's scheme. he thinks it a first-rate idea, at any rate till the autumn.' 'and he is coming up himself this afternoon,' said geordie, 'with the drawings and measures of the room, that he got when he bought it.' 'very good of him,' said mamma. 'and jervis, the carpenter, is coming too,' george went on; 'and we must all go down to the hut together. mr. lloyd said _particularly_ ida.' i felt myself grow red with pleasure. 'yes,' said papa; 'we must all go and give our opinions. i am very glad to have secured the room. they were already beginning to take it down. it is a very good size really, larger than you would think; and there are two doorways, i am glad to find, and a little porch. i have two or three ideas in my head as to how to join it on and so forth, but i can go into them better on the spot.' 'ida and i have been busy too,' said mamma. 'really, jack, you would scarcely believe the amount of extra furniture we have. there will be very little to buy--only, i do believe, one camp bedstead for geordie, and perhaps a servant's one; and a few bright, warm-looking rugs.' '_we_ might buy those, mamma,' i interrupted eagerly. 'i have told mamma about our sixteen and sixpence, doddie,' i went on, turning to george. 'i knew you wouldn't mind.' geordie nodded. 'sixteen and sixpence,' repeated papa. 'how have you managed to get together all that?' 'it's _hut_ money,' i replied. 'i mean it's on purpose to spend on the hut. we have other savings, too, for christmas and birthdays--this is all for the hut.' 'and it shall be spent on the hut,' said papa, 'on something lasting--to do honour to you both.' wasn't that nice of him? chapter v 'what _can_ she mean?' i remember that monday afternoon so well. it was very interesting. mr. lloyd was very kind and clever about things, and the carpenter, though a rather slow, very silent man, understood his business and was quite ready to do all that was wanted. papa was as eager as a boy, and geordie full of ideas too. so between us we got it beautifully planned. it was far nicer than i had dared to hope. they fixed to run a tiny passage between the side of the hut where the room was to be placed, so that the two doorways into it could both be used,--one to enter into geordie's room, so that he could run in and out without having to go through mamma's or ours, and the other leading into mamma's, from which we could pass to ours. and the partitions made them really as good as three proper rooms, each with a nice window. there could be no fireplace in ours, but as it was the middle one, and therefore sure to be the warmest, that would not matter, as there were two, one at each end in the iron room. if it was very cold, mamma said esmé and i might undress in hers, and _dress_ in his, geordie added, as he meant always to be up very early and light his own fire to work by, which rather amused us all, as he was _not_ famed for early rising. indeed, i never knew such a sleepy head as he was--poor old dods! we felt satisfied, as we walked home, that we had done a good day's work. 'though it _couldn't_ have been managed without the iron room,' geordie and i agreed. and a day or two later we felt still more settled and pleased when mamma told us that hoskins and margery were coming with us. hoskins was just a little melancholy about it all, not a bit for herself, i do believe, but because she thought it would be 'such a change, so different' for mamma and us. she cheered up however when we reminded her how much nicer it would be than a poky little house in a back street at kirke, or, worse still, away in some other place altogether, among strangers. and when she said something about the cold, in case we stayed at the hut through the winter, geordie said we could afford plenty of fires as we should have no rent to pay, and that _he_ was going to be 'stoker' for the whole family. 'you won't need to look after any fire but your own, master george,' said she, 'and not that, unless it amuses you. margery is not a lazy girl--i would not own her for my niece if she was. and besides that, there will be barnes to help to carry in the coal.' barnes was one of the under-gardeners. he lived with his father and mother at the lodge, but he had never had anything to do with the house, so i was surprised at what hoskins said. 'oh yes,' george explained, looking very business-like and nodding in a way he had, 'that is one of the things papa and i have settled about. we are rigging up a room for barnes, much nearer than the lodge--the old woodman's hut within a stone's throw of _our_ hut, ida, so that a whistle would bring him in a moment. he will still live at the lodge for eating, you see, but he will come round first thing and last thing. he's as proud as a peacock; he thinks he's going to be a kind of robinson crusoe; it will be quite a nice little room; there is even a fireplace in it. he says he won't need coals; there's such lots of brushwood about.' '_i_ have been thinking of that,' i said eagerly. 'it would seem much more in keeping to burn brushwood than commonplace coals----' 'except in my kitchen, if you please, miss ida,' put in hoskins. 'and better still than brushwood,' i went on, taking no notice of hoskins's 'kitchen,'--i would much rather have had a gypsy fire with a pot hanging on three iron rods, the way gypsies do, or are supposed to do,--'better than brushwood, fir cones. they do smell so delicious when they are burning. we might make a great heap of them before next winter. it would give the children something to do when they are playing in the wood.' [illustration: ordering denzil about as usual.] they--the two little ones--were of course in tremendous spirits about the whole thing,--such spirits that they could not even look sad for very long when at last--about three weeks after the days i have just been describing--the sorrowful morning arrived on which dear papa had to leave us. esmé cried loudly, as was her way; denzil, more silently and solemnly, as was his; but an hour or two afterwards we heard the little butterfly laughing outside in the garden and ordering denzil about as usual. 'never mind,' said mamma, glancing up from the lists of all sorts of things she was already busy at and reading what was in my mind, 'rather let us be glad that the child does not realise it. she is very young; it does not mean that she is heartless,' and mamma herself choked down her tears and turned again to her writing-table. i too had done my best not to cry, though it was _very_ difficult. i think george and i 'realised' it all--the long, lonely voyage for papa; the risks at sea which are always there; the dangers for his health, for the climate was a bad one, and it was not the safest season by any means. all these, and then the possibility of great disappointment when he got there--of finding that, after all, the discovery of things going wrong had come too late to put them right, and of all that would follow this--the leaving our dear, dear home, not for a few months, or even a year, but for _always_. it would not do even to think of it. and i had promised papa to be brave and cheerful. by this time i must explain that the hut--from now i must write it with a capital, as mamma did in her letters: 'the hut, eastercove' looked quite grand, we thought--was ready for us to move into. our tenants were expected at the house in a week or ten days, and we were now to leave it as soon as we could. a great part of the arranging, carting down furniture, and so on had been done, but it had been thought better to put off our actually taking up our quarters in our quaint new home till after papa had gone. _he_ said it would have worried him rather if we had left sooner, but i know the truth was, that he thought the having to be very busy, in a bustle in fact, at once on his going, would be the best for us all--mamma especially. and a bustle it was, though things had been hurried on wonderfully fast. the fixing up of the iron room was quite complete and the partitions were already in their places, the furniture roughly in the rooms too. but as everybody who has ever moved from one house to another knows, there were still _heaps_ to be done, and seen to by ourselves, which no work-people could do properly. and besides the arranging at the hut of course, there was a great deal for mamma to settle at the house, so as to leave everything nice for the people who were coming. that afternoon, i remember, the afternoon of the day papa left, we were at the hut till dark, working as hard as we could, even the little ones helping, by running messages and fetching and carrying. and by the time we went home we were very tired and beginning to find it very difficult to look on the bright side of things. 'i don't believe it will ever be really comfortable for mamma,' said geordie in the growly tone he used when he was anxious or unhappy. 'it's just a horrid business altogether. i don't believe papa will be able to get things right, out at that old hole of a place, and even if he doesn't get ill, as he very likely will, he'll only come home to leave it for good--i mean we'll have to sell eastercove. i'm almost sorry we did not go away now at once and get it over.' i glanced before us. mamma was some little way in front--i could just see her dimly, for it was dusk, with denzil and esmé, one on each side; esmé walking along soberly for once, and i caught snatches of mamma's voice coming back to us, for there was a light, though rather chilly evening breeze, blowing our way. i could hear that she was talking brightly to the children; no doubt it was not easy for her to do so. 'listen, geordie,' i said, nodding forwards, so to say, towards mamma. and he understood, though he did not say anything just at once. 'it is a good thing,' i went on, after a moment's silence, 'that the wind is not the other way. i would not like her to hear you talking like that, within a few hours of papa's going.' it was not often--very, very seldom indeed--that i felt it my place to blame good old dods; and honestly, i don't think i did it or meant it in any 'superior' way. i am sure i did not, for the words had scarcely passed my lips before they seemed to me to have been unkind. geordie was tired; he had been working very hard the last few days, and even a strong boy may feel out of heart when he is tired. 'i don't know what _i_ should do, not to speak of mamma,' i went on, 'if you got gloomy about things. we all depend on you so,' and for a moment or two i really felt as if i must begin to cry! then something crept round my neck, and i knew it was all right again. the something was geordie's arm, and it gave me a little hug, not the most comfortable thing in the world when you are out walking, and it tilts up your hat, but of course i did not mind. 'yes, ida,' he said, 'it's very babyish and cowardly of me, and i'm very sorry. i won't be like that again, i promise you.' then i gave him a sort of a hug in return, and we hurried on a little, not to leave mamma with the children dragging on at each side of her, as they are apt to do when they are tired. we none of us spoke much the rest of the way home, but geordie said one or two little things about how comfortable the hut was getting to look and so on, which _i_ understood, and which prevented poor mamma's suspecting that he was at all in low spirits. when people really _try_ to do right, i think outside things often come to help them. that very evening we were cheered and amused by a letter which had arrived by the second post while we were all out--a quite unexpected letter. it was from a cousin of ours, a girl, though a grown-up one, whom we were very fond of. she was _almost_ like a big sister, and her name was theresa. she was generally called 'taisy' for short. i have not spoken of her before; but, indeed, when i come to think of it i have not spoken of any of our relations, i have been so entirely taken up with the hut. we had however none _very_ near. taisy was almost the nearest. she lived with her grandmother, who was papa's aunt, so taisy was really only second cousin to us children. she was now about seventeen, and she was an orphan. many people like her would have been spoilt, for old aunt emmeline adored her and gave her nearly everything she could possibly want. but taisy wasn't a bit spoilt. she often came to stay with us, and one of the smaller parts of our big trouble was that we could not look forward to having her _this_ year, at any rate. papa had written to lady emmeline to tell her of what had happened; she was one of the few whom he felt he must write to about it, and it was partly because of taisy's not coming--i mean our not being able to have her--that he did so. and he had had a very kind letter back from his aunt. she wished she could help him, but though she was comfortably off, her money was what they call 'tied up,' somehow, and taisy would have none of _hers_ till she was twenty-one. besides, papa was not the sort of man to take or expect help, while he was strong and active and could work for us himself, and it was the kind of trouble in which a little help would really have been no use--a large fortune was at stake. taisy had not written; she had only sent loving messages to us all, and something about that 'by hook or by crook' she must see us before the summer was over. but the letter to mamma which was waiting for us roused our curiosity, and kept us quite bright and interested all that evening, in wondering what she _could_ mean. 'ever since i heard from grandmamma of your worries, dear auntie,' she wrote,--i must explain that taisy always called papa and mamma uncle and aunt, though they were really only cousins,-'i have been thinking and thinking about how i could still manage to pay you a visit. i really cannot face the idea of all the long summer without seeing you.' 'it _is_ very dull for her at longfields,' said mamma, interrupting herself in the reading aloud the letter to us. 'aunt emmeline never has cared much to have visitors, though she is a wonderfully strong and active old lady. and now that taisy is giving up regular lessons, it will be still duller. but it can't be helped, i suppose. yet i do wonder what the child has in her head,' and she went on reading. 'and, once i was with you, i am _sure_ i would not be any trouble, if only you had room for me. you don't know what a help i should be! so--don't be surprised if you see a balloon coming down towards the hut one day, and me getting out of it. i have not got my plan quite ready yet, and i am not going to say anything to granny about it till it is all cut and dried and ready to be stacked!--though, as she always lets me do whatever i want, i am not much afraid of her making any difficulties. her old friend, miss merry, will be coming over from ireland as usual, i suppose, and i am sure i should only be in the way, especially as i have no governess now. my best love to you all, and i do hope dear uncle jack will have a nice voyage and come back feeling quite happy again.--your loving taisy.' 'what _can_ she mean?' said geordie, looking up with a puzzled face. 'of course about a balloon is quite a joke, isn't it?' i said, though i spoke rather doubtfully, not knowing much about balloons! 'of course,' said geordie, in a superior tone. 'besides, there is no difficulty about her getting to us. the railway and the roads are not blocked up because of our troubles. the thing is, that there is nowhere to put her if she did come.' 'no,' i agreed, running over the rooms at the hut in my mind; 'we are quite closely enough packed as it is. there isn't any possible corner for another bed even.' 'unless,' said geordie slowly,--'unless you would let me really camp out, mamma? i could rig up a little tent, or--i wouldn't much mind sleeping in barnes's hut?' 'no, no,' mamma replied decidedly. 'i could not allow anything of the kind. our living at the hut is only possible because it is _not_ to be like rough camping out, but as healthy and "civilised" as if we were in a house. so put that out of your head, my dear boy. i could not risk your catching cold, or anything of that sort. remember, i feel responsible to your father in _my_ way for you all, just as you two big ones feel so for me,' she added with one of her own dear smiles. 'and then, dods,' i said, 'it wouldn't be safe--i know _i_ wouldn't feel safe--without having you actually in the house, even though barnes's hut is so near.' i think geordie liked my saying that. but i really meant it. so we went on wondering and puzzling as to what taisy meant. it was quite an amusement to us that first evening of papa's being away. and it was worth wondering about, for taisy was a very clever girl--what is called 'practical.' 'if she could come and be with us, i'm sure she would be a great help,' i thought. 'she is so full of nice ideas and funny ones too, and she never has headaches or neuralgia or horrid things like that. and yet she is _so_ kind--i remember that time i sprained my ankle. she was so good.' the next few days were so busy, however, that all thought even of taisy and her balloon went out of our heads. i only remember packings and unpackings and arranging and rearrangings, all in a jumble together, ending, nevertheless, in a great deal of satisfaction. the afternoon we went to the hut 'for good,' it really looked nice enough for us to feel it, for the time, more 'home' than the big house, which, on the surface, seemed rather upset still, though in reality it was nearly ready for the tenants, having gone through a magnificent spring cleaning. but our own little belongings were absent, and such of the rooms as were quite in order, to our eyes looked bare and unfamiliar, so that we were not sorry to be actually settled at the hut. the evenings were still a little chilly, which i, for one, did not regret, as it gave an excuse for nice bright fires in the sitting-rooms and mamma's bedroom. and the children had already picked up a good lot of fir cones, so that the pleasant scent of the trees seemed to be inside as well as out of doors. 'it _is_ cosy, isn't it, mamma?' i said, as we stood for a minute or two in what was now the little drawing-room; 'and oh, _aren't_ you glad not to be starting on a railway journey to some strange place, or even driving to that little house at kirke which you told me about as the best we could have got?' 'yes, indeed, darling,' mamma replied. 'and i am _so_ glad to be able to date my first letter to papa from the hut. i must make time to write to him to-morrow morning; it will just catch the mail.' 'and to-night,' i went on, 'you must rest. there isn't really very much more to do, is there? not at least anything that we need hurry about.' 'no,' said mamma, looking round. but she spoke rather doubtfully, and i felt that she was longing to get everything into perfectly 'apple-pie order,' though what that means i have never been able to understand, for as far as we know them nowadays, apple-pies are rather untidy-looking! 'there is very little now for me to see to at--home--at the house,' she went on. 'i am not going there at all for a day or two, and then just to give a look round and pay the wages owing till the trevors come.' the trevors were our tenants--a mother and an invalid son, and a not-very-young daughter--and several of our servants were staying on with them, which we were very glad of. 'and i want,' mamma began again, 'to get things started here regularly. your lessons, and the little ones' too, and--and--everything. our own clothes will take some time to arrange, and i must not expect hoskins to be everywhere at once. 'i will do _lots_, mamma,' i said. 'you don't know what i can do when i regularly set-to, and i promise you i won't open a story-book till the boxes are unpacked and arranged,' though i gave a little silent sigh as i said this. there seemed such heaps to unpack, for you see we had had to bring all our winter things with us too, and i was sensible enough to know that there must now be a lot of planning how to make frocks and coats and things last, that hitherto we should have given away without a second thought to those whom they might be of use to. and in my secret heart i was trembling a little at the idea that perhaps one of the things i should have to 'set-to' at would be sewing--above all, mending! 'for of course, as mamma says,' i reflected, 'we can't expect hoskins to do _everything_! and i knew it was a case of just spending the very least we could--without risking health or necessary comforts--till papa came home again, or at least till he got _some_ idea of what the future was likely to be. but for the moment it was worse than foolish to go on looking forward, when the _present_ was pretty clearly to be seen. and just then esmé came dancing in to tell us that tea was ready in the dining-room. 'quite ready and getting cold. so come quick,' she said. chapter vi 'you do understand so well, mamma' i shall never forget the first morning's awaking in the hut. well, as i knew it, it seemed as if i had not till then ever been there before. i do not mean so much the actual waking; that of course is always a little confusing, even if only in a different _room_ from the one you are used to, and i was particularly accustomed to my own room at eastercove, as we were not people who went away very much. we loved home too well for that. no, though i rubbed my eyes and stared about me and wondered why the window had changed its place, i soon remembered where i was, especially when i caught sight of esmé's little bed beside mine, and of esmé's pink cheeks and bright hair as she lay fast asleep still, looking like a comfortable doll. i was thinking rather of the feelings i had when i was dressed--i dressed very quickly, despising any warm water in my bath for once, and moved about very quietly, so as not to waken esmé and thereby vex hoskins the very first morning--and made my way out to the porch and stood there gazing about me. it was not so very early after all--half-past seven by mamma's little clock in the drawing-room, and i heard the servants working busily in the kitchen and dining-room, though there was no sound from poor old geordie's corner, in spite of his overnight intentions of being up by six! but outside it seemed very, very early. it was so absolutely _alone_--so strangely far from any sight or sound of common human life, except for just one little thing--a tiny white sail, far, far away on the horizon--a mere speck it seemed. and below where i stood,--i think i have said that the hut was on a sort of 'plateau,--' though at some little distance, came the sound of the waves, lapping in softly, for it was a calm day, and now and then the flash of a gull as it flew past, or the faint, peculiar cry of some other sea-bird or coast-bird nearer inland. for the spot was so quiet and seemingly isolated that rather wild, shy birds were not afraid of visiting it, even when there was no stormy weather or signs of such out at sea. and behind me were our dear pine woods, and the feeling of the squirrels and the home birds all busy and happy in the coming of the spring, though any sounds from there were very vague and soft. at first i did not know what it all reminded me of. something out of my own experiences i knew, but i had to think for a minute or two before it came back to my mind. and then i remembered that it was a story in a french book that mamma had read to us, partly in french, which geordie and i knew fairly well, and partly translating as she read. it was called _les ailes de courage_, by some great french author, who wrote it, i think, for his or her grandchildren, and it is almost the most interesting and strangest story i ever heard--about a boy who lived quite, quite alone in a cave by the seashore, and got to know all the wild creatures and their habits in the most wonderful way, so that they came to trust him as if he was one of themselves. i cannot give any right idea of the story; i doubt if any one could, but i wish you--if 'you' ever come to exist--would all read it. just as i was standing there, pleased to have remembered the association in my mind, i felt a hand slipped gently round my neck. it was not one of geordie's 'hugs,' and i looked up in surprise. it was mamma. 'how quietly you came,' i said; 'and oh, mamma, _doesn't_ it remind you of _les ailes de courage_?' 'yes,' she replied, 'i know exactly what you mean.' and then we stood perfectly still and silent for a moment or two, taking it all in, more and more, till a _very_ tiny sigh from mamma reminded me of something else--that dear papa was on that same great sea that we were gazing at--perhaps standing on the deck of the steamer and thinking of us--but _so_ far away already! 'it is chilly,' said mamma, 'and we must not begin our life here by catching cold. we had better go in, dear. i think it is going to be a lovely day, but in the meantime i hope hoskins has given us a fire in the dining-room.' yes--a nice bright little fire was crackling away merrily, a handful or two of the children's cones on the top. and the room looked quite cosy and tidy, as margery had finished dusting and so on, in here, and was now busy at the other side. 'i will go and see how esmé is getting on,' said mamma. 'she had had her bath before i came out, but there may be difficulties with her hair. and you might hurry up the boys, ida, for i have promised hoskins to be very punctual, and breakfast will be ready by eight.' it was a good thing i did go to hurry up the boys--they were both fast asleep! geordie looked dreadfully ashamed when i at last managed to get him really awake, and denzil almost began to cry. he had planned with esmé, he said, to have a run down to the sands before breakfast, and hoskins knew and had promised them a slice of bread and butter and a drink of milk. 'did she not wake you then?' i asked. 'she woke esmé at seven, but i was already up.' geordie could not remember if he had been awakened or not. denzil thought margery had come in and said something about 'seven o'clock,' but it was all mixed up with a wonderful dream that he wanted me to stay to listen to, about a balloon (he had heard us talking about taisy's balloon) with long cords hanging from it, like those in the grandfather's clock in the hall 'at home,' for you to climb up and down by, as if they were rope-ladders. 'you must have gone to sleep again and dreamt it through the word "o'clock" getting into your brain,' i said, whereupon i felt as if i had got out of the frying-pan into the fire, for instead of telling the rest of his dream, denzil now wanted to know exactly what i meant, and what his brain was 'like,' and how a word could get into it--was it a box in his head, and his ears the doors, etc., etc.--denzil had a dreadfully 'inquiring mind,' in those days--till i really had to cut him short and fly. 'you will neither of you be ready for breakfast, as it is,' i said; 'and if you are not quick you will have none at all, or at least quite cold.' i nearly ran against the coffee, which hoskins was just carrying in, as i got to the dining-room door, which would not have been a happy beginning. but i pulled up just in time, and took in good part hoskins's reminder that it wouldn't do to rush about as if we were in the wide passages at home. then she went on to tell me what it all made her think of, she was so glad to have remembered. 'it is just like a _ship_, miss ida. i have never been at sea, but i spent a day or two once on board one of the big steamers at southampton that a cousin of my mother's is stewardess of. yes, it's that that's been running in my head.' 'it can't have been a _very_ big one, then,' i said, rather pertly, i am afraid. but hoskins did not see the joke. 'oh, but it was, miss ida,' she went on, after she had placed the coffee-pot in safety. 'the big rooms, saloons, as they call them, were really beautiful, but the passages quite narrow, and the kitchens and pantries so small, you'd wonder they do do any washing-up in them, let alone cooking. not an inch of space lost, you may say. and as to how they manage in rough weather when everything's atop of the other, it's just wonderful, not that i've any wish to see for myself; the sea's all very well to be beside of, but as for going _on_ it,' and hoskins shook her head, but said no more. for mamma just then came into the room, and the kind-hearted woman did not want to remind her who _was_ on the sea at the present moment. we three--mamma and esmé and i--had made some way with our breakfast before the two lazy ones joined us, geordie rather shy and ashamed; denzil eager to explain the whole story of his dream, and to tease poor mamma about his brain and how it was made and what it was like, till i did wish i had not mentioned its existence to him. i don't remember anything very particularly interesting in the course of the first few days at the hut, or rather perhaps, _everything_ was so interesting that no one thing stands out very much in my memory or in my diary. i kept a diary in those days, as i daresay you who read this have suspected, otherwise i could not have been so exact about details, though it needs no diary to remind myself of the _feeling_ of it all, of the curious charm of the half gypsy life. not that it really was nearly as 'gypsy' as we would have liked it to be, or as we _thought_ we would have liked it to be! it was really so comfortable, and we were all so pleased with our own efforts to make it so, and their success, that by the end of a week or ten days we began to long for some adventures. 'a storm,' said geordie one day,--'a storm at sea. how would that do? not a very bad one of course, and------' 'no,' i said decidedly, frowning at him to remind him about papa's being on the sea,--'no, that wouldn't do at all. besides, there never are storms at this time of year. it's past the bad time. no, something more like real gypsies camping near us, and coming to ask us to lend them things, and telling our fortunes.' but at this idea _mamma_ shook her head. 'no, thank you,' she said, though she smiled; 'i have no wish for any such neighbours. besides, ida, you forget that though we are living in a hut, we are still at home on our own ground, and certainly gypsies have never been allowed to camp inside the lodge gates.' 'they never come nearer than kirke common now,' said george. 'they have been frightened of eastercove, barnes says, ever since papa was made a magistrate.' 'i think we must be content if we want adventures,' said mamma, 'with reading some aloud. i have got one or two nice books that none of you know, and i think it would be a very good plan to read aloud in the evenings.' we were not very eager about it. we liked very much to be read to, but we were not fond of being the readers, and though mamma read aloud beautifully, i knew it was not right to let it all fall upon her, as her voice was not very strong. 'it isn't as if taisy were here, to take turns with you, mamma,' i said, 'as she always does.' 'after this week,' said mamma, 'you will not want any more excitement, for we must really arrange about your lessons, ida--yours and the little ones. and geordie, of course, will begin again regularly with mr. lloyd, now that we are settled.' our daily governess was given up. she was not now quite 'advanced' enough for me, and to have her for denzil and esmé alone was very expensive, so it had been fixed that i was to work with mamma; and, on the other hand, be myself teacher to the little ones for the time. mamma had thought she would have so much less to do, with papa away, and no calls to pay, or going out to dinners and luncheons, all of which she had given up for the time. but it did not look very like it so far--i mean not very like her 'having more time' than at the big house, for there were always things turning up for her to do, and then she wrote enormously long letters to papa every week. and there were things about the place, the whole property, which she had to be consulted about now he was away. and for my part i was not at all looking forward to my new post of governess! 'it is such a pity,' i thought, 'that we can't have taisy. she wouldn't have minded teaching the children a bit, and she is so clever. lots of my own lessons i could have done with her too. and i know the little ones won't obey me; denzil would, but not esmé, and she will set him off.' i suppose my face was looking rather cloudy, for mamma went on again. 'i daresay we shall all feel a little depressed for a time, for we have had a good deal of really tiring work as well as excitement. and the worst of over-excitement, at least for young, strong people, is, that when it is over, everything seems flat, and we find ourselves wishing something else would happen.' 'yes,' i said; 'that's just what i feel. you do understand so well, mamma.' 'i have a mild piece of excitement in store for you to-day or to-morrow,' mamma went on again. 'i think it is quite time that i called on our tenants. they must be fairly settled by now.' 'i don't see that there was any settling for them to do,' i said. 'you left everything so beautifully neat and nice.' somehow i felt a little cross at the poor things! 'they have to unpack what they brought with them,' said geordie; 'and i'm sure----' he stopped short. i knew why he stopped. he thought that what he was going to say might vex me, for, as i think--or hope i have owned--i have a quick temper. but dods was not famous for 'tact'; that habit of his of stopping short all of a sudden often made me crosser than almost anything he could _say_. 'it's very rude not to finish your sentence,' i said sharply. 'what are you so sure about?' 'only that you made fuss enough about our own unpacking,' he replied, 'quite extra from the getting the hut in order and all that.' 'you are very unfair, and unkind,' i said, feeling as if i should like to cry, for _i_ thought i had been very patient and good-tempered. 'mamma, don't you think he needn't have said that?' 'he did not want to say it, to give him his due,' said mamma, smiling a little; 'and to give ida her due,' she went on, turning to geordie, 'i don't see, my boy, that you needed to _think_ it.' 'well,' said dods, and i felt my vexedness begin to go away, 'after all, i don't know that i did. i suppose we've all been rather fussy, though it wasn't in a bad sort of way.' 'no, indeed,' said mamma; 'it was in a very good sort of way. you have all been most helpful; i wish you could have seen my last letter to papa about you.' after that it would have been impossible to go on being vexed with any one, wouldn't it? i never knew any one like mamma for making horrid feelings go and nice ones come, and yet she is always quite _true_. 'then, do you mean that you want me to go with you when you call on the trevors, mamma?' i asked. 'yes, i do, rather particularly,' she replied, so of course i said i would be ready whatever time she fixed, though i didn't very much want to go. i was just at the age--i don't think i have quite grown past it even now--when girls hate paying calls, and i could not bear the idea of being received as visitors in our very own house. this was extremely silly of course, as it was such a lucky thing for us to have let it to good, careful people like the trevors, but i don't think it was an unnatural feeling. and afterwards, poor mamma owned to me that it was something of the same kind that had made her wish to take me with her. it would make her feel less 'lonely,' she thought. wasn't it sweet of her to think that? so that afternoon, or the next, i forget which, we found ourselves walking slowly up through the woods to the big house. i felt rather as if it must be sunday, for it was not often, except on sundays, that i was in the woods in very neat 'get up,'--proper gloves instead of rough garden ones, and best boots, and hat, and everything like for going to church, or for going a drive with mamma in the victoria. we did not expect--at least i did not--to find our new acquaintances very interesting. there was nobody young among them, and hearing that they had come to eastercove principally for health's sake did not sound very lively. but, after all, something interesting _did_ come of the visit, as i will tell you. we were ushered into the drawing-room--'the ladies were at home,' he said--by an oldish man-servant, with a nice face. into our own drawing-room--how funny it seemed! and already it did not seem quite our own, not the same. there were little changes in the places of the furniture, and there were unfamiliar odds and ends about, which made it feel strange. i was rather glad that there was no one in the room to receive us, and i squeezed mamma's hand tight, and i am sure she understood, and we both had time to get our breath, as it were, before any one appeared. when some one did come, nevertheless, we were taken a little by surprise, for she--it was miss trevor--entered by the window, and i had been looking towards the door. there are long, low-down windows in the drawing-room, and at one side a terracey sort of walk, which is very pleasant for sitting out on, in summer especially, as it is well shaded. immediately i saw her i felt she was nice. she seemed older than mamma, though perhaps she was not so really. her face was very quiet--that is the best word for it, and though i was so young then and knew so little of life, i felt that it was a face that had _grown_ quiet through goodness. even now i do not know much of miss trevor's history, but mamma has been told enough of it to make her think very highly of her. there was not the least bit of hardness, scarcely even of sadness in her expression, but just a look--a look that made one feel that she had come through sorrow, and could never care _very_ much about anything for herself again--anything _here_, i mean. 'i am so sorry,' she said at once, in a nice, hearty way, 'to have kept you waiting. it is such a lovely afternoon that mother and i have settled ourselves outside!' 'then please don't unsettle yourselves,' said mamma, and i saw a gleam of pleasure creep into miss trevor's gray eyes at mamma's pretty voice and manner. 'may we not join mrs. trevor on the terrace, for i suppose it is there you are sitting?' 'yes,' was the reply. 'it is so sheltered, and of course it is still early days for venturing anything of the kind. but mother is quite strong except for rheumatism, and really who _could_ have rheumatism in this dry, fragrant air? we are so delighted with everything about your beautiful home, mrs. lanark,' she went on. (it has _just_ struck me that till now i have never said that 'lanark' is our family name! really, i am not fit to try to write a story.) 'and you have done so much to make it perfect for us.' [illustration: we were out on the terrace, and mrs. trevor coming to meet us.] mamma and i felt repaid for our trouble by this, but before there was time to reply, we were out on the terrace, and mrs. trevor coming to meet us. it was not such an easy business for her to do so, as you might think. she had three dogs--darlings, i must own, and not barking, snapping darlings--dancing round her, and she was all twisted about with wool, red and green and white and all colours, unwound from the balls from her knitting. you never saw anything so funny, especially as the doggies, though very good-natured, were very lively and affectionate, and very spoilt, evidently accustomed to think the wools and the knitting and every bit of dear mrs. trevor herself only existed for their benefit. how she managed to keep the wool clean, and to knit the pretty fluffy things she did, i never found out. i really think there was some magic about it, for i _never_ saw her without the strands of it flying loose, _and_ the dogs dancing up and down to catch it! she was laughing--such a nice laugh. 'really,' she said, 'you will think me a slave to my pugs, mrs. lanark, and i am afraid it is true. zenia, dear, please untwist me.' miss trevor was evidently pretty well used to doing so, but she laughed too; and mamma and i started forward to help, so between us we managed to get the wool wound up pretty quickly, the doggies standing by more quietly than usual. they were more in awe of miss trevor, it was plain to see, than of their actual mistress. chapter vii 'no,' said mamma, 'that isn't all' then we all sat down at the end of the terrace; mrs. and miss trevor had already found out exactly the nicest place, one of our own favourite places, sheltered but not too shut in, with a view of the pine woods close by, at one side, and a peep of the farther off sea, through an opening that had been made on purpose, at the other. 'i love that glimpse of the sea,' said miss trevor, who naturally began to talk to me, as her mother and mamma were entertaining each other. 'yes,' i said, 'this corner is a very nice one. but you should see the view from where we are now--down at the hut, i mean.' 'it must be charming,' she replied, 'so open and wide. i am very anxious, indeed,' she went on smiling, 'to see the hut. it must be so--picturesque.' 'no, it isn't exactly that,' i said. 'it's _queer_, and out-of-the-common, of course, but the charm of the place _is_ the place,' and i laughed at my own way of expressing myself. 'it seems so entirely away from everything, except the sea and the trees and the wild creatures, though it isn't _really_ lonely.' then mamma turned to miss trevor with some little explanation about something or other in the house which mrs. trevor said her daughter took charge of, and the old lady--i hope it isn't rude to call her that? she did seem old to me--began talking to me. i liked her very much. she was _so_ fond of her three doggies, and she was so sympathising about one of ours that had died a few months before, and whom we had loved so dearly, that it was not till a good while afterwards that we could bear to have another. the one we did have in the end was a present from mrs. trevor, a pug puppy, and we have him still, and i named him 'woolly,' which everybody thinks a most unsuitable name for a pug, as they do not understand the reason for it. i daresay _you_ will guess that it was because the sight of a pug always reminds me of mrs. trevor's unwound balls, and the wool all twined round her. soon after, mamma said we must be going, and we bade mrs. trevor good-bye, but miss trevor said she would go a little bit of the way with us. she seemed to have something she wanted to say, and as if she did not quite know how to begin, till at last, just as we were close to the turn in the drive that led to the stables and coach-houses, she stood still for a moment. from where we were there was again a peep of the sea, all glistening and sparkling, though calm. 'this is another pretty peep,' said mamma. 'yes,' miss trevor agreed, 'and the advantage up here is that we can have these open views and yet be in shade. as the season gets on, i am afraid you will find it rather too unsheltered from the sun to sit out on the sea-side of the hut.' 'we shall have to rig up shady arrangements,' said mamma laughingly. 'that reminds me,' said miss trevor, which was not quite true, as she had been thinking of it all this time, i am sure, and wondering how she was to offer it without seeming officious, or anything of that sort,--'that reminds me'--then she broke off--'would you mind just looking in here a moment?' 'in here' was one of the coach-houses. miss trevor led the way towards it, and pushed open the door. inside stood a sort of bath-chair, of lighter build, even though larger, than such things generally are. it was of wickerwork, covered with pretty stuff like what tents and awnings are made of--as we saw when she threw off the sheet that was over it. 'we call this my brother's boudoir,' she said. 'it is quite a curiosity,' and she began drawing out and showing us all manner of contrivances--a table which hooked on to one side, another which fastened itself to the front, a large basket for the other side, a stool, quite strong enough for a second person to sit on comfortably to talk or read to whomever was in the chair; and besides all these, wonderful awnings that pulled out and could be turned and twisted like big umbrellas, and stretches of wickerwork to make the chair into a couch--and all this on wheels! 'it is not meant to be used as a bath-chair,' went on miss trevor; 'the wheels are just to move it easily for short distances. it is really a stationary affair. my brother invented a good deal of it himself two or three years ago when he was very ill--much more of an invalid than now, i mean.' 'it is a beautiful thing,' said mamma, in which i quite agreed with her, though we both wondered a little why she was exhibiting it at all to us so minutely. 'but will isn't at all pleased with us for bringing it here,' miss trevor continued. 'he says he never wants to see it again; it reminds him of his worst time, and he says i must get rid of it. he prefers sitting out among the pines in a quite well sort of way. so--it just struck mother and me, that _perhaps_ it might be some little use to you, down so near the sea where there is no shade,' and she glanced at us half timidly. 'oh!' i exclaimed, before mamma had time to speak, 'it would be splendid--just in front of the little porch. we could really make a sort of tiny room with it, and you could be _so_ comfortable, mamma, on sunny days. oh, do say we may have it!' miss trevor seemed delighted, and mamma smiled at my enthusiasm. 'it is a charming chair,' she said, 'far more than a chair indeed--i scarcely know what to call it. it is most kind of you to have thought of it for us, miss trevor, and if you are so good as to lend it to us, you may be sure we shall take the greatest care of it. and, of course, if mr. william trevor ever wants to have it while you are here, you must not for an instant hesitate to tell us and we should send it back at once.' miss trevor got rather red. 'oh, but,' she said, 'you don't quite understand, mrs. lanark. we want you to have it for good--to keep, i mean, if you care for it. i am perfectly certain that will won't want it. in fact, he says he hates the sight of it. and down at the hut, it might be of use, even after you have moved up here again. i will have it wheeled down to you to-morrow morning; it may need a little cleaning up first. the wheels are quite strong enough for a short journey, especially with no one inside. i only meant that it is not built in the peculiarly strong way a regular bath-chair needs to be.' i did feel so pleased to know it was to be our very own, and so, i think, did mamma. for when things are lent, there is always a rather fidgety feeling, for fear they should get spoilt in any way. and miss trevor had said it so nicely--as if our taking it would really be doing them a favour. for, of course, from almost complete strangers it is a little difficult to accept presents, though mamma has often told us that to receive a kindness graciously is quite as much a duty as to offer one. and then too she had spoken as if our return to our proper home was quite a certainty, and our absence from it only a question of a little time, though afterwards we heard that there had been a good deal of gossip in the neighbourhood about our being completely 'ruined,' and that eastercove was sure to have to be sold. i suppose a great deal of gossip is not meant to be unkind, but still it does seem sometimes as if people were more ready to exaggerate and talk about other people's _troubles_ than about their good fortune. we said good-bye to miss trevor soon after that--she, turning to go back to the house, and we, after mamma had asked her very heartily to come soon to see us in our 'gypsy encampment,' as mamma called it (i wished it had been a good deal more gypsy than it was!), which she seemed very eager to do, walking slowly towards the hut. more slowly than i felt inclined for--i was in a fever to tell geordie about the wonderful chair--but mamma was still feeling a little tired after all the bustle and busy-ness and sad feelings of the last few weeks, and so i tried to keep down my impatience. when we came quite out of the wood into the clear, open view of the sea, mamma stood still again and gazed down at it without speaking for a moment or two. 'are you thinking of papa?' i said softly, giving her arm, through which i had slipped my hand, a little squeeze. 'yes, dear,' she said, turning her face towards me, and i was pleased to see that she was smiling. 'he must be nearing the end of his long journey by now. but it was not only because of his voyage that i was thinking of him. the sea is always associated with him in my mind; it was the occasion of our first getting to know each other.' i felt greatly interested. 'did you meet on board ship, do you mean?' i asked. 'did you make a voyage together?' 'no, no,' said mamma, smiling again; 'i have never been a long voyage in my life. and the time i was thinking of--ever so long ago--had nothing to do with a voyage. i will tell you the story of it if you like. shall we sit down here a little? it is perfectly dry.' my hurry to get home to tell geordie about miss trevor's present had softened down in the interest of what mamma was speaking of; besides, when i came to think of it, i remembered that he could not yet be back from mr. lloyd's. so i was very pleased to do as mamma proposed. 'there is a little bathing-place far up in the north,' she began, when we had settled ourselves on a little bank made by some old roots which had spread out beyond the actual pine wood, 'which was rather a favourite in that part of the world a good many years ago, though now, i fancy, it is quite out of fashion. it was considered a very safe place for children, as there are great stretches of sands, and the bathing is very good, except that the tide at one part goes out with great swiftness and force, owing to a current of some kind just there. there is a garrison town--a small one--two miles or so from the bathing village--a station for cavalry--and the sands used to be, and i daresay still are, a favourite exercising ground for the horses. well, one morning, ever so long ago, as i said----' 'do you mean fifty years ago, or a hundred perhaps?' i interrupted thoughtlessly, forgetting that the story had some connection with mamma herself. 'no, no,' she said laughing, 'not quite as "ever so long ago" as that. let me see--i need not be quite exact--about twenty-four or twenty-five years ago, we will say. well, one fine summer morning an officer, a very young one, of only eighteen or nineteen, was galloping with his men--a small party--up and down these sands, when he heard and saw something which made him suddenly pull up and gaze down towards the sea, which had turned and was rapidly going out. it was just above the bathing-place--a perfectly safe place if the vans were drawn out when the tide turned, and not allowed to get into the sort of current i told you of. but by some mischance one of the vans had been allowed to stay in the water too long--the old bathing man was getting rather stupid, i fancy, and was busy drying things higher up, with his back to the sea, and did not hear the cry from the van, or see the white handkerchief that was frantically waved from its landward side. the young man had keen eyes and ears; he saw that there was not a moment to be lost--and he quickly took in what had happened and what must be done. the van was _almost_ off its wheels, swaying about with every little wave that ran in, as the water rose and rose. and just outside the door, on the ledge at the top of the steps, stood a forlorn little figure waving a handkerchief, or perhaps it was a towel, and crying at the top of her small voice-- "help, help; oh, _please_, help!" 'i don't know what the officer did about his men, who were already some little way off--i suppose he signed to them to wait for him,--but i know what he did himself, and that was to gallop as fast as his horse would go, down to the sea, shouting as he went to the bathing-man, who was quick enough to see what was wrong, as soon as his attention was called to it. 'he rushed for his old horse, and was wonderfully soon at the water's edge and in it, looking horribly frightened, but quick as he was, the young man was there at least a minute or two before him. and after one glance at the state of things, the first comer did not hesitate. for he saw that the van was growing less and less steady; it was _almost_ lifted off the ground by this time, though it kept recovering itself a little. and the small figure on the steps was calling more and more wildly and shaking her white signal more desperately, while she clung on with the other hand to the side of the lurching and swaying van. 'his--the young officer's, i mean--first idea was to harness his horse _somehow_ to the van, and draw it out bodily--riding like a postilion. but he gave this up at once when he found how deep the water was already and how unsteady the thing was. he was too angry with the careless owner of it to care whether the van itself swam out to sea or not, and too anxious, to risk wasting a moment. and the sight of the little white face and tear-swollen eyes lifted up to him doubled both these feelings. '"don't be frightened, you will be all right now," he called out to the child, who by this time scarcely knew what she was saying. he thinks she changed her piteous "help, help, do come!" to "oh, save me, please, save me!" and when he and his horse got quite close he had no need to encourage her to come to him--she almost sprang into his arms, so quickly that he was afraid she would fall into the water. but it was managed somehow, so that in another moment he found himself riding back to the shore again, with the little girl perched on the front of his saddle, clinging to him and tucked up so as to keep even her feet from getting wet. 'she was actually quite dry when they got back to the sands and he lifted her down--getting off himself to get a good shake, for _he_ was by no means quite dry, nor was the horse, who had behaved so well and pluckily, as if understanding there was something the matter, and now stood snorting with pleasure and satisfaction. 'and the little girl was sensible too. she had quite left off crying and held out her hand to her preserver. '"oh, thank you, thank you so velly much," she said, "for saving me. i was velly neely drowned, wasn't i? please go home and get dry quick, or else you'll catch cold." 'but before he had time to reply, a figure came rushing up to them in great excitement. it was the little girl's nurse, dreadfully frightened and ashamed, especially when the boy officer turned upon her very sharply and asked her what on earth she had been thinking of to leave her charge in such danger. 'she had a long story to tell, which he had not patience to listen to--how she had almost finished dressing the young lady when she found she had left her parasol on the sands, and had climbed over into the next van where a friend was, just as it was being drawn out, as she was so afraid of the parasol being stolen, thinking no harm could come to the child in that minute or two till the bathing-man came back again, and how her friend had seen the parasol higher up on the stones, and how--and then came the bathing-man lumbering up with _his_ story--or how he had thought there was no one in the van, and he was just a-goin' to fetch it out--not that it would have gone far---- '"but it _would_," said the soldier; "and even if it had stuck, the young lady would have been half killed with fright and soaked through, and perhaps fallen into the water bodily. the bathing-man deserved to be reported, and----" 'there came a shout for the young officer just then. some one, thinking _he_ had got drowned or something of the kind, had hurried back to see. so he rode off though just as he was going, the little girl stopped him for a moment. '"oh, please, mr. soldier," she said, "will you tell me your name, so that mamma can write to thank you?" 'he laughed, but he was already in the saddle, and all she heard was the one word, "jack."' mamma stopped when she got to this. i waited an instant to see if she was going on again. i felt a little puzzled, though i thought the story so interesting. 'that isn't all, is it, mamma?' i said. 'i do so like it, but--didn't you say--something about papa--and you and the sea, being mixed up?' mamma smiled; her pretty blue eyes were fixed on the water below us; they and it seemed almost the same colour this afternoon. 'no,' she said, 'that isn't all. it was many, at least several--nine or ten or so years later, that the story goes on again. the boy officer had been out in india and seen fighting and many other things that come into soldiers' lives. but now that was over for him. other duties had come into his life and changed it. well--he was staying near the sea, with his mother and sisters, and one day, after a boating expedition,--it was a picnic to a picturesque island not far off,--he was introduced to a girl who had come with some other acquaintances. and they walked up and down the sands for a little. he kept looking at her in rather a curious way, and she wondered why, till at last he said-- '"i have the strangest feeling that i have seen you before, but i cannot tell where or when. and your name does not help me to remember." 'then the girl looked at him in her turn very carefully. and a sudden rush of remembrance came over her. '"is your name," she said quite eagerly,--"is your name--your first name 'jack'?" '"yes," he said, more and more puzzled. 'she smiled, and then she laughed, and then she told him. '"i believe i can solve the riddle," she said. "i once rode through the sea on your horse--in front of you.'" 'and then jack remembered.' and _i_ understood! 'oh, mamma!' i exclaimed, 'what a dear story. and _you_ are the little girl, and dear papa is "jack," and--and--it ended in your being married! how clever it was of him to remember your face again!' 'don't you think it was still cleverer of me to remember his name?' said mamma. '_he_ always says so. but ida, dearest, look how low the sun is getting. we must hurry home, or geordie and the others will be getting tired of waiting for tea,' and she got up from her root-seat as she spoke, and we walked on quickly. i kept on thinking of the story all the way. it was so pretty and yet so queer to think of my own papa and mamma as if they were people in a book, and to picture to myself that once upon a time, or _ever_, they were strangers to each other. 'mamma must have been a dear little girl,' i thought to myself, as i glanced up at her; 'she is still so pretty and sweet;' and i felt that to me she _always_ would seem so, even when her golden hair had grown silver, and her bright eyes dimmer, and her rounded cheeks thin and worn. 'she will always be my dear pretty mamma,' i thought. chapter viii 'i've brought my house with me, like a snail' the interest of listening to mamma's story had made me for the time almost forget about miss trevor's present. but as we got close to the hut and saw george coming to meet us, it rushed back into my mind again. 'i say,' he called out, as he caught sight of us, 'it's past tea-time; hoskins wanted us to begin without waiting for you, but i wouldn't. she said she was sure you were having it up there with those people,' and he nodded his head in the direction of the big house. 'oh no!' said mamma, 'i like tea at home best, my boy.' and 'oh no!' i joined in;' i was really in a hurry to get back, dods, for i have something very interesting to tell you. and you mustn't call them "those people;" they are very nice indeed and _very_ kind. they're going to send----' 'wait till we are at tea to tell him all about it,' interrupted mamma. 'it will take some time, and i see esmé and denzil peeping out impatiently.' tea, you see, had become rather a settled sort of meal, even for mamma, though she and geordie and i had a sort of little dinner or supper, i scarcely know which to call it, later in the evening. but _nursery_ meals had of course to be given up at the hut, as there was no nursery to have them in, so esmé and denzil did not think five o'clock tea a small affair by any means. and whether it was that the being so _very_ close to the sea had sharpened our appetites, or that hoskins and margery between them made such very good 'plain cakes,' i can't say, but i certainly don't remember ever having nicer teas or enjoying them more than at the hut. 'well,' began geordie, after we were all seated comfortably at the table, 'what is the interesting thing you have to tell about, ida? has it anything to do with the--our tenants,' he went on, with a tone of satisfaction in his voice; 'i may call them _that_, for that's what they are.' 'yes, of course it has,' i said. 'you might have guessed that much without being a--what is it you call a man witch--oh yes, a wizard, as you knew mamma and i were there this afternoon, and i began to tell you they were going to send us something. it's the jolliest thing you ever saw, dods--isn't it, mamma? do help me to describe it.' between us we managed to do so pretty well, and i could see that geordie was really very pleased about it. but he was in one of those humours that boys have more often than girls, i think--of not showing that he was pleased--'contradictious,' hoskins calls it, and of trying to poke out something to find fault with or to object to. 'hum, hum,' he kept murmuring; 'yes, oh yes, i know the sort of thing. but there's one point you've forgotten, ida, and mamma too, haven't you?--where is this wonderful chair affair to be kept?' and he looked round the table in a provoking sort of way. 'it won't _always_ be fine dry weather, and certainly it wouldn't get in at the door here by your description, even if we had any room for it to stand in.' i suppose my face fell, and i think mamma, who is as quick as lightning to understand one's little changes of feeling, was rather vexed with geordie, who is--or _was_ rather--he has got out of those half-teasing ways wonderfully, now that he is older--tiresome sometimes, though he is so good, for she said quickly-- 'we shall find some place or plan something about it. don't be afraid, ida dear. it is a beautiful present. geordie will thoroughly appreciate it when he sees it.' 'is it big enough to hold both denny and me together?' asked esmé. 'it's big enough to hide you, so that you couldn't be seen at all, you small person,' said mamma laughing. i felt sure mamma would plan something, so that we need not feel we had got a white elephant in the shape of a garden chair. all the same, geordie's objection did worry me a little. i kept wondering, when i woke in the night, where we _could_ keep miss trevor's present, and hoping that we should not have to send it back after all. i need not have done so, for when it arrived, as it did the next morning, it was even more complete than we had known. it was enveloped in a huge waterproof cover, looking like a miniature van or waggon, as the gardener, sent with it, slowly pushed it along! and he explained that, for eight months or so of the year, it would be quite safe outside. for there were also rollers--i don't know exactly what to call them--strips of wood you could roll _it_ on to, to keep the wheels from the damp of the ground, if it _was_ damp, though, as the man said, when he had told us all this and shown us how to slide the wheels into the grooves, 'it's really never for to say damp or wet in the pine woods. if it was wheeled into a good sheltered place, i'd undertake to say it'd be safer and drier than inside most coach-houses or stables.' he was an eastercove man, i should explain, and of course he thought there was no place in the world to compare with it! there was another addition to the belongings of the chair, which we had not known of, and that was a hot water tin which fitted into the footstool, in the same neat, compact way which everything belonging to it did. really a very good thing, for of course any one sitting still out-of-doors may get cold feet, even though it is not winter or wintry weather. geordie stood with his hands in his pockets admiring it all, without a fault to find; not that he wanted to find one, i feel sure. he was in a much cheerier humour this morning, and perhaps he was feeling a little sorry for having wet-blanketed my pleasure at all, the night before. mamma called us all away from our new toy at last. geordie had to set off to mr. lloyd's, and for me, alas! it was one of the days on which i had to act governess to the little ones. i did not mind denzil so much, though he was--i don't mind if he sees this--i am afraid i must say he still is, _very_ slow at lessons. but he cannot help it, not altogether, anyway, and i do think he generally does his best, and when you know that of any one, you can be much less particular with them, can't you? besides, once he _has_ 'taken in' anything thoroughly, he does not forget it, which is a great comfort to a teacher. it was esmé who tried me the most. such a flibbertigibbet (that is one of hoskins's queer words, and mamma does not like me to use them much, but it is so expressive) you never saw. if you got her to give her attention, or thought you had, and were feeling quite pleased and even proud of it, as she sat there with her bright eyes fixed on the map, we'll say, while you were pointing but how big russia was, and how tiny england seemed with the sea all round it, all of a sudden she would say something like this-- 'ida, _did_ you see that girl just in front of the school-children in church?' (geography, i think, came on a monday morning.) 'i couldn't make out if the ribbon on her hat was green or blue, or both shaded together.' and then if i scolded her and begged her to think of her lessons and not of people's hats in church, she would explain in the funniest way, that thinking of the sea, which sometimes looks blue and sometimes green, and sometimes you don't know which, had made her remember how puzzled she had been about the girl's hat. upon which denzil must come in with his remark, very wise and proper of course-- '_i_ think,' he said, 'that esmé and nobody, shouldn't think about hats and ribbins and things like that in church--never. _i_ think it'd be much better if ladies and girls dressed all like each other, like men and boys, when they go to church.' 'oh, indeed,' said esmé; 'and who was it that was in a terrible fuss about his tie not being knotted up the right way only last sunday as ever was, and----' 'esmé!' i exclaimed, horrified, 'where _did_ you learn anything so vulgar--"last sunday as ever was"? what would mamma say if she heard you?' 'it was margery that said it,' replied esmé, not the least put out; 'and i thought it sounded rather nice, but i won't say it again if you'd rather i didn't. _is_ it nonsense, ida, about men and boys never thinking about their clothes? geordie can't bear his best hat to be touched, and i've noticed gentlemen, big ones, i mean like papa--looking as cross as anything if they couldn't put their hats safe. _i_ think they fuss more on sundays in church than any other time.' 'well, don't talk any more about it just now,' i said, 'or you will never get your geography into your head.' but it was already too late. there was very little use trying to call back esmé's wandering wits once they had started off on an expedition of their own, and i really began to fear i should have to tell mamma that i was very little, if any, use as the child's governess. about this too, as things turned out, i need not have worried. it is curious how very seldom what we vex ourselves about before it happens does come to pass! i suppose this should show us the harm and uselessness of fancying troubles, or exaggerating them. we were very busy and happy that afternoon, i remember, when george came back from kirke, in arranging the wonderful chair. we settled it near the porch, and to please us, as it was really a very fine, almost warm day, mamma said we might have tea there, and that she would sit in the chair with esmé on the stool, and the little table hooked on for their cups and plates. i made tea on a little table in the porch, and dods and den handed it out. it was rather a squash, but we didn't mind. mamma looked so comfortable under the awning, which we had drawn out, as we wanted to try everything; the only mistake was having the hot-water bottle in the footstool filled; poor mamma was obliged to ask to have it taken out, as she said she was afraid her feet were really nearly getting boiled, and of course it was not cold enough weather to require it. after tea was over and the things taken away, mamma said she would stay where she was for a little and finish a letter to papa, in which she would tell him all about her movable 'boudoir,' as she called it. she really seemed to have taken a great fancy to it, which i was very pleased at, for of us all--though she never said or seemed to think so--it was certainly mamma who had had to give up the most of what she was accustomed to, when we came to live at the hut. esmé and denzil ran down to the shore to play, and dods and i strolled round a little. i remember all about that evening, even without looking up in my diary. i think i was telling him the story mamma had told me, of when she was a little girl, and the bathing machine, and papa saving her, and we had walked up a short way behind the house, to a part of the path, or road--it was a road, though a small one--from where you could see a bit of the drive from the lodge to the big house. suddenly something came in view--the queerest-looking thing you ever saw, like a van, and yet not like one, more like a small omnibus, only all over the top it was bumped out into all kinds of shapes, so that it looked like a gypsy's basket waggon, with a cover over. 'what can that be?' i said to geordie. and we both stared hard, as the thing slowly made its way along. 'the trevors must have queer things sent to them,' i said. 'it isn't the railway van from the station, and yet, if it was travelling pedlars or anything of that kind, they wouldn't have let it in at the gates.' geordie did not speak. he has better eyes than i--i have always been a little near-sighted--and he stood there gazing before him with an odd expression creeping over his face. he saw--what i did not--a head, or part of one, poked out of the window at the back of the strange vehicle. 'geordie,' i said at last, 'what are you staring at so? what _do_ you think it is? oh!' as i suddenly caught sight of a new feature in the mystery, 'i do believe the thing is coming down _here_, and not going to the big house at all.' for there was a side road out of the drive just about the part that the strange carriage or waggon had now got to, which led in our direction. 'yes,' said geordie, turning to me, and speaking very slowly and distinctly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes, which rather spoilt the solemnity of his tone, 'you are right, ida. i will tell you what it is--it is the _balloon_.' now indeed it was i who stared! what could he mean? did balloons come in vans, and what had we to do with them? it was not for a moment or two that i remembered our joke about taisy,--that she meant to astonish us by coming down in a balloon or something wonderful and original of that kind, from her mysterious hints in her letter to mamma. and then i seemed to understand it all, almost better than dods did. it quite took my breath away. 'come, come, dods!' i cried, setting off as i spoke, 'let's run to meet her. oh, taisy, taisy, you funny girl! oh, how delighted i am!' we ran so fast that we reached the waggon almost before the driver and horses--there were two--seemed fairly launched on the side road, and in time to hear an eager voice from within calling out, 'all right, straight on, now. there is plenty of room.' it was theresa of course, but just at first she did not see us. she was leaning out on the other side to make the driver hear. but she turned, fast enough, when our shouts reached her, though she did not jump down, as we half expected. [illustration: 'i can't very well get out,' she said.] 'i can't very well get out,' she said. 'i'm so packed in, and there are some breakable things. but i'll manage it in a minute. yes, yes--it's i myself! i've come to stay with you, though i have not been invited. and--you'll understand directly, i've brought my house--or rather my room--with me like a snail, so auntie can't turn me away again.' she was so excited and delighted with herself, and we were so excited and delighted too, that we could scarcely speak for laughing. we did not let her get out; she _was_ so packed in, as she said, but we walked by the door, she talking as hard as she could, for her vehicle was lumbering along at a foot's pace. 'yes,' she said, in answer to our eager questions; 'i've been travelling like this since ten o'clock. no, not _quite_ like this--we did trot on the high road. the waggonette----' 'waggonette,' interrupted george, 'i should call it a--waggon and a half!' 'well, never mind about that. call it an omnibus if you like. anyway, _it_ started yesterday, and spent the night at wetherford. granny wanted me to come all the way to kirke by train and to write to tell you, which would have spoilt the fun. so i got her to let me '('to _let_ you indeed, miss taisy,' thought i to myself, though i did not say so; 'i know better. you said sweetly, "granny, dear, i just must;" and she said, "well, well, my darling, if you must, you must, i suppose")--'to let me come to wetherford this morning with her maid, and to meet old dawson' (the driver) 'there, and come on as you see. i had hard work to find room for myself inside, and i did begin to think we should never get here! but the evenings are long now, and it's been a lovely day; everything's dry and ready--bedding and all. there'll be plenty of time to unpack, and dawson is to stay the night at kirke, and ride home on one horse, leading the other.' 'and leaving the waggon,' i said, rather stupidly i must own; i think i was really feeling rather bewildered with the excitement and laughing and taisy's flow of explanation. she burst out laughing again at this. 'of course,' she said. 'if i didn't keep my house, i might as well go back again. but do let us hurry on to tell auntie all about it.' i think in her heart of hearts poor taisy was feeling a tiny atom anxious as to what mamma would think of it all. but she need not have done. mamma understood her so well and trusted her good sense as well as her affection, in spite of dear taisy's _rather_ wild ways sometimes. she--mamma, i mean--was sitting quietly where we had left her, reading, in the new chair. and it was nice to see the bright look of pleasure which came over her face when she realised that it was taisy, really taisy, and not an 'optical illusion,' who stood before her and then hugged and kissed her as no illusion could have done. 'but, my child,' said she, 'where----' 'where are you going to put me?' interrupted our new guest; 'look, auntie, look up and see,' and she pointed to the van, which was just coming in sight again. 'i have brought my house with me.' mamma's face looked completely puzzled now. 'i will explain,' theresa went on, and indeed george and i wanted this part of it explained as much as mamma did. 'that lovely old thing that's lumbering along is granny's discarded luggage-waggonette. it hasn't been used for centuries; it is really a small omnibus more than a waggonette. i ferreted it out in one of the coach-houses, where i was poking about with a vague idea that i might find something of the kind to make it possible for me to come to you after all. and i got the coachman to help me. we had it thoroughly dried and aired, and the seats at one side taken out--and a friend of the coachman's, who is a clever carpenter, has fitted it up. you will see. there is a table that slips down when not wanted, and a frame in one corner to hold a basin and ewer, and hooks for hanging things, and a tray like a deep drawer under the seat that's to be the bed. oh, it's lovely! and really as good as a cabin on board ship,' and taisy stopped to take breath. 'and did aunt emmeline know about it?' asked mamma. 'she gave me leave to do what i liked with the old thing,' said taisy; adding candidly, 'i did not tell her _what_ i was doing till it was all ready. she thought i was fixing it up for photographing, i think. but in the end she was nearly as excited about it as i was, and she gave me all sorts of things--blankets and pillows and crockery and little curtains. it's just stuffed with things--inside and out--though i brought as few personal things--clothes, i mean--as possible, for i don't want to crowd _you_ up, you see. i shall have room for everything when it's all unpacked, you will see,' she added, with a touch of apology in her voice. 'dearest child,' said mamma, 'as if we would mind that, if _you_ were comfortable.' taisy's eyes beamed. 'comfortable,' she repeated; 'that is no word for what i am going to be.' 'and how long may you stay?' asked geordie. 'as long as you like to have me,' was the reply. 'granny is expecting her old friend to-morrow, and i _know_ they will be much happier without me. i have a letter from granny for you, auntie, explaining her plans. but there's no hurry about that. i want to begin unpacking. and what a lovely arrangement all this is!' she went on admiringly, touching the arm of mamma's chair as she spoke, 'nearly as beautiful as my waggon!' then the history of miss trevor's present had to be related, and all its wonderful perfections exhibited. and then hoskins appeared with a cup of fresh tea for miss theresa, which she offered with a face all over smiles, for taisy was a great favourite of hers. and 'miss theresa' drank the tea, and devoured bread and butter and cake in a most gratifying way; and then she _had_ to run through the hut, and see all that we had done to it. so that, after all, it was rather late before we got to the unpacking of the waggon, though hoskins and margery and dawson had already done a good deal. chapter ix 'the kind sea, too, auntie dear' we _did_ get everything unpacked that night, but only in a rough-and-ready way. we should have liked to go on till midnight or later even, working by moonlight, for it was full moon and very clear weather just then, but this mamma would not hear of. and hoskins in her sensible way pointed out how much more nicely and neatly we could finish it all by daylight with the straw and packing cloths all tidied away, which she would 'see to' first thing in the morning. she and mamma had already arranged for taisy to sleep in my room that night, by esmé's sleeping with mamma, and by taking out the end of esmé's cot, to make it longer--long enough after a fashion, for _me_. how we laughed, taisy and i, though any other girl would have been tired after all she had done, and the tiresomely slow drive from wetherford! mamma was obliged to knock on the--wall, i was going to say--but of course it was not a wall, only a wooden partition, to tell us to be quiet. i never knew any one with such spirits as taisy--not only high spirits, but _nice_ ones, for she was never boisterous, and she knew in a moment if you were not inclined for laughing or joking, though her fun was always there, ready to bubble up again at the right moment. she was full of sympathy too, in spite of her cheerfulness; no one could possibly have called her heartless. looking back, i can see what a _very_ good thing it was for us all that she came, even for mamma. we were in danger just then of being too much taken up with our own little life--the life of the hut--which is one kind of selfishness. and dear mamma in her _un_selfishness might have got too silent about all she was feeling; she was so afraid of making us young ones melancholy. but i have seen her sitting or standing, when she thought we did not notice, gazing at the sea--gazing, gazing, as if she could scarcely bear it and yet must look at it. the cruel sea, which had taken dear papa so far away! on fine, sunny days i almost think somehow it seemed worse. i know that feeling about the sea myself, as if it _were_ cruel really, below its loveliness and brilliance. and i am sure she said something of this to taisy, the very day after taisy came, for i heard _her_ say, though her eyes were full of tears-- 'the _kind_ sea, too, auntie dear, which will bring him back again.' and as for us children, it was just delightful past words to have theresa. we had been very happy at the hut already, very busy and interested, but the _fun_ of the life there came with taisy. she was full of it, though the things we found so amusing are too trifling, even if they would not seem really silly, to write down. the arranging of her 'house,' as she would call it, was the nicest part of all the arranging we had had to do. we pulled it close up to one side of one of our doors--the 'parish room' doors you understand, where there were no windows, so that the waggon was, so to say, protected by one of the iron walls--i don't know what else to call it, and which also gave the advantage of a tap in the night arousing us at once, _in case_ taisy felt frightened, which she never did. but the tapping was very convenient all the same, as she could awaken me in the mornings when they got warm enough for very early bathing, without 'disturbing the whole house,' as hoskins said. and i could tap to her, last thing at night, to wish her good-night. you never saw a cosier place than we made of it; that first day after it was all arranged, we _couldn't_ leave off admiring it. there was taisy's bed along one side, rather a narrow one of course, though not worse than a berth at sea, and looking so bright with the lovely scarlet blankets lady emmeline had given her. and in one corner a little frame which held a ewer and basin, and in the other some hooks for hanging things with a red curtain that drew round, and short red curtains to the windows, and a _tiny_ chest of drawers; it was really one end of an old writing-table, or _secretaire_, to hold gloves and pocket-handkerchiefs and belts and small things like that. then under the bed there was a long low trunk, what is called a cabin portmanteau, i believe, which held taisy's best dresses, of which she had certainly not brought many, and hooks higher up than the hanging ones, for her hats. you wouldn't believe, unless you have ever been a long voyage--i _have_, since those days--all that was got into the old omnibus, by planning and ingenuity. taisy was as proud of it as if she had made or built, i suppose one should say, the whole carriage; indeed, i think we all were, once we had got everything perfectly arranged. mamma carried off some of her _most_ crushable things, as she said she had really some spare room in her own cupboards or wardrobes; and i took her best hat, as it had lovely white feathers, which it would have been a thousand pities to spoil, and which there was plenty of space for in the big box where esmé's and mine were. and then taisy declared she felt her house quite spacious. lady emmeline had sent several things for us, some especially for mamma herself, which i was particularly glad of, as dear mamma, never thinking of herself and anxious to leave the big house as pretty as usual, had left behind some little things that i am sure she missed. and old aunt emmeline and taisy seemed to have guessed by magic what these were. 'how nice!' i exclaimed, when taisy had got them unpacked. 'this screen is just like the one you have in the boudoir at home, and cushions--i _know_ you will be glad of some cushions, mamma, though you wouldn't bring any with you.' 'and a _couvre-pied_,' added taisy; 'granny was sure you hadn't got enough "wraps." nothing will persuade her that it is not always as cold as winter down here.' 'it is most kind of her,' said mamma; 'and i really am very, very pleased to have these things. and--did you know, ida?--aunt emmeline has also sent us two hampers full of all manner of good things to eat--chickens and a turkey, and a ham and pickled tongues, and i don't know all what.' 'yes,' said taisy; 'nothing will persuade her either that you are not----' she stopped suddenly and got rather red. 'i know,' said mamma, laughing, 'that we are not in danger of starvation as well as of cold. you need not mind, taisy dear--as if _anything_ could offend us that you said or that aunt emmeline thought. and of course it is true that we are anxious to spend as little as we can, while things are so uncertain.' 'and then we can't cure hams or pickle tongues like at home,' i added. so all the kind old lady's gifts were very welcome. i think hoskins was more pleased with the eatables than with anything. things had been nice before, but after taisy came, we really did enjoy ourselves. she was always planning something amusing or interesting, and mamma declared she had never heard me or geordie laugh so much in her life. it was very good for geordie to be 'routed out' a little, as taisy said. he was inclined to be too serious and anxious, and to overwork, at this time, because of the scholarship, and as i had put it into his head, i was doubly glad of being helped to keep him bright and merry, as i know he worked all the better for it. he was _really_ anxious-minded--not like denzil, who never laughed and was as solemn as an owl, not because _he_ was anxious, but just because he was too fat and comfortable to worry--poor old den!--he really _is_ so good-tempered, i don't like laughing at him. it was very nice too that just about this time came the first really long letter from papa; up to now he had written scarcely more than scraps. and this letter was decidedly more cheerful and hopeful. he had begun to go into things thoroughly, he said, and had got very good friends to help him, and he was beginning to think that, at worst, it would not turn out _too_ awfully bad. and for this mamma felt very grateful, though she had so bravely prepared for whatever might be to come. so for a few weeks we went on very contentedly, more than that, indeed--very brightly too. it was, for me, too delightful not to have much governessing to do, for taisy at once took the most of this on herself. and i assure you, she _did_ keep miss esmé in order. in return for this she joined me in some of my reading with mamma, and she always has said that she learnt more in this way about some lessons than she had ever done before. mamma is very clever. we went on, as i said, pretty steadily like this for some weeks till another rather big thing happened--almost as big as the 'descent of the balloon,' which we always called theresa's arrival. but before telling about this new event, i must relate a curious thing that happened one day. it was one afternoon--just after tea--we were still sitting out of doors where we had had tea--mamma in her 'boudoir,' for the days were getting quite long, and we were specially glad to be in the open air as much as possible, for we had had a good deal of rain for nearly a week--mamma was reading, and i think i was too--when hoskins came out of the house looking rather 'funny'--queer, i mean, as if not quite sure if she were vexed or not. 'if you please, ma'am,' she said, 'there's a gypsy at the back door, and i can't get her to go till she's seen you.' 'a gypsy,' mamma exclaimed in great surprise; 'how has she managed to get inside the grounds? and i did not know there were any in the neighbourhood just now. it is so seldom they come this way too. taisy,' she went on, looking round, 'you might speak to her for me and ask what she wants.' but taisy was not there. 'miss theresa has gone into the woods, i think,' said hoskins; 'i heard her calling to miss esmé just after tea-time.' mamma and i had not noticed the others going; our books must have been interesting, and time passes quickly in such a case. 'how did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?' mamma repeated. 'that's what i asked her first thing,' hoskins answered; 'but she did not answer very distinctly. she says she has come a good bit out of her way to see you--there are not any camping about near here. she has a boy with her--perhaps she wants something for him--quite a little fellow. she's a pleasant, civil-spoken woman--indeed, gypsies generally are if they want to get something out of you.' 'like most people, i am afraid,' said mamma, smiling as she reluctantly prepared to move. 'perhaps i had better speak to her; it would not do to have her lurking about all night. they are queer people--i should not like to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy.' 'mayn't i come with you, mamma?' i said. 'i have never spoken to a real gypsy.' mamma looked at me rather doubtfully. 'oh yes,' she said; 'but i don't want her to tell your fortune or anything of that kind, ida, so do not encourage her if she begins about it.' we made our way through the hut, followed by hoskins, to the door at the back, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing--margery, who was washing up (i never saw margery _not_ washing up, by the bye), was also keeping an eye on the woman, though i could see by the movement of her shoulders that she was giggling. mamma went forward. 'what do you want to see me for?' she said gently but rather coldly. the woman lifted her face--she was not quite as tall as mamma, and looked at her closely, but not rudely. she was older than i had somehow expected. her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not _quite_ as dark as one imagines a gypsy's must be; i thought to myself that perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. she was wrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though not beautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even. 'yes, my lady,' she said, 'i did want to see you. i have come far to do so.' her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost as if using a foreign language. 'how did you get through the gates?' mamma asked. the answer was a shake of the head. 'i have not passed through them--not to-day,' she said. 'there are ways--when one is in earnest.' 'i hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls,' said mamma, rather uneasily. another shake of the head. 'no, no--have no fear; i have done no harm,' was the reply, and somehow mamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it. 'but what do you want to see me for?' she repeated. 'has it anything to do with the boy? is he your son, or your grandson?' and she glanced at the little fellow beside the gypsy. a very little fellow he was--dark too, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. he stood there with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over his forehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of his face. mamma looked at him curiously--afterwards she told me she felt sorry for him, and wondered if the woman was good to him. she--the woman--glanced at him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language, on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though without actually taking it off--meant, of course, for politeness. but he never spoke the whole time they were there. 'no, my lady,' the woman replied, turning again to mamma,--'no, i have no favour to ask for the child. he is not my son--nor my grandson,' and here she smiled, showing her white teeth; 'i am not quite old enough for that, though i may look it. i wanted to see you for a reason of my own--to do you no harm, you may be sure. and one day you will know the reason. but now,' and she held out her hand, 'you will let me tell your lines? not much, nor far--i would not ask it. just a little, and mostly of the past.' mamma shook her head. 'then the young lady's?' said the gypsy, looking at me. mamma shook her head still more decidedly. 'no, no,' she said; 'i would rather you told mine than hers. such things make young people fanciful.' 'then your own, my lady,' said the woman, and again she held out her hand persuasively,--'just a little.' i drew nearer. 'do, mamma,' i whispered; 'she may be offended if you don't.' mamma laughed, and held out her right hand. 'cross it with silver,' said the woman, simply but gravely, as if she were issuing a command. i had my purse in my pocket, and drew it out. 'give her a shilling,' said mamma. i did so. then the gypsy bent over mamma's hand, studying it closely and murmuring to herself. 'the other too,' she then said, without looking up. mamma gave it. 'yes,' said the gypsy, almost as if speaking to herself,--'yes--you have come through some dangers--water was the worst, but that was long ago. now water has robbed you of your dearest, but only for a time. it will restore what it has carried away. and you will be happy. you have a brave heart. strange things have happened of late to you. you have with you an unexpected visitor. and you are going to have another unexpected visit--a shorter one. show kindness to your guest; it is always well to do so, though you may not care to receive a stranger. and----' 'no,' said mamma,--'no, my good woman. i really don't want to hear any more. it is getting late, and you say you have come far and this little fellow will be tired. you had better go,'--she drew away her hand as she spoke, though quite gently. 'very well, my lady,' said the woman, without persisting further; 'and i thank you for your courtesy.' 'shall i send some one to see you through the lodge gates?' said mamma; but the woman shook her head. 'there is no need,' she said. 'i shall not pass that way,' and she walked off quietly. hoskins came forward and stood beside us. 'i declare,' she said, 'she is going by the shore! what a round to get to the high road!' 'perhaps she is going to meet a boat,' i said. for there were little coves farther on, from where boats were easily launched, and whence an hour or so's rowing would bring them to a small fishing village called brigsea. 'very likely,' said mamma; 'that is a good idea and explains the mystery. but she was a queer woman all the same,' and mamma seemed a tiny bit upset. 'she only told you good things, though,' i said. 'i do wonder how she knew about your escape from a great danger by water, long ago.' 'yes,' said mamma. 'it is very strange how they know things.' 'and about our unexpected visitor,' i went on; 'that meant taisy, of course. but i wonder who the new one coming can be?' 'oh, nobody, i daresay,' said mamma. 'visitors and letters coming are one of their stock prophecies. still she did not strike me as quite a commonplace gypsy. i wish taisy had been here to see her too. where can they all be, i wonder?' we were not kept uncertain very long. we heard a whoop, followed by the appearance of the two boys, who told us that taisy and esmé were coming directly. 'we've all been in the wood,' said geordie. 'i wish you had been here,' i said. 'there's been a gypsy at the back door,' and i went on to tell him of our strange visitor and what she had said. geordie whistled. 'i should have liked to talk to her,' he remarked. 'did she say how she got into the grounds?' i shook my head. 'no,' i replied. 'she was very mysterious about it, but she went away in the direction of the shore, so she prob----' i was interrupted by another whoop, and in a moment or two up came taisy and esmé, looking very hot and untidy, but very eager to hear all details of our rather uncanny visitor, as soon as the word 'gypsy' had caught their ears. and we talked so much about her that at last mamma said we had really better change the subject, or she would begin to wish she had not agreed to see the woman. 'you will all be dreaming about her and fancying she knew much more than she did,' mamma added; and though she smiled and did not seem at all vexed, i somehow felt that she rather wished the gypsy had not come. one little thing which she said helped to explain this. 'i cannot get the small boy out of my mind,' it was. 'she spoke sharply to him, and he seemed frightened. i do hope she is not unkind to him.' 'oh no,' i said; 'she had not an unkind face at all, though there was something rather--_odd_--about it, besides her being a gypsy.' taisy laughed, and stroked mamma's arm. 'i should think it _most_ unlikely she is unkind to the child,' she said, 'though he is not her son--or grandson! dear auntie, you are too tender-hearted.' just then i heard a sort of giggle from esmé, who, for a wonder, was sitting quietly with a book in a corner. i felt vexed with her. 'esmé,' i whispered, 'it's very rude to laugh at anything taisy says to mamma.' chapter x 'it's another snail' it was the next morning at breakfast that another strange thing happened. it was when the letters came. we did not get them quite so early as at home, for it would have brought the postman a good deal out of his way to come down to the hut, so it had been arranged for him to leave them at the lodge, and for them to be sent on from there. this morning there were only two: one for mamma--a long one, it seemed, but not a foreign one, as i saw by a glance at the thick paper while she was reading it. but i had not noticed anything about taisy's, and when a queer kind of little gasp made me look round at her, my first thought was that there was bad news of papa, which some one had somehow sent first to her--taisy--for her to 'break it,' as they say, to mamma. and my heart began to beat furiously, and no wonder, i think, for taisy was as white as the tablecloth, and was evidently on the point of bursting into tears. 'taisy, taisy,' i whispered. luckily she was sitting next me, so that i could speak to her in a low voice without being overheard. 'is it--oh, is it, anything wrong with papa?' and i felt myself clasping my hands together under the table in an agony of terror. _my_ face brought back taisy's presence of mind. 'no, no,' she said. 'nothing of that kind--nothing wrong really. i know i am very silly,' and already the colour was coming back to her cheeks, for she was not a nervous or delicate girl at all. 'it is only--oh, i must tell auntie first, and then you will understand the sort of fright i got.' she stopped abruptly, for just then mamma looked up from her letter and spoke to taisy. she was smiling a little, which made me feel all the more puzzled as to what was the matter with taisy when i heard her reply to mamma's question, 'have you too a letter from your grandmother?' 'yes, auntie,' as if the two words were all she could force herself to say. still, mamma did not notice her peculiar manner. she herself turned again to her letter. 'i must say my respect for our gypsy has risen,' she remarked, 'though i suppose it is really only a rather odd coincidence.' at this taisy's colour changed again and her lips began to quiver. and, happening to glance across the table, i saw that esmé's mouth was wide open, and that she was staring gravely at taisy, in a way quite unusual with her. i could not make it out at all. breakfast was over by this time. mamma turned to the children. 'run off, dears, but don't be very long. you have just time for a little blow before taisy and ida are ready for lessons.' 'but, mamma,' began esmé, 'i want to speak to taisy first.' 'no "buts," esmé,' said mamma decidedly. we were well used to them. 'taisy won't be ready to speak to you just yet. run off at----' she had not time to finish the sentence before she at last noticed taisy; the tears were really starting by now, and her breath came in little chokes. 'go, children,' mamma repeated, looking startled, 'and geordie, dear, you had better be getting ready for kirke.' geordie, big boy as he was, was very obedient. he got up, first catching hold of denzil by his sailor collar, to make him hurry up. he--george--must have been as puzzled as any one, for he had no idea of course what the letters contained. but he contented himself with a kind of reassuring nod to taisy as he left the room, and a sign to me as he gave a little gesture of the hand in her direction, as much as to say, 'be good to her, ida.' then taisy broke down and fairly sobbed. mamma got up and came round to her. 'my dearest child,' she said, 'what _is_ the matter? it has something to do with your grandmother's letter, i can see. do you dislike this boy--what is his name--oh yes, rolf--rolf dacre--that she writes about?' 'oh no, no, indeed. he is a very nice boy, as nice as he can be,' taisy replied, amidst her tears. 'it isn't that at all. it's--it's about the gypsy--the saying it like a prophecy--it wasn't right. i--i shouldn't have done it, but i thought it was no harm, only fun;' and she began sobbing again. for a moment or two mamma and i stared at each other, as if we thought taisy was losing her wits. then gradually light began to break in upon us. "_you_ shouldn't have done it," you say, dear,' mamma repeated. 'do you mean--can you mean----' taisy nodded. 'yes,' she said; 'you have guessed it, i see. but please do not be angry with me. i meant no harm.' 'then _you_ were the gypsy,' mamma exclaimed, as if she could scarcely believe it. 'and,' i added, 'the little boy was--oh, he was esmé, i suppose. that was why she was looking so queer at breakfast.' 'was she?' said taisy, 'i didn't notice. yes, she was the little boy. i did not mean to mix her up in it, but she came poking about when the boys were helping me to dress up, and we thought the best way to keep her quiet was for her to join in it. but, auntie--i was going to tell you all about it to-day--you believe me, don't you?' and she lifted such an appealing, tear-stained face to mamma, that mamma could not help patting it reassuringly and kissing her. 'it was very cleverly done--very,' she said. 'and i see no harm in a little trick of the kind if not carried too far. the only thing is--why did you not unmask yourself at once? perhaps--for esmé's sake--it would have been better not to keep up the mystification so long.' 'i know,' said taisy, calmer now, but speaking very humbly, 'that is what i did wrong. it might have led to her telling what was untrue. last night when you were pitying the child--who was _not_ my son or grandson'--and here taisy's sunny nature broke out again in one of her own merry laughs--'i could _scarcely_ keep it in.' 'but why did you, then?' i asked. 'oh, that is what i wanted to explain! i had a sort of wager with geordie. he said i might take you both in _once_, but certainly not twice, and he dared me to try it. so i made a second plan. i was coming again to-day--quite differently--dressed like a rather old-maidish lady, who wanted to know if you would let her have rooms here, as the sea-air and pine-wood air would be so good for her. i meant to have made her very pertinacious, and very funny, and i wanted you to get quite cross with her, auntie dear,' and taisy could not help a little sigh of regret. 'that was why the gypsy foretold that you were going to have another unexpected visitor. i wasn't quite happy about it. when i woke in the night, i felt as if i was carrying the trick too far, as you say. and then when i got granny's letter about another _real_ visitor, all of a sudden i felt so frightened--as if my joke had been turned into earnest as a punishment for my--my daring to predict anything.' 'yes, i understand,' said mamma; 'but do not get exaggerated about it.' then she was silent for a moment or two and seemed to be thinking it over. 'was esmé to have come again?' i asked. taisy shook her head. 'oh no--it was on condition of her keeping quite out of the way the second time--for of course she would have begun giggling if she had seen me, and spoilt it all--that i let her act the gypsy boy.' 'i think,' said mamma, 'that i must unconsciously have recognised something about her--that it was some feeling of that kind that made me so sorry for the boy. but about the whole affair--well, yes, taisy dear. perhaps it was scarcely right--not _quite_ respectful to one so much older than you as i am to let it go on so long. and not quite a good thing for esmé.' 'i know--i see,' said taisy very penitently. 'but,' mamma continued, 'don't exaggerate it now. i will--and you will help me to do so--put it all right by a little explanation to esmé. and don't get it into your head that the coincidence of a real visitor being proposed to us is in any way a "punishment" to you for your piece of fun, though i can understand your feeling startled.' 'oh!' exclaimed taisy, 'i shall never forget what i felt when i opened granny's letter and saw what it was about.' 'then,' said mamma, 'you had no sort of idea that the thing was the least possible?' 'not the very slightest,' taisy replied. 'you see it has happened unexpectedly to every one.' 'yes,' said mamma, glancing again at her letter; 'but you know rolf?' 'i have not seen him for more than a year,' said taisy. 'he spent one or two short holidays with us when his aunt, miss merry, was with granny. he is a very nice boy. i am sure george would like him, though he is two years or so older than dods.' i was growing rather impatient by this time to hear all about the contents of the letters which had caused such a sensation. 'do tell me about it, mamma,' i said. 'is it some one else coming to stay with us? where _could_ we put any one?' taisy began to laugh. 'that's the fun of it,' she said. 'it's another snail--some one who will bring his house with him!' mamma laughed too, but i could see that she was thinking over the new proposal, whatever it was, rather seriously. then between them they told me all about it. it appeared that aunt emmeline's friend, miss merry, had a nephew, the son of a sister, much, much younger than herself, who had died some years ago. the boy's father was in india, so he sometimes, though not always, spent his holidays with his aunt. and this spring something had happened--i forget what exactly--illness at his school, or his leaving school for some reason, sooner than had been expected--which left him with nowhere to go to for some time. 'as ill-luck would have it,' lady emmeline wrote to mother, 'just as taisy had gone to you, and bertha merry and i were settled cosily together, down comes this thunderbolt in the shape of a great hobbledehoy of a boy, who would be utterly out of his element with two elderly ladies and sure to get into mischief. not that he is not a nice fellow and a good boy--i know him to be both, otherwise i would certainly not propose what i am going to do.' and this was the proposal which she had written about--she or miss merry, or both perhaps--to taisy too--that rolf should come to us at the hut, and join geordie, if possible, in his lessons with mr. lloyd, and be just one of the family for the time. _he_ would be as happy as a boy could be; of that his aunt was sure, and would do anything in his power, like a big brother, to help mamma with the younger ones. but the fun of the thing was, that he would bring his room with him! there would be no difficulty about the expense of it. his father was rich and rolf an only child, and his aunt was free to spend whatever she thought right upon him, and being a very energetic little woman, as i think many old maids are, she had already written to some place where such things were to be got, to get sizes and prices and everything required for a neat little iron room, fitted up as a bedroom; and if mamma was so very, very kind as to agree to take him in, rolf would be ready to come the very next week. of course we talked it over a lot. it had to be considered if hoskins and margery could manage another guest, and we were almost surprised to find how pleased hoskins was about it. 'miss theresa,' she said, 'was such a help; there had not seemed half so much to do since she came. and the weather was getting so nice and mild, we would scarcely need fires at all soon, except perhaps 'a little bit, of an evening in the drawing-room.' and it would be such a good thing for master george to have a companion a little older than himself before going to school, which mamma in her own mind had already thought the same about. i never knew hoskins quite so cheery about anything. i think the truth was, that she had thoroughly enjoyed the gypsy mystification which had been confided to her. and i believe, at the bottom of her heart, she thought that somehow or other taisy had had a sudden gift of prediction, and that it would be very unlucky to refuse to receive the unlooked-for visitor. anyhow it ended in mamma's writing to aunt emmeline and miss merry, consenting pleasantly to rolf's joining us, provided he promised, or they for him, to be content with our present very simple quarters and way of living. 'that i am sure he will be,' said taisy, who had quite recovered her spirits by the time, or rather long before, the letters were written. 'any boy would be a goose who wasn't delighted with the hut, and rolf is certainly not a goose.' the only person who did not seem quite pleased about it was george. at first i thought this very strange, as naturally you would have expected him to be very delighted at the idea of a companion of his own standing, so to say, which he had never had. but dods was a queer boy in some respects. he is less so now on the whole, though he is just as dear and 'old-fashioned,' in nice ways, as ever, and i do think the _right_ ways in which he has changed are a good deal thanks to rolf. perhaps geordie was a little jealous of him before he came, without knowing it. it was not unnatural, considering everything. poor old dods, you see, had been left by papa in his own place, as the 'man' of the party, and we had all got into the habit of looking to him and even asking his opinion as if he were much older than he really was. and then he was so devoted to taisy; he looked upon himself as a sort of knight to her, i do believe, for down below his matter-of-factness and practicalness, i know now that there is a good deal of romance, and what i can only call poeticalness in dear geordie, so that the idea of a big, handsome, rather dashing fellow coming to take place above him must have been rather trying. i shall never forget the day rolf arrived. i had been feeling sorry for geordie, as i had begun to understand his rather disagreeable manner about rolf, and yet provoked with him too. i did not see after all, i thought to myself, why he should mind rolf's coming, any more than i minded taisy. for though taisy was our own cousin and we loved her dearly, she could not but take a _little_ the place of eldest daughter with mamma, and if she had not been so sweet, it might have been uncomfortable. and after all, rolf was a stranger--and only to be with us a short time. there was far less chance of his really interfering with geordie's own place. these things however are not often set straight by reasoning about them. it is the people themselves--their characters and ways and feelings--that put it all right if it is to be put right. and just as taisy's brightness and unselfishness and simpleness--i can't find a better word--kept away any possibility of jealousy of her on my own part, so it was with rolf. he and she were no sort of relation to each other, and yet in some ways they were very alike. i never did know, and i am sure i never shall know, any one with such a thoroughly straightforward, unfanciful, and yet very loving and sympathising heart as rolf. when i think--but no, i must not allude to that yet--i could scarcely bear to write of these past happy days if i did. but i am wandering away from the day of rolf's arrival. it was not of course a 'balloon surprise,' as dods called taisy's shooting down upon us as she had done, for we knew exactly what train he was coming by, and everything. and it was not so like a 'snail's visit,' which was taisy's own name for hers, as in this case the house came before the snail--the day before. it was a different kind of thing from the parish room--that very substantial affair. this was more like a strong, stout kind of tent--only it did not go up to a quite small point at the top, as i had imagined all tents do. but it was partly made of stretched canvas, with iron rods and bars, and the men who put it up told us it was fireproof as well as waterproof, which mamma was very glad to hear, especially when she saw that a small stove was among the furnishings that came with it. george was very pleased to find that the men from kirke who had received full directions about it all, from the makers, had instructions to set it up wherever we thought best. it almost reconciled him, i could see, to the idea of the stranger boy's visit--even to being pleased at it. and we three--taisy and geordie and i--were not long in finding the best place for the new addition to our encampment. we made it a sort of match, on the other side, to taisy's waggon, though, as it was much prettier to look at, it was placed so that a bit of it showed from the front of the house in a rather picturesque way. inside it really was awfully nice when we got the things unpacked. there was everything that could be wanted for camping out, for i don't think the people had understood that only an additional bedroom was required. they had even sent pots and pans and things like that for cooking, if required, on the stove. 'all the better,' said hoskins, whose face grew beamier and beamier with every article that appeared. 'i shall not be put about now if anything goes wrong with the kitchen fire, as has been at the back of my mind now and then. master dacre, by what miss theresa says, isn't one to grumble if we had to do a bit of cooking in his room, once in a way.' 'no, indeed,' said taisy laughing; 'he'd think it the best of fun and be quite ready to act kitchen-maid.' she declared she was getting quite jealous, as all the perfectly new and fresh furniture and fittings were set in their places, for of course her waggon had been provided with what she required in rather a makeshift way. there were tables and chairs and hanging presses and bookshelves all made to fold up into next to no compass; a squashy bath, which i did _not_ envy, as i was sure it would topple over and all the water be spilt. and there was a lovely red carpet, or strips of it, so thick and firm, which i _did_ envy, as what we had in our rooms was rather shabby, and two or three rugs, which, by the bye, soon found their way to the inside of the hut, when rolf discovered that we liked them, declaring that they were always kicking about in his way. 'yes,' said mamma, when we summoned her to see and admire, 'it is wonderfully nice. and i am glad it has all come the day before. it makes it seem more like rolf's being our guest, that his room should be all ready to receive him.' then esmé made us laugh. she had been standing gazing at it all with her mouth wide open, as was her way when very much interested or very admiring. and then she said, solemnly for once-- 'he must be very--termenjously rich!' after all, something of a surprise _did_ come with rolf, which i must now tell about. chapter xi 'i made sure of that,' said rolf we _heard_ it--the surprise i mean--almost before we heard the wheels of the fly from kirke, bringing the visitor that _was_ expected. for the drive from the lodge is on well-rolled gravel, and as there had been a few showers lately, it was soft, and you scarcely hear a carriage coming in that case. but what we did hear, as we stood about waiting to welcome rolf cordially, was a sharp, clear little voice, not talking, but--barking, and then, almost at the same moment, we caught sight of the fly, as it reached the turn at which anything coming up the drive could be seen from the hut. 'i do believe,' i exclaimed, turning to taisy,--'i do believe he has got a dog!' taisy shook her head. 'i don't know of it if he has,' she said; 'and i don't think he would have brought one without asking if he might.' taisy looked a little frightened. she felt somehow as if she were rather responsible for rolf, especially on account of the gypsy affair! 'it may be a dog belonging to the flyman,' i went on; 'though in that case it would probably be running alongside, and it doesn't sound as if it were.' our doubts were soon set at rest. when the fly drew up, not at the front--there was no place for carriages there, but on a piece of level ground a little towards the back on one side--out sprang our visitor--a tall, fair boy, a good bit taller than geordie, with nice blue eyes and a very sunny look about him, altogether. and--in his arms he held--as if very much afraid of losing it--the dearest, duckiest, little rough-haired terrier you ever saw! rolf--for of course it was rolf--looking just a trifle shy, for which we--geordie and i--liked him all the better--turned at once to taisy, as if to a sort of protector. but he could not hold out his hand, as it was all he could do with both hands to keep the frightened doggie from escaping there and then from his grasp. 'how funny!' i thought. 'why doesn't he let him go? he wouldn't want to run away from his own master!' 'i can't shake hands, taisy--but how are you?' rolf by this time was saying: 'will you introduce me to your cousins? this little beggar--i declare he's as slippery as an eel, in spite of his coat.' we needed no introduction--we all pressed round him to look at the terrier. 'is he so nervous?' said taisy. 'has the railway frightened him?' 'oh no, i don't think so. he was just as bad before we got into the train. it's just strangeness' was the rather puzzling reply. '"strangeness,"' taisy repeated, while geordie and i looked up in surprise,--'strangeness, with his own master holding him?' rolf gave a funny little laugh, and grew rather red. 'oh, but,' he said, 'you see, he doesn't know i'm his master, and i don't want him to. it isn't worth while. i--i only bought him this morning from the keeper at millings--you know millings?'--taisy nodded; it was a place near lady emmeline's. 'i asked him to be on the lookout for one as soon as i knew about coming here. i thought he'd suit miss lanark, as you once said something about her wanting a really nice little dog,' and he smiled at me in his frank, boyish way. it was quite true! rolf must have a good memory, for it was fully six months ago that i had once said in writing to taisy that papa had given me leave to have a dog of my very own if i could get a good-tempered, well-bred one, and that she must let me know if she came across a personage of the kind. for, though it seems odd that, living in the country, we had never had a pet of the kind, it was the case. i think papa and mamma had rather discouraged it, till we were old enough to treat a dog well and not to risk being ill-treated by him! since getting papa's leave to have one of my own i had almost forgotten about it, so many important things and changes had happened. but for a moment or two i forgot everything but my delight. the wee doggie was so sweet--so just exactly what i had pictured to myself as the perfection of a pet. 'oh, thank you, thank you!' i exclaimed, holding out my arms, in which rolf carefully deposited the little creature, not very sorry, i fancy, at the bottom of his heart to make him over to me, for he must have been rather a tiresome travelling companion. 'he's a young dog, but full-grown,' rolf said; 'and very affectionate and good-tempered. i made sure of that. and he's really a lady's dog--his mother belonged to a lady near millings, and that has been his home. she only sold him because she couldn't keep so many. he's a bit timid, they say, or rather nervous--but plucky too; if any one tried to hurt you he'd go for them, the keeper said. but it may take him a day or two to settle down.' it scarcely looked like it--already the little round, rough head was nestling against me, and the nice little cold, black nose rubbing my fingers approvingly, while taisy and george pressed up to me to see him. 'what's his name, rolf?' asked the former. geordie did not speak; i think for a minute or two he was feeling just a little jealous--or envious rather of rolf--as _he_ had not been able to give me a dog, when he saw how delighted i was. but he was too good and unselfish to let this feeling last, and when the terrier gave him a friendly lick in return for a patronising little pat, dods's kind heart was completely won. 'his name,' rolf repeated thoughtfully; 'i'm afraid i forgot to ask. but he'll soon get used to any name. it's often more the tone than the actual sound that a dog notices.' 'i know,' said taisy in her quick way; 'call him "rough." it's not very uncommon perhaps, but it would suit him--his coat--so well, and it is rather like "rolf" too.' we had just decided this when mamma's voice, coming towards us from the hut, made us turn round. 'what are you all about?' she asked. 'i heard the fly come some minutes ago. welcome to eastercove, rolf,' she went on, holding out her hand, which our visitor was now able to take. 'i hope you have had a pleas---- oh! so you have brought your dog,' and she looked a very little startled; 'take care, ida. is he quite good with strangers?' 'oh, but,' i began, and then i suddenly remembered that without mamma's leave i had no right to accept rolf's gift. 'he's mine--my own dog,' i went on; 'that's to say if you will let me have him. you know papa said i might have a dog,' i added pleadingly; 'though of course it is different now. and he is quite good-tempered and gentle.' 'yes,' rolf repeated; 'i made sure of that.' they were the first words mamma had heard him speak. he had not had a chance of thanking her for her 'welcome,' nor she of finishing her sentence about his journey, so taken up had we all been by master rough! but at least it had had the good effect of setting us all at our ease. then i went on to explain about rolf's having remembered what taisy had told him ever so long ago about my wish to have a dog--by the bye, it was lucky that i had not already got one! that possibility had never struck rolf; he had only been turning over in his mind what he could do to please us, whom he thought very kind to 'take him in,' and mamma turned to him in the pretty way she does, which always makes people like her. 'it was very good of you,' she said,--'very good and thoughtful,' and she too patted the new pet--_very_ gently; mamma is a little afraid, perhaps wisely so, of strange dogs--so that in her case he thought a wag of his tail sufficient notice of her attention instead of a lick, for which omission, if mamma had known of it, she would have been grateful! 'do you think,' she went on, turning to us three, 'that among you, you can look after him properly and prevent his getting into any trouble, or straying away in the woods?' 'and getting shot by mistake for a rabbit?' said geordie. 'he is so like one!' we all laughed at this; for nothing in dog shape, _little_ dog shape, at least, could be less like a bunny than rough, though perhaps it was not _very_ respectful of dods to joke at mamma's fears. but she did not mind, and by this time we were all feeling quite at home with rolf, and he with us. so we went in together to tea, where he and the two little ones had to be introduced to each other, and rough exhibited to denzil and esmé's admiring eyes. he had fallen asleep in my arms, feeling happy and comfortable again, and probably thinking i was his old mistress restored to him after some dreadful doggie nightmare of separation. 'mamma need not say, "_among_ you, will he be looked after?"' i thought to myself. 'the darling will have looking after enough from his owner--myself. i only hope the little ones won't tease him, or interfere with him, even out of kindness.' that first evening of rolf's visit left a very pleasant remembrance, and it was only a beginning of many happy days. he seemed to bring with him just what we needed (though taisy had done a good deal, rather of the same kind). it prevented our getting too much taken up with our own affairs, or becoming too 'old-fashioned,'--geordie and i especially--as hoskins called it, and i don't know that there is a better word to express what i mean. he was so thoroughly a boy, though the very nicest kind of boy--not ashamed of being a 'gentleman,' too, in lots of little ways, which many boys either despise, or are too awkward and shy to attend to. i don't mean to say that he was the least bit of a prig--just the opposite. he often forgot about wiping his feet, and was rather particularly clever at tearing his clothes, but never forgot to open the door for mamma and us girls, or to tug at his old straw hat or cap when he met us! or more important things in a sense--such as settling mamma's 'boudoir,' as we got into the habit of calling miss trevor's present, in the best place; and seeing that her letters were taken in good time to the lodge for the postman, and things like that. and looking back upon those days now that i am so much older, i can see that he must have had a good deal of 'tact' of the truest kind, as mamma says it really means care for other people's feelings, not to make dear old geordie at all jealous,--actually, indeed, to take away the touch of it which dods did feel at the beginning. before a couple of days had passed, all the boys were the best of friends. of course, i made rolf leave off calling me anything but 'ida,' and to esmé he was quite a slave. rather too much so. he spoilt her, and it was the only thing taisy and i were not quite pleased with him for, as it did make her much more troublesome again at her lessons. but there came a day when even he got very, very vexed with esmé. i think i must tell the story. she won't mind even if she ever reads this, for she is _much_ more sensible now, and often says she wonders how we all had patience with her. it had to do with rough, my doggie. dogs, as i daresay you, whoever you are, know, if you have had much to do with them, are not always fond of children, or perhaps i should say, are not fond of _all_ children. they hate fidgety, teasing ones, who will pull and pinch them for the fun of making them snap and snarl, or who _won't_ let them have a peaceful snooze on the hearthrug, if they themselves--the tiresome children, i mean--are inclined for noisy romping. if i were a dog, i should do more than snap and snarl in such a case, i know! esmé was not as bad as that. she was a kind-hearted little girl, and never meant to hurt or worry any one. but she was a terrible fidget, and very mischievous and thoughtless. it would have been better for her perhaps to have had a rather less free life than ours at the hut was. there was no one whose regular business it was to look after her. out of lesson hours she might do pretty much as she liked. mamma knew she would never do anything really naughty, or that she thought so, anyway, and we trusted a good deal to the boys, who, even little denzil, were so particularly steady-going, and whom she was generally with. but after rolf came, he and george naturally went about together a good deal, just as taisy and i did, and i don't think any of us realised how completely esmé had the upper hand of den. if i was to blame about her, by not keeping her more with taisy and myself, i was well punished for it by the fright she gave us, as you will hear. it was rather a hot day for the time of year--still only spring. we four elder ones had gone for a good long ramble in the farther off woods, taking our luncheon with us, and for some reason--i think i _was_, in my own mind, a little afraid of rough's getting trapped or some mischance of the kind--i had left my doggie at home, as safe as could be, i thought, for he was under hoskins's care, and she was nearly as fond of him as i myself. he would have been far safer, as it turned out, if we had taken him with us. esmé must have been 'at a loose end' that afternoon, from what she told me afterwards. denzil had got some little carpentering job in hand--he was rather clever at it, and at dinner-time, esmé, as well as he, told mamma about it--so she was quite happy, thinking they had got good occupation, and that there was no fear of any 'idle hands' trouble. but miss esmé, as was her way, got very tired of handing den the nails and tools and things he wanted, and of watching his rather slow progress, and told him she must really go for a run. 'all right,' said denzil; 'but don't go far.' he told us this part of it himself, when he came in for some blame in having 'let' esmé' get into mischief. this sounds rather hard upon him, doesn't it, considering he was fully a year younger than she? but, as i have explained, he was such a solemn old sober-sides, that we had all got into the way of treating him as if he were the responsible one of the two. 'no,' esmé replied, she would not go far; nor did she. she strolled about--i can see her now as she must have looked that afternoon--her hands behind her back, her black legs--she was a tall little girl for her age--showing rather long and thin beneath her big, brown holland overall, her garden hat tilted very much to the back, her lovely goldy hair in a great fuzz as usual, and her bright hazel eyes peering about for something to amuse herself with. as ill-luck would have it, she found the 'something' in the shape of my poor darling roughie! hoskins had allowed him to go out with a bone to the front of the hut, where he was lying very comfortably in the sunshine, on a mat, which he considered his own property. he had left off nibbling at the bone, and was half or three-quarters asleep. now when esmé is--no, i must in fairness say 'was,' she is so different now--in one of her idle yet restless humours, it irritated her somehow to see any one else peaceful and quiet, even if the some one else was only a dog. 'you lazy little beggar,' she said to rough. i don't really know that she said those very words, but i am sure it was something of the kind, and so i think i may 'draw on my imagination' a little in telling the story. 'you lazy little beggar, why don't you get up and go for a run? you are getting far too fat.' and--she told me this herself--she gave him a 'tiny' kick, not so as to hurt him--that i quite believe, but dogs have feelings about other things than being actually hurt in their bodies. he had been blinking up at her good-naturedly, though he was not, as i said, very fond of her. nor was she of him. but now, at the kick, or 'shove,' i think she called it, he gave a slight growl. and no wonder--it was not the sort of thing to sweeten even a sweet-tempered dog's temper--when he was doing no harm and only asking to be left alone in peace. esmé, however, declared that it was the growl that made her wish to tease him. she put her hand into the pocket of her blouse, meaning to take out her handkerchief to 'flick' him a little and make him wake up. but in this pocket, unluckily, besides the handkerchief were some nails and screws and such things which she had put there for convenience while being supposed to 'help' denzil, by handing them to him as he wanted them. and when she touched them, they rattled and jingled, thoroughly rousing poor roughie, who opened his eyes and growled again, this time more loudly, and esmé, delighted, rattled and jingled, and again he growled. then a wicked idea came into her head. she had heard of naughty boys tormenting cats in a certain way. 'it can't hurt him,' she thought; 'it will only make him run, which is good for him.' and she darted into the hut, and through it to rolf's tent, where, as i said, there was a small compact cooking stove, and among the things belonging to it a small but strong tin kettle. esmé looked at it. i believe she was more afraid just then of damaging the kettle than of harming the dog! still she lifted it and considered for a moment. 'no,' she thought, 'it's quite light; it can't hurt him. and it won't hurt _it_ either. i'll only put a few nails in,' and out she ran again to the front, where my poor pet was settling down for another nap, hoping, no doubt, that miss esmé had gone for good. by ill-luck, her other pocket held a good piece of stout string. she sat down and quietly tied up the kettle, so that the lid was secure, having first dropped into it enough nails and screws to make a woful clatter, but taking care that no jingle should be heard as yet. it is wonderful how careful a careless child can be if bent on mischief! [illustration: she fastened the one end of the string round his poor little body.] then speaking for once most gently and caressingly to roughie, who was so surprised that he lay quite still, she fastened the other end of the string to his tail, and round his poor little body too. 'i didn't want his tail to be pulled off,' she said afterwards--fortunately, for his tail _might_ have been badly hurt. then when all was ready, she got up cautiously, and walking away a few steps, called rough very sweetly. but he was rather suspicious; he first got up and stretched himself--there was a faint jingle--poor wee man, he looked behind him--no, esmé was not there; he moved, more jingle and rattle, again she called, and he, beginning to be frightened, turned towards her, on which the cruel little thing 'shoo'ed' him away. she described it all perfectly. and then the idea must have seized him of escaping by flight from the unseen terror. he ran--of course the noise got worse; he ran faster, and it grew louder--faster still--oh, my poor roughie!--louder still, esmé laughing--at _first_, that is to say--to herself, till his doggy wits began to desert him, and a sort of nightmare agony must have seized him. and then--too late--the naughty girl saw what she had done. chapter xii 'well--all is well that ends well!' what i described in the last chapter will explain the scene that met our eyes, and the sounds that reached our ears, as we got near the hut. and unluckily the 'we' did not mean only us four--the two bigger boys and taisy and i. for as we were passing through that part of the near woods which skirts the eastercove gardens--we always took care not to go very close to the house or more private part of the grounds, as, nice as the trevors were, mamma said we must never risk their feeling that the place was not quite their own for the time being--just, i say, as we passed the nearest point to the house, we came upon them, all three of them--mr., mrs., and miss. no, i think i should say all _six_ of them, for trotting round old mrs. trevor's heels were of course the three pugs. and, of course too, huddled up under one arm, was the bundle of many-coloured knitting; she was working as she walked, and when she stopped to speak to us, one or two balls rolled on to the ground, so that before rolf and geordie had time to touch their caps almost, they were both on their knees, trying to catch the truants before they rolled farther away. 'we were coming to see you all,' said miss trevor smiling; 'do you think your mother is at home and disengaged?' 'i think so,' i replied, and then i went on to explain that we had been out for several hours on a private picnicking expedition of our own, and we all joined in saying, 'do come,' for we liked the trevors very much, especially miss 'zenia.' we were a little frightened of mr. trevor; he was so tall and thin, and had the name of being tremendously learned, but they were all very kind, though i have nothing _very_ particular to tell about them. mrs. trevor always made us laugh, with her dogs and her knitting, but she _was_ so good-natured. so we strolled on together, in the pleasant, still, sunshiny afternoon--rolf and geordie talking to mr. trevor, who was not at all 'awe-inspiring' when he got on the subject of his own schooldays, for we heard them all laughing most heartily now and then. taisy declared afterwards that she had picked up balls of wool at least twenty times during that walk, as she kept beside mrs. trevor. and seeing that their mistress was thus engaged, the three dogs--they were really very well-behaved--took to following rather demurely, all three together, while i chatted to zenia. it was not till we were very near the hut that any unusual sounds reached us. i was just talking about roughie to miss trevor, descanting on his perfections, when a sort of queer yelping gasp, or gasping yelp, made us stand still for a moment. 'what can that be?' i said. 'oh, nothing,' said miss trevor. 'one hears all sorts of funny animal sounds in the woods, i have learnt to know. you are rather like an anxious mamma, ida, who has been out and left her baby too long. for i can see you at once think of the dear doggie,' and she laughed a little, though of course quite kindly. i laughed too, and we walked on--we were just a few steps in front of the others. but--again in another moment i stopped, this time holding up my hand, and saying, 'hush!' then i turned, and i fancy i had grown quite white already. 'miss trevor,' i said, 'it _is_ rough, and there must be something dreadful the matter. just listen.' there was the same gasping yelp, almost like a choking human cry, and the strangest rushing and clanking, jingling sounds, all mixed together. 'was he chained up? can he have broken loose?' said zenia breathlessly. 'it sounds like----' '"chained up,"' i repeated indignantly; 'my sweet little roughie! oh no, no!' i cried, as i rushed off. it was rather rude, i am afraid, to repeat her words like that, but she was far too kind to mind. 'geordie, geordie, rolf,' i cried, 'come quickly! there is something dreadfully the matter with rough.' so indeed it seemed, for the noise grew louder, and mingled with it now were a child's calls and shrieks. 'roughie, roughie,' i distinguished in esmé's voice; 'darling roughie, come to me. don't be so frightened, darling. i didn't mean it--oh, i didn't mean it!' and this was what i _saw_. esmé, hair streaming, eyes streaming, scarlet with terror, rushing over the ground in front and at the side of the hut, lost to sight for a moment among the trees, then out again, after _something_--a small, wild animal, it seemed--that was tearing before her, evidently trying to escape from her, or from--yes, what was that strange thing rushing after _it_? another still smaller wild beast of some kind, or what? no, it was nothing alive; it was a metal thing of some kind, rattling, clanking, jingling, and--oh, horrors!--tied to my poor pet's little body. i saw it all at once--affection quickens one's eyes, they say--i took it all in before there was time for any explanation, though esmé screamed to me as she flew on: 'oh, ida, ida, i didn't mean it! stop him, stop him!' naughty, naughty esmé! _he_ had already rushed past me--within a few yards, that is to say--without seeing me, whom he generally caught sight of before you could think it possible. blinded by terror--yes, and deafened too--he did not know i had come; he could not hear his own 'missus's' voice. and he was dreadful to look at: his tongue was hanging out; his whole little head seemed spattered with foam; he was rushing like a mad thing, even though, by the gasping sound he made, you could tell he was exhausted, and had scarcely any breath left. no wonder that, as the boys hurried up behind me, they and mr. trevor--mr. trevor especially--thought he _was_ mad. mr. trevor kept his presence of mind, i must say, under what _he_ thought the dreadful circumstances. he almost pushed his mother and sister and taisy into the porch, and tried to push me in too. but i evaded him. the boys and esmé were quite out of reach--_they_ were tearing after _her_, shouting to her to 'come back, come back!' which did not tend to lessen the uproar. and when _i_ started in pursuit, as of course i did, it must have seemed to any one looking on as if we had all gone mad together! indeed, taisy owned to me afterwards that, terrified as she was, she had hard work to keep down her laughter, especially when she heard me turn upon dignified mr. trevor, and in answer to his despotic-- 'go back, miss lanark, go back; i insist upon it,' shout back, 'nonsense; i will _not_ go back.' and as i heard his next words-- 'the dog must be shot at once. boys, is there a gun about the place?' i grew desperate, for i knew that there _was_ a gun--rolf's--though he and geordie had given their word of honour to mamma not to touch it without leave. then a new idea struck me. instead of rushing round like the others--like the boys that is to say, for by this time esmé had dropped in front of the porch, whence zenia trevor had dragged her in, and she was now sobbing on taisy's shoulder--instead of rushing after roughie, i 'doubled' and _met_ him, my arms outstretched, and using every endearing and coaxing tone i could think of. and oh, the joy and relief when, almost dead with exhaustion by now, he flew into my clasp, and, panting and nearly choking, faintly rubbed his poor little head against me! 'he knows me, he knows me!' i shouted. 'he is not a bit mad; he is only wild with terror.' but i had some trouble to get the others to believe me; _their_ fright had only increased tenfold when they saw me catch him. in some marvellous way mr. trevor had got out the gun--i have always suspected that taisy or hoskins or one of them had already thought of it--and stood within a few paces of my dog and me. but for my having him in my arms, he would have made an end of roughie, and certainly i would never have told this story. as it was, for a moment or two he--mr. trevor, not the poor pet--was very angry. 'miss lanark!' he shouted, 'you are mad yourself to touch him. has he bitten you?' for i was crying so by this time that i had hidden my face in rough's coat. '_bitten_ me!' i exclaimed, looking up and not caring if mr. trevor saw my tears or not,--'_bitten_ me! how can you imagine such a thing? look at him.' and, indeed, it was a sight to melt any heart and disarm any fears! roughie was lying quite still, nestling against me as close as he could get, only quivering now and then and giving little sobbing sighs, just as a tiny child does after some violent trouble and crying. i believe he was already asleep! mr. trevor approached cautiously. 'he--he certainly looks all right now,' he said. 'can it have been a fit of some extraordinary kind, then, or what can----' 'there is no mystery about it,' i said, 'except the mystery of how any one _could_ be so cruel. didn't you hear the rattling, mr. trevor--didn't you see--_this_?' and i gave a gentle tug to the string, still firmly fastened to the poor little man; but gently as i did it, the horrid kettle and things in it jingled slightly, and at once roughie opened his eyes and began to shake. i soothed him again, but mr. trevor did the sensible thing. he laid down the gun, calling to the boys as they hurried up not to touch it, and taking out his penknife cut the string, close to the kettle end first, and then handed the knife to me, to cut the string again where it was fastened to my dog. rolf and geordie could scarcely speak. 'who can have done it?' they exclaimed. '_could_ esmé have been so----' 'cruel and naughty,' i interrupted,--'yes, i am afraid so, though i _couldn't_ have believed it of her. geordie, pick up the kettle please, without jingling if you can help it, and please throw away the horrid things that are in it.' 'no, no, don't throw them away!' exclaimed a newcomer on the scene. 'they're my nails and screws.' it was denzil. 'and my kettle,' said poor rolf, rather dolefully, for he was proud of his cooking stove and all its neat arrangements, and the kettle looked nearly as miserable for a kettle as roughie did for a little dog! i turned upon denzil very sharply, i am afraid. 'did you know of it, then?' i said. poor denzil looked very frightened. 'in course not, ida,' he said. 'i came out to ask esmé for my nails. she had a lot of them in her blouse pockets, and she got tired of helping me and forgot to give me them back.' 'i'm very sorry,' i said. 'no, i am sure you would never do such a thing, den.' then i got up, very carefully, not to disturb my poor doggie, who was really asleep by this time, and we all--mr. trevor and the three boys and i--went to the group in the porch, whose anxiety was already relieved by seeing us more tranquil again. taisy had been dying to rush out to us, but esmé, sobbing in her arms, was not easily disposed of. she--esmé--had begun an incoherent confession of her misdoings, but now mamma stopped it. 'is it all right?' she asked eagerly, speaking to mr. trevor. 'the dog is _not_ mad then? what was it?' mr. trevor glanced, still a little doubtfully, at roughie in my arms. 'i--yes, i think he is all right again,' he replied. 'he certainly recognised his mistress's voice, which is the best sign. i do not think it was any kind of fit; it was just terror. he must be a nervous little creature.' 'yes,' said rolf; 'he is awfully nervous, though he is not cowardly.' 'a fine distinction, as applied to a dog,' said mr. trevor smiling. 'but if--you all knew it, how----' a howl--really it was a howl--from esmé interrupted him. 'oh, i know, i know!' she wailed. 'it was all my fault. but i only meant to tease him and make him run. i didn't mean--oh, ida, i didn't mean--to make him go mad. will you ever forgive me? rough will never look at me again, i know.' she was mistaken. the prettiest thing happened just then: roughie, placidly asleep, though giving little quivers and sobs still, was awakened by the noise she made. he opened his eyes, and his mouth--what denzil called 'smiling'--a little; i think he meant to give a friendly lick, but finding nothing handy for this, he contented himself with a very cheerful tail-wagging, first glancing up at esmé, who was bending over him, as much as to say, 'i do forgive you heartily.' i have always said that dogs--nice dogs--are sorry for people when they see them crying. since that day i have been sure of it. but the first effect of rough's magnanimity was to bring forth another burst of sobs and tears from poor esmé. yes, i too forgave her from that moment. 'oh, ida! oh, mamma! oh, everybody!' she cried, 'do forgive me! you see _he_ does.' so now we fell to petting and soothing her; it never took very long to get up esmé's spirits again, happily. before bedtime, except for reddened eyes, you would not have known there had been anything the matter, but from that day to this roughie has had no kinder or truer friend than her. we were all feeling rather overstrained. mr. trevor, i _fancy_, a little ashamed of the great fuss he had made, though perhaps i should scarcely speak of it like that, and i think we all felt glad when mamma said brightly-- 'well--all is well that ends well! will you join us at our schoolroom tea and forgive its being rather a scramble after all this upset?' she turned to the trevors, but before they had time to reply there came a half-laughing but rather distressed appeal from mrs. trevor. 'my dears,' she said, addressing everybody as far as i could make out, 'will some of you disentangle me? the dogs and i have all got mixed up together--naughty, naughty!' and she switched powerlessly with a knitting needle at the poodles, who this time were really enjoying themselves in a good ball-of-wool chase, as the excitement of rough's strange behaviour had actually made the old lady leave off knitting for fully five minutes! it was quite impossible not to laugh, but mrs. trevor herself laughed as heartily as any one, and at last, by turning her round and round as if we were playing at blind man's buff, and catching up first one poodle and then another, we got her free. and of course the wool looked none the worse! that laughing set us all still more at our ease, and by the time we had sobered down, hoskins appeared to announce tea. and after the kind trevors had said good-bye and gone, denzil set us off laughing again by announcing in his solemn way that he didn't believe mr. trevor was at all ill; he ate such a lot of buttered toast! this affair of poor little roughie was, i think, the most exciting thing that happened to us all that spring and summer at the hut. and though everybody, starting with the good-natured wee man himself, forgave esmé thoroughly, we were none of us allowed to _forget_ it. for my dog behaved in the funniest way. nothing for at least a fortnight would persuade him to leave my room, where he installed himself in what he evidently thought a fortress of security, under the bed. and he would only come out if i called him, and then expected me to hold him in my arms as if he were a baby, which, as you can understand, was not very convenient. but by degrees he got over it, and became his own happy little self again. i think it was the very day after this thrilling experience that we got another really cheering and hopeful letter from papa. and once this happier turn of things began, it kept on pretty steadily; the only drawback to our thankfulness being that he could name no date--no _probable_ one even--for his return. so the lengthening days followed each other till we got to midsummer, and then came july and august, specially lovely months that year, during which the sun looked down on a busy and happy party in the queer encampment that was our home for the time. in september rolf left us for the big school he was bound for. we missed him sadly, though we had the cheering _hope_ that his aunt would let him come to us again for the winter holidays. and so she did! a few days before christmas he and taisy--taisy had spent the autumn with her grandmother--arrived again, together this time, though less like snails, as they had left their houses behind them when they went away. and some changes in the arrangements were made. taisy had geordie's room, and geordie, to his great delight, took up his quarters in her waggon, as mamma did not like the idea of a girl's being outside--even though so near--through the long, dark nights. it was not a cold winter; it is never very cold at eastercove, and where the hut stands it seems even milder than higher up. so rolf stuck to his tent, and was very pleased to have an excuse for keeping his patent stove going all the time. those holidays came to an end only too soon. in march, just about a year after he had left, came the news of papa's return being fixed for june. it all fitted in. the trevors had taken the house for twelve months, and with the fine weather meant to go back to their own home in the north. and now there was no talk of letting our dear home again, or, as far as we could see, of ever leaving it except for pleasant reasons. but we kept the hut just as it was, for papa to see. rolf would not even have his tent moved till after that summer, and taisy's waggon is to this day somewhere about the premises, and mamma still has her movable 'boudoir' wheeled about to different parts of the grounds, as it suits her. * * * * * it is nearly three years since i made the last entry in my 'hut' diary, from which i have written out this history of 'the house that grew.' how i came to do so i will explain. we have been through some very anxious times lately about rolf. he is a soldier, and very soon after he got his commission his regiment went to india, and he with it. i will not tell the particulars, as he might not like it, but he 'came in' almost at once for some _very_ active service, up in some of those dreadfully out-of-the-way places, where there are so often disturbances with the natives, which in england do not attract much attention, unless you happen to have close personal interest in what is happening, as we had, for rolf had become almost like another brother to us, spending half his holidays at eastercove. and geordie--oh, i forgot to say he _did_ get the scholarship!--and he, by a happy coincidence, had been at school together. well--one sad day there came news that rolf was badly wounded. we have been waiting and waiting--and i think the anxiety 'got on my nerves,' as people say. for one day mamma spoke seriously to me, when she found me sitting idle, just longing for letters. 'ida, dear,' she said, 'you must get something to do--something _extra_, i mean, to interest you.' and after talking a little, the idea of writing out my 'hut' diary came into my head, and, as you see, i have done it! * * * * * and i have been, if i deserved to be so, rewarded for following mamma's advice. rolf is coming home--on leave--'invalided,' it is true, but his wound is not so bad as reported; indeed, according to _him_, not bad at all! papa and dods are just off to southampton to meet him and bring him straight here. the end macmillan and co.'s books for the young. _by mrs. molesworth._ the house that grew. illustrated by alice b. woodward. crown vo. s. d. this and that; a tale of two tinies. illustrated by hugh thomson. crown vo. s. d. _athenÆum._--"sure to be popular in the nursery." _punch._--"will be received with great pleasure by her many youthful admirers. a very pretty story." _illustrated by walter crane, leslie brooke, hugh thomson, and others._ _globe vo. s. d. each._ the adventures of herr baby. "carrots," just a little boy. the carved lions. the children of the castle. a christmas child. a sketch of a boy-life. a christmas posy. christmas tree land. the cuckoo clock. four winds farm. the girls and i. "grandmother dear." a book for boys and girls. little miss peggy: only a nursery story. the magic nuts. mary. a nursery story for very little children. miss mouse and her boys. my new home. nurse heatherdale's story. the oriel window. the rectory children. rosy. sheila's mystery. the tapestry room. tell me a story. two little waifs. us: an old-fashioned story. _also prize editions in ornamental bindings. crown vo. s. d. each._ _cloth elegant, gilt edges. s. d. each._ us: an old-fashioned story. "grandmother dear." "carrots." christmas child. cuckoo clock. tapestry room. * * * * * four ghost stories. crown vo. s. french life in letters. globe vo. s. d. summer stories for boys and girls. crown vo. s. d. the april baby's book of tunes. by the author of "elizabeth and her german garden." with coloured illustrations by kate greenaway. small to. s. a noah's ark geography. written and pictured by mabel dearmer. globe to. cloth. picture boards. s. the tale of the little twin dragons. with coloured illustrations by s. rosamond praeger. demy to. picture boards. s. the book of penny toys. written and illustrated by mabel dearmer, printed in colours by edmund evans. demy to. pictorial boards. s. the bravest of them all. by mrs. edwin hohler. illustrated by chas. e. brock. crown vo. s. d. for peggy's sake. by mrs. edwin hohler. with illustrations by f. h. townsend. crown vo. s. d. the drummer's coat. by the hon. j. w. fortescue. illustrated by h. m. brock. pott to. s. d. beasts: thumb-nail studies in pets. by wardlaw kennedy. with numerous illustrations. pott to.-- s. d. crown vo.-- s. d. st. nicholas christmas book. a volume of christmas stories. profusely illustrated. with ornamental cover. to. s. d. macmillan and co., ltd., london. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) mrs. leslie's books for little children. the robin redbreast series. [illustration: little robins' love one to another.] little robins' love one to another. by mrs. madeline leslie, author of "the home life series;" "mrs. leslie's juvenile series," etc. boston: crosby, nichols, lee and company, washington street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. little robins' love one to another. chapter i. jack robin's offence. it was a lovely may morning. the air was full of sweet fragrance from the orchards of blossoming trees. all nature seemed alive with melody. the singing of birds, the humming of insects, the cooing of doves about their cotes, the responsive crowing of the cocks in the farm yards, the lowing of the cows for their calves,--even the gurgling of the ambitious little brook running along over stones and pebbles at its utmost speed, sparkling and foaming in the ecstasy of its delight,--all hail with exultation the approaching summer. but let us turn from this universal rejoicing to our friends under the old elm tree. mrs. symmes we see standing within the shed churning butter. fred is before the door, with a pail of dough in his hand, calling "chick, chick, chick." annie is following grandpa to the barn with a pan of warm milk for whiteface, while the good farmer is driving his oxen to the field. the barn yard gate has been accidentally left open, and the cosset, hearing annie's voice, bounds forward to meet her, and puts his fore feet on her dress, nestling his head under her arm. "o grandpa!" exclaimed the child, "do please take the pan; whiteface is making me spill it all over." "set it down on the ground, dear, and let her drink it," said grandpa. "i have a good mind to let her run round with me, as i did yesterday," continued annie. as grandpa smiled approval, the two were presently engaged in a merry chase from house to barn, round the trunk of the old tree and back to their starting spot again. "now," cried the little girl when she could recover her breath, "it's time to feed my robin family. o, they are all here!" she added, as she opened the front door. jack, without waiting for further invitation, hopped into the entry, and then into the room. the table was set for the family, and he made bold to fly upon it, and walk round among the dishes. he looked so funny as he hopped a step or two, and then, standing on one leg, turned his head archly, as if to say, "i hope i don't intrude," that annie laughed till she cried. "o, where is fred? i do wish fred were here to see the robin!" she exclaimed, as her mother entered with a dish of smoking hot potatoes. "tut, tut, tut," cried mrs. symmes, "you are getting rather too bold;" and she shook her apron to scare the robin away. "no, no, birdie, you must be content with eating the crumbs from the floor." in the mean time, mr. and mrs. robin were talking to jack in a very excited tone, trying to convince him of the impropriety of his conduct. "no," said mrs. robin, as katy hopped closer to her brother, and cast a pleading glance at her parents;--"no, i do not accuse you of intending to do wrong, but you have never seen your father hop on a table, or take liberties of that kind." jack did not try to excuse himself, and as annie called them to the door, and fed them from her hand, the parents hoped she was not much offended. mr. robin noticed that when jack was reproved by his mother, dick was very much pleased, while molly and katy appeared greatly distressed. "o," said he to himself, "why will not this unruly bird imitate the lovely example of his sisters!" when they returned to the tree, and were sitting on their favorite bough near the nest, dick exclaimed, "i was glad, for once, to see that some one was in fault beside myself. if i had been guilty of such a breach of propriety, i should have been severely chastised, if not disinherited; but bad as you have always thought me, i have never been guilty of any thing like that." "i am sorry to hear you talk so, my son," said mrs. robin, eyeing him with a sad glance. "jack was rather too familiar, and perhaps took undue advantage of the kindness of our friends; but that was all. there was no unfriendly feeling, no selfishness, no disregard of others' wishes in his conduct; neither was there direct disobedience to his parents' commands, such as has often pained us in your case. we must judge the motive, my son, before we condemn." "i knew it would be just so," answered dick, in a sulky tone. "every thing that jack does is right, and every thing i do is wrong; and that is a specimen of the justice of this family." [illustration] chapter ii. the sparrows' nest. mr. and mrs. robin were deeply pained by dick's bad conduct. they concluded, however, it was best to refrain from further reproof, as it only seemed to make him worse. after the disrespectful remark at the close of the last chapter, he flew away, and did not return until night. katy then begged her father and mother to accompany her to the village where canary lived; and, after a ready consent, they all stretched their wings and flew away over the tops of houses and trees, not once alighting until they reached the dwelling where the pretty bird belonged. canary received them very cordially. she assured mr. and mrs. robin of her interest in their promising children. "in their society," she added, "i sometimes forget my own trials. young as you may think me, i have reared four young broods. now--but i will not make you sad by relating my troubles. i see my kind mistress has provided water for me to take a bath. perhaps it will amuse you if i do so now." mrs. robin assured her that the sight would delight them all. canary then sprang off the highest perch into the saucer of fresh water, splashed herself thoroughly with her wings, then jumped into the ring, and shook herself from head to foot. "i feel greatly refreshed," said she, after new oiling her feathers. at the request of katy, she then exhibited her accomplishments to the wondering parents, and having ended by a thrilling song, they gave her their best wishes, and took their leave. in the mean time, mr. symmes, his wife, grandpa, and annie sat down to their breakfast, though wondering that fred, who had been sent of an errand, did not return. they had nearly finished their meal, when annie saw him running toward the house, his face all in a blaze of excitement. he held in his hand a bird's nest; and, as he entered, took a wounded sparrow from his bosom. "father," he exclaimed, "isn't it real wicked to steal little birds from their nest?" "certainly, my son." "well, joseph marland and edward long have been doing it all the morning, and they say it isn't wicked at all. as i was coming 'cross lots through deacon myers's pasture, i heard some boys laughing very loud; and i ran to see what the fun was. they had taken all the young birds from the nest, and the poor parents were flying around chirping and crying in dreadful distress. "'don't tease the birds so,' said i; 'put the little things back and come away.' "'no, indeed!' shouted joseph; 'after all the trouble we've had, we don't give up so easy.' and only think, grandpa, they didn't want the young sparrows for any thing,--only they liked the sport of seeing the old birds hop round and round. "i got real angry at last, and said i wouldn't have any thing to do with such wicked, cruel boys. i started to run away, when they saw deacon myers driving his cow to the pasture, and they sneaked off about the quickest. after they had gone, i picked up the nest and this poor bird from the ground." "let me see it," said mr. symmes, holding out his hand; "and you sit down and eat your breakfast." he left the room immediately, carrying the sparrow with him. presently annie came back with tears in her eyes, saying her father had killed it, to put it out of pain. "i was afraid it couldn't live," rejoined fred. "ugly boys! i am glad they don't know of our robins' nest." "such cruelty always meets with its punishment," remarked grandpa. "i myself knew a man who, when a boy, delighted to rob birds' nests. sometimes he stole the eggs, and sometimes he waited until they were hatched, that he might have the greater fun. then he took the poor, helpless, unoffending things, and dug out their eyes, to see how awkwardly they would hop around." "shocking!" exclaimed mrs. symmes. "he ought to have been hung!" shouted fred. annie pressed both hands over her eyes, and turned very pale. "well," resumed grandpa, "he grew to be a man, was married and settled in life; and now came god's time to punish him. he had one child after another until they numbered five. three of them, two daughters and one son, were born stone blind. "he was a man coarse and rough in his feelings, as a cruel man will always be; but this affliction cut him to the heart, and when it was announced to him that the third child would never open its eyes to the light of the sun, he threw up his arms and cried aloud, 'o god, have mercy on me, though i had none on the poor birds!' "never before had he made the slightest allusion to his former cruelty, except to his wife, though it seemed by this expression, that he had always regarded it as a judgment." "if ever i see, on bush or tree, young birds in their pretty nest, i must not, in play, steal the birds away, to grieve their mother's breast. "my mother, i know, would sorrow so should i be stolen away; so i'll speak to the birds in my softest words, nor hurt them in my play. "and when they can fly in the bright blue sky, they'll warble a song to me; and then, if i'm sad, it will make me glad to think they are happy and free." chapter iii. jack robin's cart. a few days after this, it rained very hard. the children were of course confined to the house, though annie pleaded to go with her father to the barn. after standing for some time gazing from the window, to watch the drops following each other down the glass, she saw mr. and mrs. robin springing from one bough to another, chirping contentedly. "i wonder they can be so happy when it rains," she thought. "i mean to make some paper dolls, and then perhaps i shan't think so much about staying in doors." she ran quickly up stairs, and brought down a large box full of pasteboard, and pieces of paper of various colors. grandpa sat reading by the kitchen fire, as the rain made the air damp, and fred held a book in his hand. he was not reading, however; his eyes were wandering listlessly around the room. when he saw his little sister, his face brightened, and he asked, "don't you want me to cut you out some new dollies?" "thank you," she exclaimed, her whole countenance lighting up with smiles. the next hour passed swiftly, as the brother and sister cut babies and houses for them to live in, and carriages in which they could ride. fred had just finished quite an ingenious contrivance, a little pasteboard cart, with wheels and shafts all in order, when tap, tap, went somebody at the door. "that's our robin," cried annie, springing up to go and let him in. true enough, it was jack robin, looking as drenched as a drowned rat. "o, see how wet he is! i mean to take him to the fire," said the little girl. "set him on the floor, and he'll shake himself dry in a minute," answered grandpa. "birds have an oily covering," he added, "which turns the water off and prevents it from soaking in. look now at robin; you would scarce know he had been wet at all. if it were not for this wise provision of providence, thousands of birds would be chilled to death by every shower. take a duck or goose after he has been swimming in the water. after a moment, he is as dry as if he had not been near the pond." "o grandpa," exclaimed annie, "will you please to tell us a story to-day?" "i'll try and think of one after dinner," replied the old gentleman. "i wish to finish this book this morning." when the little girl returned to her brother, she found the whole family of robins there. fred was busy fastening a piece of cord into the front of the pasteboard cart, and presently began to harness one of the birds into it. "talk to him, annie," he said, "and hold some crumbs before him to keep him still." but she laughed so heartily, she could not do much else. fred persevered, however, and after a while succeeded in driving jack robin around the room, to the great astonishment of his parents, brother and sisters. they perched on the backs of the chairs to be out of the way, tipped their heads this side and that, chirping and chattering incessantly. but at last jack grew tired of this unusual exercise, and taking an opportunity when fred was holding the string loosely, he flew away, wagon and all, to the gilt eagle which adorned the top of the looking glass. the perfect shout of delight drew their parents and grandfather to the room, and there stood master robin, apparently no ways incommoded by this unusual appendage to his tail, looking down as innocently as possible upon the merry group. "you must get your grandpa to tell you about an exhibition he once took me to," suggested mrs. symmes. "your play with robin reminds me of it." "o, you will, you will, you're such a dear, kind grandpa," pleaded the child, fixing her earnest, expectant eyes upon his benevolent face. "yes, yes, dear," said he, patting her rosy cheeks. "after dinner i'll be ready." "well, then, i'll give the birds something, and let them fly away to their nest," said fred; "and you may be picking up all the pieces scattered round on the floor." "now," said the boy, when the door was shut, "i'll be the master, and hear you spell." "cat." "c-a-t; cat," answered annie. "well, you must give the meaning." "i don't know how." "say like this," said the young master: "c-a-t, cat, a full-grown kitten." this exercise was carried on with much spirit until the children were called to dinner. chapter iv. the canary exhibition. after he had eaten his dinner, fred accompanied his father to the barn to assist him about the work, then fed his fowls and annie's lamb, after which he returned to the house, eager to hear grandpa's account of the exhibition. "i dare say," began the old gentleman, "that your mother can remember more about it than i can. the owner of the canaries was a frenchman, who had for many years devoted himself to the business of educating birds. there were a great number of them, some of which were over twenty years old. "during the exhibition the canaries were arranged in order at one end of the stage, and came forward as they were called by name. "one of them, whose name, i think, was major, was dressed in a tiny suit of military uniform. he had a chapeau on his head and a sword in his claw: after sitting upright for some time, major, at the word of command, freed himself from his dress, and flew to his cage. "another came forward with a slender stick in his claws. this he put between his legs, and holding his head down, suffered himself to be turned round and round, as if he were being roasted." annie was listening in open-mouthed wonder to these astonishing feats. "o grandpa!" she exclaimed, "i hope there was no fire there." "no, of course not," cried fred; "but what did the others do, grandpa?" "i can think of but two more feats, my dear. several of them came out together and practised some gymnastic exercises." "what are those?" inquired annie. "they balanced themselves over sticks, head downwards, with their legs and tails in the air; or on a rope, and were swung backward and forward. "the last feat was perhaps the most wonderful of either. a bright little fellow came out, and taking his place on the platform, was shot at, and fell down, pretending to be dead. he lay quite still and motionless; and presently one of his companions came forward with a little mite of a wheelbarrow, as annie would say, and wheeled him away." "how very funny!" exclaimed fred. "see, grandpa, how very fast it rains," said the little girl; "but i like rainy weather, when you will tell us such beautiful stories." at this moment mrs. symmes joined their party. she had in her hand a pan of beans, which she was going to pick over before they were baked. fred jumped up and took them from her. "annie and i can do them, mother," he said, "and you can sew while you hear grandpa's stories." "that's right, my boy," said the old gentleman. "help your mother all you can." the children were soon seated at their work, and their mother at her mending. "now, dear grandpa, we're all ready for you to begin." "really, my dear," he answered, pleasantly, "you are hungry after stories." "i like yours," said the child, "because they're always true." "well, let me think with what i shall begin. have i ever told you how fast birds can fly?" "no, sir." "it is perfectly astonishing," he added, "with what rapidity they dart through the air. not many years ago, a large number of carrier pigeons were taken from holland to london. they had been trained to carry messages by attaching a small paper bag to their wing. if taken from any particular place and let loose, they will find their way back again. these birds were set at liberty in london at half past four in the morning, and reached their home in holland, a distance of three hundred miles, by noon of the same day. one of them, a great favorite, named napoleon, entered his dove-cote at a quarter past ten, having flown fifty miles in an hour. "another pigeon from ballinasloe, in ireland, belonging to a gentleman by the name of bernard, was let loose at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, with a note appended to it, directing dinner to be ready at castle bernard at a given time, as he purposed being home that day. the message reached its destination, which was twenty-three miles distant, in eleven minutes, being at the rate of one hundred and twenty-five and a half miles an hour." "i had no idea that they could fly so fast," remarked mrs. symmes. "these are by no means remarkable cases," added grandpa. "the eagle has been supposed to fly one hundred and forty miles an hour; and a bird by the name of swift, one hundred and eighty. but the most extraordinary that i ever heard, was of a titlark who alighted on board a vessel from liverpool, when thirteen hundred miles from the nearest main land, and nine hundred miles from a wild and barren island. sea birds retain their position upon the wing for a wonderful length of time." chapter v. katy robin's captivity. not long after the rainy day, mr. and mrs. robin were invited to mrs. bill's nest, to give their advice regarding her future prospects. "here am i," said she, "a lonely, sorrowing bird. soon i am to part from my dear children, who will, in the order of nature, form new ties, thus leaving me still more desolate. i have a proposal from a robin, who has, like myself, been cruelly bereft of his mate, to become his wife. i feel it is due to the relations of my husband to ask their approbation before i take so important a step." mr. robin politely waited for his wife to give her opinion, but she nodded her head in desire that he should speak first. "you have not mentioned the name of the robin," he said; "but if he is one whom you can esteem and love, i advise you to accept his offer. do i express your opinion, my dear?" "certainly," responded mrs. robin. mrs. bill then uttered a peculiar cry, and a bird who had been seated on the top of the tree, flew into the nest. "how do you do?" said mr. robin, recognizing a bird that he had often met. "this is my friend," said mrs. bill, turning her head modestly on one side. "he will make you a kind husband," added mrs. robin. "i knew and loved his dead wife." this matter being so pleasantly arranged, the company took their leave. when they reached home, they found the young robins absent; and they went to the observatory and passed an hour or two in singing duets, after which they descended to the cottage door, wondering their children did not return. it was nearly an hour later, when they heard in the distance dreadful shrieks and cries of distress, and darting from the tree in the direction of the sound, met jack and molly flying at full speed, as if pursued by an enemy. "o, o!" groaned jack; "i've lost my darling sister, my beloved, whom i had chosen for my future mate." molly's cries were heart-rending; and it was some time before the almost distracted parents could wring from their afflicted children the cause of their grief. at last, with broken sobs and expressions of anguish, jack, trembling with agitation, began: "we went, soon after you left this morning, to visit canary, and from there we went to several farm yards, where we saw a quantity of grain scattered on the ground. at last, grown weary of eating, as the sun was very warm, we hopped near a house under the shade of a cherry tree. soon a little girl came to the door, and scattered some crumbs on the step. katy thought she looked very much like annie, and began to chirp most merrily. "the child laughed and laughed, and tried to entice katy inside the house; but she was not disposed to go without me. she seemed to think she was taking too much of the attention to herself, and turned, in her sweet, affectionate manner, to introduce us. "'this is my brother jack,' she chirped; 'and this is my dear molly.' she looked so cunning, that i hopped up and nestled her head in my breast. the little girl then ran and called a tall boy, and talked very loud and fast to him; but though i turned up first one ear and then the other, i could not understand a word she said. "they kept scattering crumbs, and we, without once thinking of danger, advanced farther and farther, as they retreated, until katy and i were within the room. but we were scarcely inside the door, when, with a loud slam, it was shut to, and we were made prisoners, though neither of us at first realized this. "the tall boy opened another door very cautiously, and stepped through; but presently returned with a cage similar to that in which canary is confined. he came softly toward katy; but at the same instant a dreadful fear darted through our minds--a fear of being made prisoners for life. "'take care, katy,' i cried; 'don't let them catch you;' and i flew to the top of the door. she flew away too; but they chased and chased from one side of the room to the other, while all the time she uttered the most piteous cries, as if she were pleading for her life, until the cruel boy caught her by the tail and pulled the feathers out. the girl then sprang forward, and, throwing a cloth over her, held her until her brother brought the cage, when they thrust her into it. "she lay so still upon the bottom of it that they thought she was dead; but as soon as she began to moan, they directed all their attention to catching me. i suppose they would not have found it very difficult, for i was so full of anguish at the thought of being separated from my beloved mate, that i cared little what became of me, had not some one entered the room just as i was flying toward the door, and so i escaped. "molly had witnessed all the scene from the window, and was crying dreadfully when i joined her." chapter vi. jack robin's love. all the while her brother had been relating his sad tale, poor molly stood on the side of the nest, shaking from head to foot. in the course of an hour she was so ill that her parents feared she would die, and thus that they should be deprived of two children in one day. "to think," cried mrs. robin, "that we were singing so gayly while our loved ones were in such danger and trouble!" "we must contrive some means to rescue her," said mr. robin, sternly. "i, for one, will perish before i will leave her to so horrible a fate." jack at this remark gave a cry of joy. he had the greatest confidence in his father's capacity, and wondered he had not thought of this before. "why can't we go at once?" he exclaimed. "mother will nurse sick molly, and i will show you the house." mrs. robin and molly added their entreaties, and the birds flew away. when they reached the house, they found the cage already hung on a hook over the front piazza. poor katy was uttering the most piercing cries, and striking her wings against the wires of the cage. as soon as she saw her father and brother, she gave a scream of delight, and fell to the floor of her prison house. jack alighted on the wires, and called her by the most endearing terms. mr. robin perched on a bough hanging over the piazza, and contemplated them with strong emotion. "o, how cruel!" he exclaimed, "to separate such loving hearts." at this moment the tall boy, with his sister, came to the door, and the father listened earnestly to their voices, to learn whether they would be friends to his imprisoned child. "good by, father; bid mother and molly good by for me," cried jack. "i have determined to remain in captivity with katy, rather than leave her to pine and die alone. yes, darling sister, i love you better than freedom, or even than life. here i will stay to comfort you with my affection." dear little captive, how her heart beat and her bosom swelled when she heard this! she flew to the upper perch of the cage, and put her beak lovingly to his. "i cannot deny such a wish, my dear jack," said mr. robin, "though it will pierce your mother's heart with sorrow to be deprived of two children. i love you better for your ardent affection; but i do not at all despair of your release. good by, dear ones; i go to consult our friends at the cottage." as soon as he was fairly out of sight, the tall boy brought a stool, and stood upon it, to take the cage down from the hook, and carried it into the house, jack still remaining perched upon the wires. there were poor katy's tail feathers still lying on the floor; but the heroic bird cared not for those. he only longed to have the door opened, that he might feel his sister's soft head nestling once more against his own breast. he did not have to wait long, for as soon as the room doors were carefully secured, the cage was opened, when he flew in. "now, darling," said he, "we must be all the world to each other. let us forget every thing else in the joy of being reunited." katy was so happy, that she could only flutter her wings, and give gentle cries of delight. as soon as they became somewhat composed, jack hopped down from the perch to examine the cage. like that in which canary was confined, it had conveniences for eating and drinking, and a nice bath tub. in addition to this, the little girl soon stuck between the wires a piece of cracker and a large lump of sugar. "this stone, my dear," said jack, "is, i suppose, for us to sharpen our beaks upon." "o, how sweet!" exclaimed katy, as she tasted the sugar; and before they left it, they had diminished it about one half. when the tall boy thought they were a little wonted to their new home, he hung them out in the sun again; and here we will leave them while we return to their parents. mrs. robin was indeed sorely grieved when her husband returned alone. molly still continued to suffer so much from the shock she had received, that she could scarcely fly to the ground for her food. "i still have hope," cried mr. robin, "that our friends may find a way to relieve us, if we can make them understand what our trouble is." it was in vain, however, that he chirped, and cried, and flew from the door off in the direction of his distressed children; and thus day after day and week after week went by, and still jack and katy remained in captivity. mr. and mrs. robin, with molly, visited them many times in a day, and carried them fine worms. nor did they wholly forsake canary, whose fate was even worse than their own. they carried many tender messages from one cage to the other, thus enlivening the imprisonment of both. dick, to his parents' great sorrow, had expressed little sympathy for his brother and sister, and had never once visited them, though he gave as a reason that he feared himself being captured. he was joined now almost wholly to mrs. bill's family, and seldom returned to his parents' nest. [illustration] chapter vii. the restored robins. one morning, mr. robin, his wife, and molly, came, as usual, to the cottage for crumbs. they were very much excited, and hopped hurriedly about the room, flapping their wings and jerking their tails incessantly. "what can they want?" exclaimed annie. "there is something the matter, i am sure." grandpa gazed thoughtfully at them, and then said, "the little one has never been as cheerful since the loss of her companions; perhaps they are intending to leave this part of the country." "o, i hope not!" exclaimed annie, almost ready to cry. "i should miss them dreadfully." this was indeed the case, mr. and mrs. robin having long given up all hope of procuring the release of their children; and finding that they were well fed, had concluded to leave for a time, in the hope that change of scene would restore molly to health. fred and annie were sincere mourners for their pretty birds; and though many others came and sang on the old elm tree, they insisted that no songs were so sweet as those sung by their old friends. their school commenced, however, about that time, and this somewhat diverted their minds. on rainy days, annie begged her grandfather for a story about birds; and he smiled as he related the account of a stork who refused to be comforted when separated from his mate, until a looking glass was placed in his house, that reflected his own image, which he took to be his mate, and was thus pacified. he also told her about the blind woman who was led to church every sunday by a tame gander, who took hold of her gown with his bill. he related to them the story of the strange attachment which was formed between a goose and a fierce dog, so that she made her nest in his kennel, and sat on her eggs with her head nestled against his breast. to these incidents of birds he added that also of the raven who regularly travelled over the stage road in one coach, until at a certain town he met another coach of the same line in which last he took passage and returned to his home. * * * * * we must now pass over several months, and relate an adventure which occurred late in the fall. fred and annie one morning received an invitation to a party given by one of their schoolmates, on the afternoon of the same day. as they entered the house, dressed in their sunday suits, their countenances glowing with pleasure, fred heard the familiar chirp of a robin, and, glancing to the window, saw a large cage containing a pair of their favorite birds. "o fred!" cried annie, suddenly, growing pale with excitement "there are our lost robins." jack and katy (for it was indeed they) instantly recognized their young friends. they flew rapidly from one side of the cage to another, striking their wings against the wires in their vain efforts to fly to her. mrs. jones, the lady of the house, at that moment entered the room. fred advanced toward her, and fixing his frank eyes full on her face, said, "those are our robins, ma'am." "do you think so?" she asked, with a smile. "if you can prove that they belong to you, you shall have them, cage and all; but they have been here a long time." "if you will please open the cage, i will show you that they know us," said the boy, earnestly. "what is it?" inquired mr. jones, coming forward and joining the group. his wife repeated what fred had said. "what makes you think they are yours?" asked the gentleman, kindly. "their parents came and built a nest in our tree," said the boy. "when the little ones were hatched, we always fed them, and they grew so tame they would eat crumbs from our mouths, hop about the room, and alight on our heads." "yes!" cried annie; "and one we tackled, that largest one, into a paper cart, and he drew it all round the room, and then flew with it to the top of the mirror." "how many young ones were there?" asked the lady. "four," answered fred; "but one was a naughty bird, and his parents had a great deal of trouble with him. the other was a little darling; but after these went away, and did not come back, she pined, and at last the old robins flew away with her." annie then related how molly was fastened to the nest. the whole party of children were standing about eagerly listening. "well," said the gentleman, "i will close the doors of the room and open the cage. if they fly to you, or seem in any way to recognize you, i will restore your property." "and the cage too," said the lady. "birdie, birdie," called the little girl. katy hopped quickly from her perch, and flying over the heads of the others, alighted on annie's shoulder. jack quickly followed, and perched on her head. "if you will please give me some crumbs," said the happy girl, tears of joy standing in her eyes, "i will show you how they eat from my mouth." "here, birdie," she cried, placing a piece between her teeth. jack alighted on her finger, then flew forward and caught the crumb in his beak, after which both he and his sister repeated the feat many times. mr. jones laughed heartily, as he called his little girl to his side, and putting a piece of sugar in her mouth, told her to call the robins as annie had done. she did so; but though jack and katy turned their bright eyes toward the sugar, of which they were very fond, and chirped loudly for it, yet they would not leave their old friends. mr. jones bade fred take the birds, while annie left the room, to see whether it was not accident which had led them to alight on her head. but the moment she returned, they flew to meet her, and showed the greatest pleasure when she caressed them. "i'm afraid," said the gentleman to his daughter, "that you'll have to give up your pets." "i don't care for them now," answered the child. "they never play any tricks for me; they only stay cooped up in their cage." "when you go home, then, you may carry them," said the lady. "but how will you get them back to the cage?" there was some difficulty in this, to be sure; for katy and jack, having once tasted the joys of liberty, did not like to return to captivity again. but at length by coaxing they succeeded in making them enter the door, which was quickly closed upon them. "o mother! o grandpa! what do you think fred is bringing?" shouted annie, running forward and opening the cottage door. now, being so near the end of my book, i can only tell my young reader, in a few words, how delighted the robins were to return to their old home;--how in pleasant weather they flew around the nest in the elm tree, but always returned to the cage at night;--how during the cold winter they learned to warble forth their thanks to the dear children who had proved such loving friends;--how the old robins returned with the warm breath of spring, and were welcomed with delight by jack and katy, who had begun a nest of their own;--how molly had found a mate, and built a nest on a bough near her parents;--and how sweetly at sunrise and at sunset they all carolled rich music, until the whole air resounded with their song. of dick nothing was known by his parents, until their new brood was hatched, when one day a robin perched on a bough of the elm tree, and after gazing around for a moment, was recognized as the lost bird. then were loud chirpings and great rejoicings, especially after he told them he had reformed from his old habits, and was trying to train up his young family as he had been taught by his parents. * * * * * the little frankie series. little frankie and his mother. little frankie at his plays. little frankie and his cousin. little frankie and his father. little frankie on a journey. little frankie at school. the robin redbreast series. the robins' nest. little robins in the nest. little robins learning to fly. little robins in trouble. little robins' friends. little robins' love one to another. [illustration: book cover] the child's story-book. [illustration] new york: kiggins & kellogg, & william st. [illustration] the story-book. the stag-hunt. "did you ever see any deer?"--"no, did you!"--"yes, i have a cousin who keeps a great number of them; he has a nice large park for them to live in, where they are quite happy. i like to see them there, but i should not like to see one hunted."--"what! do they ever hunt the stag?"--"oh! yes, poor thing, and it runs as long as it has any strength, and when it can run no longer, its heart breaks, and it falls down and dies. i wonder how men can be so cruel."--"but are there any men so cruel as to hunt the stag?"--"yes, what did you suppose them to be?"--"why, dogs, or something of that kind, that have no more sense. i could not for a moment have thought that men would be so wicked: what motive can they have for so doing."--"my dear boy, they think they find pleasure in the chase."--"pleasure! then, indeed, they do only think so, for i am sure there can be no real pleasure in being cruel. oh! when will that happy time come, when men will be cruel no more, but will all walk in the footsteps of jesus christ." [illustration] the cat. "puss went under the grate to-night."--"did she: what that great cat? i thought only kittens went under grates."--"and so did i; but, however, she went."--"i wonder what for?"--"perhaps to look for a cricket."--"have you crickets?"--"yes; i often hear them chirping as i sit by the fire at night. ours is a funny cat; she sometimes goes up the chimney."--"what, when there is a fire in the grate?"--"o no; the chimney in the back chamber. i have heard it said that cats do not love any one, but i am sure our cat does; for whenever i let her come into my lap, she rubs her head about, and stretches out her claws, and purrs as loudly as she can. i sometimes try to hear what she says, but i can make nothing of it; but it matters not what she says, i know she is happy, and that is enough." [illustration] the little ship. father has made me a little ship, and i am going to let it sail in this little pond. now let us fancy this water to be the north pacific ocean, and those pieces of cork on that side to be the friendly islands, and this little man in the ship to be captain cook going to find them. "do you know where captain cook was born?" "he was born at marton, a village in the north riding of yorkshire, england." the beggar. [illustration] "mamma, i gave a penny to a poor man this morning. was i a good boy for so doing?"--"it depends upon the motive you had in view. did you give it to him because you thought i should call you a good boy?"--"because i thought you would call me a good boy, mamma."--"i am sorry to hear it, my dear; tell me just what you thought when you gave the penny to the man."--"well, mamma, he was sitting by the road-side, and when i passed him, he held out his hat, and begged for a trifle to get him something to eat. so i just thought of a penny i had in my pocket, and i said to myself, 'now if i give this penny, mamma will call me a good boy, and then i shall be glad:' and so i gave it to him."--"now, my dear, this is what you should have said: 'this old man is very poor, and i have a penny to spare that will do him good, and he shall have it.'"--"ah! mamma, i wish i had thought of that, but i am sure i did not intend to do wrong. you know, mamma, i love you so dearly, that i strive to please you in all things."--"yes, my dear, i know you love me, and i believe you did not intend to do wrong; but, my dear child, we are so apt to do things that we may be praised of men, instead of doing all things to the glory of god. do you know, my love, that our lord said in his sermon on the mount, 'take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them! otherwise ye have no reward of your father, which is in heaven!' you will try to think of this, will you, love?"--"oh! dearest mamma, i am sure i will, and i hope that god 'will grant me pardon for the past and strength for time to come.'" [illustration] the robin. "the north winds do blow, and we shall have snow, what will poor robin do till spring, poor thing, poor thing! he will go to the barn, and keep himself warm, and put his head under his wing, poor thing, poor thing." thus sang little emily, as she sat one bleak morning looking out from her mamma's window, watching the faded leaves dance along before the wind. do you not know how she felt as she sat that morning, in a snug parlor, with her high-backed chair placed close against the window, listening to the whistling of the winds, and looking now and then, toward the cold dark sky? i am sure i know just how she felt, as she sang those simple words about the robin, for i have often felt in the same manner myself. emily was a tender-hearted child, and she loved the robin red-breast very dearly: indeed there was not anything which she did not love; for she often said to her mamma, "everything belongs to god; therefore i ought to love everything." and so i believe she did. on that morning after she had been singing her little song, she said, "dear mamma, i wish i could find all the robin red-breasts in the country, that i might keep them in my chamber through the wintry season, until the bright spring days return. then, mamma, i would throw open the windows, and watch the happy little creatures spread their wings, and go out into the bright world again." was not emily a kind little girl? [illustration] the white rabbit. oh! susan, i have got such a darling white rabbit as i think you never saw. i do believe it is the sweetest little rabbit in the world; for i have only had it given to me this morning, and yet it will eat clover from my hand, and let me stroke it, or do anything i please; and the gardener says that he will make a house for it, which his son thomas will paint. papa says, that i am to call my rabbit snowdrop; and mamma says, that its eyes are like rubies; and so do come and look at it, susan, and you will say as i do, that it is the sweetest little rabbit in the world. little mary. little mary was good, the weather was fair; she went with her mother, to taste the fresh air. the birds were singing, mary chatted away; and she felt as merry, and as happy, as they. kiggins & kellogg, publishers, booksellers, & stationers, & william st. also manufacturers of every description of account books, memorandums and pass books, a large stock of which is constantly kept on hand. their assortment of school and miscellaneous books, and of foreign and domestic stationery, is very complete, to the inspection of which they would invite country merchants before purchasing elsewhere. just published, redfield's toy books, four series of twelve books each, beautifully illustrated, _price_, _one_, _two_, _four_, _and six cents_. transcriber's note obvious punctuation errors repaired. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: "good-bye, baltie, dear"] three little women, a story for girls by gabrielle e. jackson contents chapter i--the carruths chapter ii--"baltie" chapter iii--the spirit of mad anthony chapter iv--baltie is rescued chapter v--a new member of the family chapter vi--blue monday chapter vii--mammy generalissimo chapter viii--chemical experiments chapter ix--spontaneous combustion chapter x--readjustment chapter xi--first ventures chapter xii--another shoulder is added chapter xiii--the battle of town and gown chapter xiv--the candy enterprise grows chapter xv--the reckoning chapter xvi--united we stand, divided we fall chapter xvii--a family council chapter xviii--"save me from my friends" chapter xix--"an auction extraordinary" chapter xx--constance b.'s venture chapter xxi--constance b.'s candies chapter xxii--first steps chapter xxiii--opening day chapter xxiv--one month later chapter i the carruths the afternoon was a wild one. all day driving sheets of rain had swept along the streets of riveredge, hurled against windowpanes by fierce gusts of wind, or dashed in miniature rivers across piazzas. at noon it seemed as though the wind meant to change to the westward and the clouds break, but the promise of better weather had failed, and although the rain now fell only fitfully in drenching showers, and one could "run between the drops" the wind still blustered and fumed, tossing the wayfarers about, and tearing from the trees what foliage the rain had spared, to hurl it to the ground in sodden masses. it was more like a late november than a late september day, and had a depressing effect upon everybody. "i want to go out; i want to go out; i want to go out, _out_, out!" cried little jean carruth, pressing her face against the window-pane until from the outside her nose appeared like a bit of white paper stuck fast to the glass. "if you do you'll get wet, _wet_, wet, as sop, _sop_, sop, and then mother'll ask what _we_ were about to let you," said a laughing voice from the farther side of the room, where constance, her sister, nearly five years her senior, was busily engaged in trimming a hat, holding it from her to get the effect of a fascinating bow she had just pinned upon one side. "but i haven't a single thing to do. all my lessons for monday are finished; i'm tired of stories; i'm tired of fancy work, and i'm tired of--_everything_ and i want to go _out_," ended the woe-begone voice in rapid crescendo. "do you think it would hurt her to go, eleanor?" asked constance, turning toward a girl who sat at a pretty desk, her elbows resting upon it and her hands propping her chin as she pored over a copy of the french revolution, but who failed to take the least notice of the question. constance made a funny face and repeated it. she might as well have kept silent for all the impression it made, and with a resigned nod toward jean she resumed her millinery work. but too much depended upon the reply for jean carruth to accept the situation so mildly. murmuring softly, "you wait a minute," she slipped noiselessly across the room and out into the broad hall beyond. upon a deep window-seat stood a papier-mâché megaphone. placing it to her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief above its rim, she bellowed: "eleanor maxwell carruth, do you think it would hurt me to go out now?" the effect was electrical. bounding from her chair with sufficient alacrity to send the french revolution crashing upon the floor, eleanor carruth clapped both hands over her ears, as she cried: "jean, you little imp of mischief!" "well, i wanted to make you hear me," answered that young lady complacently. "constance had spoken to you twice but you'd gone to france and couldn't hear her, so i thought maybe the megaphone would reach across the atlantic ocean, and it _did_. now can i go out?" "_can_ you or may you? which do you mean," asked the eldest sister somewhat sententiously. constance laughed softly in her corner. "o, fiddlesticks on your old english! i get enough of it five days in a week without having to take a dose of it saturday afternoon too. i know well enough that i _can_ go out, but whether you'll say yes is another question, and i want to," and jean puckered up her small pug-nose at her sister. "what a spunky little body it is," said the latter, laughing in spite of herself, for jean, the ten-year-old baby of the family was already proving that she was likely to be a very lively offspring of the carruth stock. "and where are you minded to stroll on this charming afternoon when everybody else is glad to sit in a snug room and take a saturday rest?" "mother isn't taking hers," was the prompt retort. "she's down helping pack the boxes that are to go to that girls' college out in iowa. she went in all the rain right after luncheon, and i guess if _she_ can go out while it poured 'cats and dogs,' i can when--when--when--well it doesn't even pour _cats_. it's almost stopped raining." "where _do_ you get hold of those awful expressions, jean? whoever heard of 'cats and dogs' pouring down? what _am_ i to do with you? i declare i feel responsible for your development and--" "then let me go _out_. i need some fresh air to develop in: my lungs don't pump worth a cent in this stuffy place. it's hot enough to roast a pig with those logs blazing in the fire-place. i don't see how you stand it." "go get your rubber boots and rain coat," said eleanor resignedly. "you're half duck, i firmly believe, and never so happy as when you're splashing through puddles. thank goodness your skirts are still short, and you can't very well get _them_ sloppy; and your boots will keep your legs dry unless you try wading up to your hips. but where are you going?" "i'm going down to amy fletcher's to see how bunny is. he got hurt yesterday and it's made him dreadfully sick," answered jean, as she struggled with her rubber boots, growing red in the face as she tugged at them. in five minutes she was equipped to do battle with almost any storm, and with a "good bye! i'll be back pretty soon, and then i'll have enough fresh air to keep me in fine shape for the night," out she flew, banging the front door behind her. eleanor watched the lively little figure as it went skipping down the street, a street which was always called a beautiful one, although now wet and sodden with the rain, for mr. carruth had built his home in a most attractive part of the delightful town of riveredge. maybe you won't find it on the map by that name, but it's _there_ just the same, and quite as attractive to-day as it was several years ago. bernard carruth had been a man of refined taste and possessed a keen appreciation of all that was beautiful, so it was not surprising that he should have chosen riveredge when deciding upon a place for his home. situated as it was on the banks of the splendid stream which had suggested its name, the town boasted unusual attractions, and drew to it an element which soon assured its development in the most satisfactory manner. it became noted for its beautiful homes, its cultured people and its delightful social life. among the prettiest of its homes was bernard carruth's. it stood but a short way from the river's bank, was built almost entirely of cobble-stones, oiled shingles being used where the stones were not practicable. it was made up of quaint turns and unexpected corners, although not a single inch of space, or the shape of a room was sacrificed to the oddity of the architecture. it was not a very large house nor yet a very small one, but as mr. carruth said when all was completed, the house sensibly and artistically furnished, and his family comfortably installed therein: "it is big enough for the big girl, our three little girls and their old daddy, and so what more can be asked? only that the good lord will spare us to each other to enjoy it." this was when jean was but a little more than two years of age, and for five years they _did_ enjoy it as only a closely united family can enjoy a charming home. then one of mr. carruth's college chums got into serious financial difficulties and bernard carruth indorsed heavily for him. the sequel was the same wretched old story repeated: ruin overtook the friend, and bernard carruth's substance was swept into the maelstrom which swallowed up everything. he never recovered from the blow, or false representations which led to it, learning unhappily, when the mischief was done, how sorely he had been betrayed, and within eighteen months from the date of indorsing his friend's paper he was laid away in pretty brookside cemetery, leaving his wife and three daughters to face the world upon a very limited income. this was a little more than two years before the opening of this story. little jean was now ten and a half, constance fifteen and eleanor, the eldest, nearly seventeen, although many judged her to be older, owing to her quiet, reserved manner and studious habits, for eleanor was, undoubtedly, "the brainy member of the family," as constance put it. she was a pupil in the riveredge seminary, and would graduate the following june; a privilege made possible by an aunt's generosity, since mrs. carruth had been left with little more than her home, which mr. carruth had given her as soon as it was completed, and the interest upon his life insurance which amounted to less than fifteen hundred a year; a small sum upon which to keep up the home, provide for and educate three daughters. constance was now a pupil at the riveredge high school and jean at the grammar school. both had been seminary pupils prior to mr. carruth's death, but expenses had to be curtailed at once. constance was the domestic body of the household; prettiest of the three, sunshiny, happy, resourceful, she faced the family's altered position bravely, giving up the advantages and delights of the seminary without a murmur and contributing to her mother's peace of mind to a degree she little guessed by taking the most optimistic view of the situation and meeting altered conditions with a laugh and a song, and the assurance that "_some_ day she was going to make her fortune and set 'em all up in fine shape once more." she got her sanguine disposition from her mother who never looked upon the dull side of the clouds, although it was often a hard matter to win around to their shiny side. eleanor was quite unlike her; indeed, eleanor did not resemble either her father or mother, for mr. carruth had been a most genial, warm-hearted man, and unselfish to the last degree. eleanor was very reserved, inclined to keep her affairs to herself, and extremely matured for her years, finding her relaxation and recreation in a manner which the average girl of her age would have considered tasks. jean was a bunch of nervous impulses, and no one ever knew where the madcap would bounce up next. she was a beautiful child with a mop of wavy reddish-brown hair falling in the softest curls about face and shoulders; eyes that shone lustrous and lambent as twin stars beneath their delicately arched brows, and regarded you with a steadfast interest as though they meant to look straight through you, and separate truth from falsehood. a mouth that was a whimsical combination of fun and resolution. a nose that could pucker disdainfully on provocation, and it never needed a greater than its owner's doubt of the sincerity of the person addressing her. this is the small person skipping along the pretty riveredge street toward the more sparsely settled northern end of the town, hopping _not from_ dry spot to dry spot _between_ the puddles, but _into_ and _into_ the deepest to be found. amy fletcher's home was one of the largest in the outskirts of riveredge and its grounds the most beautiful. between it and riveredge stood an old stone house owned and occupied by a family named raulsbury; a family noted for its parsimony and narrow outlook upon life in general. broad open fields lay between this house and the fletcher place which was some distance beyond. in many places the fences were broken; at one point the field was a good deal higher than the road it bordered and a deep gully lay between it and the sidewalk. when jean reached that point of her moist, breezy walk she stopped short. in the mud of the gully, drenched, cold and shivering lay an old, blind bay horse. he had stumbled into it, and was too feeble to get out. chapter ii "baltie" "when he's forsaken withered and shaken what can an old _horse_ do but die?" (with apologies to tom hood.) for one moment jean stood petrified, too overcome by the sight to stir or speak, then with a low, pitying cry of: "oh, baltie, baltie! how came you there?" the child tossed her umbrella aside and scrambled down into the ditch, the water which stood in it splashing and flying all over her, as she hastened toward the prone horse. at the sound of her voice the poor creature raised his head which had been drooping forward upon his bent-up knees, turned his sightless eyes toward her and tried to nicker, but succeeded only in making a quavering, shivering sound. "oh, baltie, dear, dear baltie, how did you get out of your stable and come way off here?" cried the girl taking the pathetic old head into her arms, and drawing it to her breast regardless of the mud with which it was thickly plastered. "you got out of the field through that broken place in the fence up there didn't you dear? and you must have tumbled right straight down the bank into this ditch, 'cause you're all splashed over with mud, poor, poor baltie. and your legs are all cut and bleeding too. oh, how long have you been here? you couldn't see where you were going, could you? you poor, dear thing. oh, what shall i do for you? what shall i? if i could only help you up," and the dauntless little body tugged with all her might and main to raise the fallen animal. she might as well have striven to raise gibraltar, for, even though the horse strove to get upon his feet, he was far too weak and exhausted to do so, and again dropped heavily to the ground, nearly over-setting his intrepid little friend as he sank down. jean was in despair. what _should_ she do? to go on to her friend amy's and leave the old horse to the chance of someone else's tender mercies never entered her head, and had any one been near at hand to suggest that solution of the problem he would have promptly found himself in the midst of a small tornado of righteous wrath. no, here lay misery incarnate right before her eyes and, of course, she must instantly set about relieving it. but how? "baltie," or old baltimore, as the horse was called, belonged to the raulsbury's. everybody within a radius of twenty miles knew him; knew also that the family had brought him to the place when they came there from the suburbs of baltimore more than twenty years ago. brought him a high-stepping, fiery, thoroughbred colt which was the admiration and envy of all riveredge. john raulsbury, the grandfather, was his owner then, and drove him until his death, when "baltimore" was seventeen years old; even that was an advanced age for a horse. from the moment of grandfather raulsbury's death baltimore began to fail and lose his high spirits. some people insisted that he was grieving for the friend of his colt-hood and the heyday of life, but jabe raulsbury, the son, said "the horse was gettin' played out. what could ye expect when he was more'n seventeen years old?" so baltimore became "old baltie," and his fate the plow, the dirt cart, the farm wagon. his box-stall, fine grooming, and fine harness were things of the past. "the barn shed's good 'nough fer such an old skate's he's gettin' ter be," said jabe, and jabe's son, a shiftless nonentity, agreed with him. so that was blue-blooded baltie's fate, but even such misfortune failed to break his spirit, and now and again, while plodding hopelessly along the road, dragging the heavy farm wagon, he would raise his head, prick up his ears, and plunge ahead, forgetful of his twenty years, when he heard a speedy step behind him. but, alas! his sudden sprint always came to a most humiliating end, for his strength had failed rapidly during the past few years, and the eyes, once so alert and full of fire, were sadly clouded, making steps very uncertain. an ugly stumble usually ended in a cruel jerk upon the still sensitive mouth and poor old baltie was reduced to the humiliating plod once more. yet, through it all he retained his sweet, high-bred disposition, accepting his altered circumstances like the gentleman he was, and never retaliating upon those who so misused him. during his twenty-third year he became totally blind, and when rheumatism, the outcome of the lack of proper stabling and care, added to his miseries, poor baltie was almost turned adrift; the shed was there, to be sure, and when he had time to think about it, jabe dumped some feed into the manger and threw a bundle of straw upon the floor. but for the greater part of the time baltie had to shift for himself as best he could. during the past summer he had been the talk of an indignant town, and more than one threatening word had been spoken regarding the man's treatment of the poor old horse. for a moment the little girl stood in deep, perplexing thought, then suddenly her face lighted up and her expressive eyes sparkled with the thoughts which lay behind them. "i know what i'll do, baltie: i'll go straight up to jabe raulsbury's and _make_ him come down and take care of you. good-bye, dear; i won't be any time at all 'cause i'll go right across the fields," and giving the horse a final encouraging stroke, she caught up her umbrella which had meantime been resting handle uppermost up in a mud-puddle, and scrambling up the bank which had been poor baltie's undoing, disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence and was off across the pasture heedless of all obstacles. jabe raulsbury's farm had once been part of riveredge, but one by one his broad acres had been sold so that now only a small section of the original farmstead remained to him, and this was a constant eyesore to his neighbors, owing to its neglected condition, for beautiful homes had been erected all about it upon the acres he had sold at such a large profit. several good offers had been made him for his property by those who would gladly have bought the land simply to have improved their own places and thus add to the attraction of that section of riveredge. but no; not another foot of his farm would jabe raulsbury sell, and if ever dog-in-the-manger was fully demonstrated it was by this parsimonious irascible man whom no one respected and many heartily despised. this wild, wet afternoon he was seated upon a stool just within the shelter of his barn sorting over a pile of turnips which lay upon the floor near him. he was not an attractive figure, to say the least, as he bent over the work. cadaverous, simply because he was too parsimonious to provide sufficient nourishing food to meet the demands of such a huge body. unkempt, grizzled auburn hair and grizzled auburn beard, the latter sparse enough to disclose the sinister mouth. eyes about the color of green gooseberries and with about as much expression. as he sat there tossing into the baskets before him the sorted-out turnips, he became aware of rapidly approaching footsteps, and raised his head just as a small figure came hurrying around the corner of the barn, for the scramble up the steep bank, and rapid walk across the wet pastures, had set jean's heart a-beating, and that, coupled with her indignation, caused her to pant. she had gone first to the house, but had there learned from mrs. raulsbury, a timid, nervous, woefully-dominated individual, who looked and acted as though she scarcely dared call her soul her own, that "jabe was down yonder in the far-barn sortin' turnips." so down to the "far-barn" went jean. "good afternoon, mr. raulsbury," she began, her heart, it must be confessed, adding, rather than lessening its number of beats, at confronting the forbidding expression of the individual with whom she was passing the time of day. "huh!" grunted jabe raulsbury, giving her one searching look from between his narrowing eyelids, and then resuming his work. most children would have been discouraged and dropped the conversation then and there. jean's lips took on a firmer curve. "i guess after all it _isn't_ a good afternoon, is it? it is a pretty wet, horrid one, and not a very nice one to be out in, is it?" "wul, why don't ye go home then?" was the gruff retort. "because i have an important matter to 'tend to. i was on my way to visit amy fletcher; her cat is sick! he was hurt dreadfully yesterday; she thinks somebody must have tried to shoot him and missed him, for his shoulder is all torn. if anybody _did_ do such a thing to bunny they'd ought to be ashamed of it, for he's a dear. if _i_ knew who had done it i'd--i'd--." "wal, what _would_ ye do to 'em, heh?" and a wicked, tantalizing grin overspread jabe raulsbury's face. "do? do? i believe i'd scratch his eyes out; i'd hate him so, for being so cruel!" was the fiery, unexpected reply. "do tell! would ye now, really? mebbe it's jist as well fer him that ye don't know the feller that did it then," remarked raulsbury, although he gave a slight hitch to the stool upon which he was sitting as he said it, thus widening the space between them. "well i believe i _would_, for i _despise_ a coward, and only a coward could do such a thing." "huh," was the response to this statement. then silence for a moment was broken by the man who asked: "wal, why don't ye go along an' see if the cat's kilt. it aint _here_." "no, i know _that_, but i have found something more important to 'tend to, and that's why i came up here, and it's something you ought to know about too: old baltie has tumbled down the bank at the place in the pasture where the fence is broken, and is in the ditch. i don't know how long he's been there, but he's all wet, and muddy and shivery and he can't get up. i came up to tell you, so's you could get a man to help you and go right down and get him out. i tried, but i wasn't strong enough, but he'll die if you don't go quick." jean's eyes shone and her cheeks were flushed from excitement as she described baltie's plight, and paused only because breath failed her. "wal, 'spose he does; what then? what good is he to anybody? he's most twenty-five year old an' clear played-out. he'd better die; it's the best thing could happen." the shifty eyes had not rested upon the child while the man was speaking, but some powerful magnetism drew and held them to her deep blazing ones as the last word fell from his lips. he tried to withdraw them, ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice at one particular spot which from appearances had been so favored many times before, drew his hand across his mouth and then gave a self-conscious, snickering laugh. "i don't believe you understood what i said, did you?" asked jean quietly. "i'm sure you didn't." "oh yis i did. ye said old baltie was down in the ditch yonder and like ter die if i didn't git him out. wal, that's jist 'zactly what i want him _to_ do, an' jest 'zactly what i turned him out inter that field fer him ter do, an' jist 'zactly what i hope he _will_ do 'fore morning. he's got the last ounce o' fodder i'm ever a'goin' ter give him, an' i aint never a'goin' ter let him inter my barns agin. now put _that_ in yer pipe an' smoke it, an' then git out durned quick." jabe raulsbury had partially risen from his stool as he concluded this creditable tirade, and one hand was raised threateningly toward the little figure standing with her dripping umbrella just within the threshold of the barn door. that the burly figure did not rise entirely, and that his hand remained suspended without the threatened blow falling can perhaps best be explained by the fact that the child before him never flinched, and that the scorn upon her face was so intense that it could be felt. chapter iii the spirit of mad anthony jean carruth stood thus for about one minute absolutely rigid, her face the color of chalk and her eyes blazing. then several things happened with extreme expedition. the position of the closed umbrella in her hands reversed with lightning-like rapidity; one quick step _forward_, _not_ backward, was made, thus giving the intrepid little body a firmer foothold, and then crash! down came the gun-metal handle across jabe raulsbury's ample-sized nasal appendage. the blow, with such small arms to launch it, was not of necessity a very powerful one, but it was the suddenness of the onslaught which rendered it effective, for not one sound had issued from the child's set lips as she delivered it, and jabe's position placed him at a decided disadvantage. he resumed his seat with considerable emphasis, and clapping his hand to his injured feature, bellowed in the voice of an injured bull: "you--you--you little devil! you--you, let me get hold of you!" but jean did not obey the command or pause to learn the result of her deed. with a storm of the wildest sobs she turned and fled from the barnyard, down the driveway leading to the road, and back to the spot where she had left baltie in his misery, her tears nearly blinding her, and her indignation almost strangling her; back to the poor old horse, so sorely in need of human pity and aid. this, all unknown to his little champion, had already reached him, for hardly had jean disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence, than a vehicle came bowling along the highway driven by no less a personage than hadyn stuyvesant, lately elected president of the local branch of the s. p. c. a. poor old baltie's days of misery had come to an end, for here was the authority either to compel his care or to mercifully release him from his sufferings. perhaps not more than twenty minutes had elapsed from the time jean started across the fields, to the moment of her return to the old horse, but in those twenty minutes mr. stuyvesant had secured aid from mr. fletcher's place, and when jean came hurrying upon the scene, her sobs still rendering breathing difficult, and her troubled little face bathed in tears, she found three men standing near baltie. "oh, baltie, baltie, baltie, i'm so glad! so glad! so glad!" sobbed the overwrought little girl, as she flew to the old horse's head. mr. stuyvesant and the men stared at her in astonishment. "why little girl," cried the former. "where in this world have _you_ sprung from? and what is the matter? is this your horse?" "oh, no--no; he isn't mine. it's old baltie; don't you know him? i went to tell jabe raulsbury about him and he--he--" and jean paused embarrassed. "yes? well? is this his horse? is he coming to get him? did you find him?" "yes, sir, i _found_ him," answered jean, trembling from excitement and her exertions. "and is he coming right down?" persisted mr. stuyvesant, looking keenly, although not unkindly, at the child. "he--he--, oh, _please_ don't make me tell tales on anybody--it's so mean--but he--" "you might as well tell it right out an' done with it, little gal," broke in one of the men. "it ain't no state secret; everybody knows that that old skinflint has been abusing this horse shameful, for months past, an' i'll bet my month's wages he said he wouldn't come down, an' he hoped the horse 'd die in the ditch. come now, out with it--_didn't_ he?" jean would not answer, but there was no need for words; her eyes told the truth. just then the other man came up to her; he was one of mr. fletcher's grooms. "aren't you mrs. carruth's little girl?" he asked. but before jean had time to answer jabe raulsbury came running along the road, one hand holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other waving wildly as he shouted: "just you wait 'till i lay my hands on you--you little wild cat!" he was too blinded by his rage to realize the situation into which he was hurrying. again anthony wayne's spirit leaped into jean's eyes, as the dauntless little creature whirled about to meet the enemy descending upon her. with head erect, and nostrils quivering she stood as though rooted to the ground. "great guns! how's _that_ for a little thoroughbred?" murmured the groom, laughing softly. reaching out a protecting hand, mr. stuyvesant gently pushed the little girl toward the man who stood behind him, and taking her place let jabe raulsbury come head-on to his fate. had the man been less enraged he would have taken in the situation at once, but his nose still pained severely from the well-aimed blow, and had also bled pretty freely, so it is not surprising that he lost his presence of mind. "go slow! go slow! you are exactly the man i want to see," said mr. stuyvesant, laying a detaining hand upon jabe's arm. "who 'n thunder air you?" demanded the half-blinded man. "someone you would probably rather not meet at this moment, but since you have appeared upon the scene so opportunely i think we might as well come to an understanding at once, and settle some scores." "i ain't got no scores to settle with you, but i have with _that_ little demon, an' by gosh she'll know it, when i've done with her! why that young 'un has just smashed me over the head with her umbril, i tell ye. _there_ it is, if ye don't believe what i'm a tellin' ye. i'm goin' ter have the _law_ on her and on her ma, i tell ye, an' i call you three men ter witness the state i'm in. i'll bring suit agin' her fer big damages--that's what i'll do. look at my _nose_!" as he ceased his tirade jabe removed his handkerchief from the injured member. at the sight of it one of the men broke into a loud guffaw. certainly, for a "weaker vessel" jean had compassed considerable. that nose was about the size of two ordinary noses. mr. stuyvesant regarded it for a moment, his face perfectly sober, then asked with apparent concern: "and this little girl hit you such a blow as that?" poor little jean began to tremble in her boots. were the tables about to turn upon her? even anthony wayne's spirit, when harbored in such a tiny body could hardly brave _that_. the fletcher's groom who stood just behind her watched her closely. now and again he gave a nod indicative of his approval. "yes she did. she drew off and struck me slam in the face with her umbril.," averred jabe. "had _you_ struck her? did she strike in self-defense?" mr. stuyvesant gave a significant look over jabe's head straight into the groom's eyes when he asked this question. the response was the slightest nod of comprehension. "strike her? _no_," roared jabe. "i hadn't teched her. i was a-sittin' there sortin' out my turnips 's peaceful 's any man in this town, when that little rip comes 'long and tells me i must go get an old horse out 'en a ditch: _that_ old skate there that's boun' ter die _any_ how, an' ought ter a-died long ago. i told her ter clear out an' mind her own business that i hoped the horse _would_ die, an' that's what i'd turned him out _to_ do. then she drew off an' whacked me." "just because you stated in just so many words that you meant to get rid of the old horse and had turned him out to die on the roadside. is _that_ why she struck you?" had jabe been a little calmer he might have been aware of a change in hadyn stuyvesant's expression and his tone of voice, but men wild with rage are rarely close observers. "yis! yis!" he snapped, sure now of his triumph. "well i'm only sorry the blow was such a light one. i wish it had been struck by a man's arm and sufficiently powerful to have half killed you! even _that_ would have been _too_ good for you, you merciless brute! i've had you under my eye for your treatment of that poor horse for some time, and now i have you under my _hand_, and convicted by your own words in the presence of two witnesses, of absolute cruelty. i arrest you in the name of the s. p. c. a." for one brief moment jabe stood petrified with astonishment. then the brute in him broke loose and he started to lay about him right and left. his aggressiveness was brought to a speedy termination, for at a slight motion from mr. stuyvesant the two men sprang upon him, his arms were held and the next second there was a slight click and jabe raulsbury's wrists were in handcuffs. that snap was the signal for his blustering to take flight for he was an arrant coward at heart. "now step into my wagon and sit there until i am ready to settle your case, my man, and that will be when i have looked to this little girl and the animal which, but for her pluck and courage, might have died in this ditch," ordered mr. stuyvesant. no whipped cur could have slunk toward the wagon more cowed. "now, little lassie, tell me your name and where you live," said mr. stuyvesant lifting jean bodily into his arms despite her mortification at being "handled just like a baby," as she afterwards expressed it. "i am jean carruth. i live on linden avenue. i'm--i'm terribly ashamed to be here, and to have struck him," and she nodded toward the humbled figure in the wagon. "you need not be. you did not give him one-half he deserves," was the somewhat comforting assurance. "o, but what _will_ mother say? she'll be _so_ mortified when i tell her about it all. it seems as if i just _couldn't_," was the distressed reply. "must you tell her?" asked mr. stuyvesant, an odd expression overspreading his kind, strong face as he looked into the little girl's eyes. jean regarded him with undisguised amazement as she answered simply: "why of _course_! that would be deceit if i _didn't_. i'll have to be punished, but i guess i _ought_ to be," was the naïve conclusion. the fine face before her was transfigured as hadyn stuyvesant answered: "good! _your_ principles are all right. stick to them and i'll want to know you when you are a woman. now i must get you home for i've a word to say to your mother, to whom i mean to introduce myself under the circumstances," and carrying her to his two-seated depot wagon, he placed her upon the front seat. jabe glowered at him from the rear one. his horse turned his head with an inquiring nicker. "yes, comet, i'll be ready pretty soon," he replied, pausing a second to give a stroke to the satiny neck. then turning to the men he said: "now, my men, let's on with this job which has been delayed too long already." he did not spare himself, and presently old baltie was out of the ditch and upon his feet--a sufficiently pathetic object to touch any heart. "shall i have the men lead him up to your barn?" asked hadyn stuyvesant, giving the surly object in his wagon a last chance to redeem himself. "no! i'm done with him; do your worst," was the gruff answer. "very well," the words were ominously quiet, "then _i_ shall take him in charge." "oh, _where_ are you going to take him, please?" asked jean, her concern for the horse overcoming her embarrassment at her novel situation. "i'm afraid he will have to be sent to the pound, little one, for no one will claim him." "is that the place where they _kill_ them? _must_ baltie be killed?" her voice was full of tears. "unless someone can be found who will care for him for the rest of his numbered days. i'm afraid it is the best and most merciful fate for him," was the gentle answer. "how long may he stay there without being killed? until maybe somebody can be found to take him." "he may stay there one week. but now we must move along. fasten the horse's halter to the back of my wagon, men, and i'll see to it that he is comfortable to-night anyway." the halter rope was tied, and the strange procession started slowly back toward riveredge. chapter iv baltie is rescued "how old are you, little lassie?" asked hadyn stuyvesant, looking down upon the little figure beside him, his fine eyes alive with interest and the smile which none could resist lighting his face, and displaying his white even teeth. "i'm just a little over ten," answered jean, looking up and answering his smile with one equally frank and trustful, for little jean carruth did not understand the meaning of embarrassment. "are you mrs. bernard carruth's little daughter? i knew her nephew well when at college, although i've been away from riveredge so long that i've lost track of her and her family." "yes, she is my mother. mr. bernard carruth was my father," and a little choke came into jean's voice, for, although not yet eight years of age when her father passed out of her life, jean's memory of him was a very tender one, and she sorely missed the kind, cheery, sympathetic companionship he had given his children. hadyn stuyvesant was quick to note the catch in the little girl's voice, and the tears which welled up to her eyes, and a strong arm was placed about her waist to draw her a little closer to his side, as, changing the subject, he said very tenderly: "you have had an exciting hour, little one. sit close beside me and don't try to talk; just rest, and let _me_ do the talking. we must go slowly on baltie's account; the poor old horse is badly knocked about and stiffened up. suppose we go right to mr. pringle's livery stable and ask him to take care of him a few days any way. don't you think that would be a good plan?" "but who will _pay_ for him? don't you have to pay board for horses just like people pay their board?" broke in jean anxiously. hadyn stuyvesant smiled at the practical little being his arm still so comfortingly encircled. "i guess the society can stand the expense," he answered. "has it got _lots_ of money to do such things with?" asked jean, bound to get at the full facts. "i'm afraid it hasn't got 'lots of money'--i wish it had,--but i think it can pay a week's board for old baltie in consideration of what you have done for him. it will make you happier to know he will be comfortable for a little while any way, won't it?" "oh, yes! yes! and, and--perhaps _i_ could pay the next week's if we didn't find somebody the first week. i've got 'most five dollars in my christmas bank. i've been saving ever since last january; i always begin to put in something on new year's day, if it's only five cents, and then i never, never take any out 'till it's time to buy our next christmas presents. and i really _have_ got 'most five dollars, and would _that_ be enough for another week?" and the bonny little face was raised eagerly to her companion's. hadyn stuyvesant then and there lost his heart to the little creature at his side. it is given to very few "grown-ups" to slip out of their own adult years and by some magical power pick up the years of their childhood once more, with all the experiences and view-points of that childhood, but hadyn stuyvesant was one of those few. he felt all the eagerness of jean's words and his answer held all the confidence and enthusiasm of _her_ ten years rather than his own twenty-three. "fully enough. but we will hope that a home may be found for baltie before the first week has come to an end. and here we are at mr. pringle's. raulsbury i shall have to ask you to get out here," added mr. stuyvesant, as he, himself, sprang from the depot wagon to the sidewalk. raulsbury made no reply but stepped to the sidewalk, where, at a slight signal from hadyn stuyvesant, an officer of the society who had his office in the livery stable came forward and motioned to raulsbury to follow him. as they disappeared within the stable, mr. stuyvesant said to the proprietor: "pringle, i've got a boarder for you. don't know just how long he will stay, but remember, nothing is too good for him while he does, for he is this little girl's protégé, and i hold myself responsible for him." "all right, mr. stuyvesant. all right, sir. he shall have the best the stable affords. come on, old stager; you look as if you wanted a curry-comb and a feed pretty bad," said pringle, as he untied baltie's halter. with all the gentleness of the blue-blooded old fellow he was, baltie raised his mud-splashed head, sniffed at mr. pringle's coat and nickered softly, as though acknowledging his proffered hospitality. the man stroked the muddy neck encouragingly, as he said: "he don't look much as he did eighteen years ago, does he, mr. stuyvesant?" "i'm afraid i don't remember how he looked eighteen years ago, pringle; there wasn't much of me to remember _with_ about that time. but i remember how he looked _eight_ years ago, before i went to europe, and the contrast is enough to stir me up considerable. it's about time such conditions were made impossible, and i'm going to see what i can do to start a move in that direction," concluded mr. stuyvesant, with an ominous nod toward the stable door, through which raulsbury had disappeared. "i'm glad to hear it, sir. we have had too much of this sort of thing in riveredge for the past few years. i've been saying the society needed a _live_ president and i'm glad it's got one at last." "well, look out for old baltie, and now i must take my little fellow-worker home," said mr. stuyvesant. "oh, may i give him just _one_ pat before we go?" begged jean, looking from baltie to mr. stuyvesant. "lead him up beside us, pringle," ordered mr. stuyvesant smiling his consent to jean. "good-bye baltie, dear. good-bye. i won't forget you for a single minute; no, not for one," said the little girl earnestly, hugging the muddy old head and implanting a kiss upon the ear nearest her. "baltie you are to be envied, old fellow," said hadyn stuyvesant, laughing softly, and nodding significantly to pringle. "she was his first friend in his misery. i'll tell you about it later, but i must be off now or her family will have me up for a kidnapper. i'll be back in about an hour." ten minutes' swift bowling along behind hadyn stuyvesant's beautiful "comet" brought them to the carruth home. dusk was already beginning to fall as the short autumn day drew to its end, and mrs. carruth,--mother above all other things--stood at the window watching for this youngest daughter, regarding whom she never felt quite at ease when that young lady was out of her sight. when she saw a carriage turning in at her driveway and that same daughter perched upon the front seat beside a total stranger she began to believe that there had been some foundation for the misgivings which had made her so restless for the past hour. opening the door she stepped out upon the piazza to meet the runaway, and was greeted with: "oh mother, mother, i've had such an exciting experience! i started to see amy fletcher, but before i got there i found him in the ditch and lame and muddy and dirty, and i went up to tell jabe he _must_ go get him out and then i got awful angry and banged him with my umbrella, and then i cried and _he_ found me," with a nod toward her companion, "and he got him out of the ditch and gave jabe _such_ a scolding and took him to mr. pringle's and he's going to curry-comb him and get the mud all off of him and take care of him a week any way, and two weeks if i've got enough money in my bank and--and--" "mercy! mercy! mercy!" cried mrs. carruth, breaking into a laugh and raising both hands as though to shield her head from the avalanche of words descending upon it. hadyn stuyvesant strove manfully to keep his countenance lest he wound the feelings of his little companion, but the situation was too much for him and his genial laugh echoed mrs. carruth's as he sprang from the depot wagon and raising his arms toward the surprised child said: "let me lift you out little maid, and then i think perhaps you can give your mother a clearer idea as to whether it is jabe raulsbury, or old baltie which is covered with mud and about to be curry-combed. mrs. carruth, let me introduce myself as hadyn stuyvesant. i knew your nephew when i was at college, and on the strength of my friendship for him, must beg you to pardon this intrusion. i came upon your little daughter not long since playing the part of the good samaritan to raulsbury's poor old horse. she had tackled a job just a little too big for her, so i volunteered to lend a hand, and together we made it go." as he spoke hadyn stuyvesant removed his hat and ascended the piazza steps with hand outstretched to the sweet-faced woman who stood at the top. she took the extended hand, her face lighting with the winning smile which carried sunshine to all who knew her, and in the present instance fell with wonderful warmth upon the man before her, for barely a year had passed since his mother had been laid away in a beautiful cemetery in switzerland, and the tie between that mother and son had been a singularly tender one. "i have often heard my nephew speak of you, mr. stuyvesant, and can not think of you as a stranger. i regret that we have not met before, but i understand you have lived abroad for several years. i am indebted to you for bringing jean safely home, but quite at a loss to understand what has happened. please come in and tell me. will your horse stand?" "he will stand as long as i wish him to. but i fear i shall intrude upon you?" and a questioning tone came into his voice. "how could it be an intrusion under the circumstances? come." "in a moment, then. i must throw the blanket over comet," and running down the steps he took the blanket from the seat and quickly buckled it upon the horse which meanwhile nosed him and nickered. "yes; it's all right, old man. just you _stand_ till i want you," said his master, giving the pretty head an affectionate pat which the horse acknowledged by shaking it up and down two or three times. hadyn stuyvesant then mounted the steps once more and followed mrs. carruth and jean into the house, across the broad hall into the cheerful living-room where logs blazed upon the andirons in the fire-place, and constance was just lighting a large reading lamp which stood upon a table in the center of the room. "constance, dear, this is mr. stuyvesant whom your cousin knew at princeton. my daughter, constance, mr. stuyvesant. and this is my eldest daughter, eleanor," she added as eleanor entered the room. constance set the lamp shade upon its rest and advanced toward their guest with hand extended and a smile which was the perfect reflection of her mother's. eleanor's greeting although graceful and dignified lacked her sister's cordiality. "now," added mrs. carruth, "let us be seated and learn more definitely of jean's escapade." "but it _wasn't_ an escapade _this_ time, mother. it was just an unhelpable experience, _wasn't_ it, mr. stuyvesant?" broke in jean, walking over to hadyn stuyvesant's side and placing her hand confidingly upon his shoulder, as she peered into his kind eyes for his corroboration of this assertion. "_entirely_ 'unhelpable,'" was the positive assurance as he put his arm about her and drew her upon his knee. "suppose you let me explain it, and then your mother and sisters will understand the situation fully," and in as few words as possible he gave an account of the happenings of the past two hours, jean now and again prompting him when he went a trifle astray regarding the incidents which occurred prior to his appearance upon the scene, and making a clean breast of her attack upon jabe raulsbury. when _that_ point in the narration was reached mrs. carruth let her hands drop resignedly into her lap; constance laughed outright, and eleanor cried: "oh, mr. stuyvesant, what _must_ you think of jean's training?" jean's eyes were fixed upon his as though in his reply rested the verdict, and her fingers were clasped and unclasped nervously. it had been more than two years since a man had set judgment upon her. hadyn stuyvesant looked keenly into the big eyes looking so bravely and frankly into his own, drew the little girl close to him, rested his lips for a moment upon the silky curls and said: "sometimes we can hardly be held accountable for what we do; especially when our sense of justice is sorely taxed. i believe i should have done the same. but since you love horses so dearly, won't you run and give comet a lump of sugar? he has not had one to-day and will feel slighted unless he gets it. hold it upon the palm of your hand and he will take it as gently as a kitten. tell him i am coming right away," and placing jean upon the floor, he gave an encouraging pat upon the brown curls. "i'll give it to him right away, quick," she cried delightedly as she ran from the room. "good!" then rising he extended his hand, saying, as he clasped mrs. carruth's: "she is a little trump, mrs. carruth. jove! if you could have been there and seen her championship of that old horse, and her dauntless courage when that old rascal, jabe, bore down upon her, you would be so set up that this house would have to expand to hold you. please don't reprove her. i ask it as favor, although i have no right to do so. she has a fine spirit and a finer sense of duty, mrs. carruth, for she gave me a rare call-down when i tested it by hinting that she'd best keep mum on the subject if she was likely to come in for a wigging. she is a great little lassie and i am going to ask you to let me know her better." "jean is about right, _i_ think, mr. stuyvesant," said constance, as she shook hands good-bye. "she is peppery and impulsive, i know, but it would be a hard matter to make her tell an untruth, or go against what she considered her duty." "i'm _sure_ of it, miss constance," was the hearty answer. "and now good-bye. you will let me come again, mrs. carruth?" "we will be very pleased to welcome you," was the cordial reply. "good! i'll come." chapter v a new member of the family "has you-all done 'cided to do wid out yo' suppers dis yer night? 'cause if you _is_ i 'spec's i kin clar away," was the autocratic inquiry of mammy melviny as she stood in the doorway of the living-room, her ample proportions very nearly filling it. hadyn stuyvesant's call had been of longer duration than mammy approved, for her hot corn cakes were being rapidly ruined by the delayed meal, and this was an outrage upon her skill in cooking. mammy had been mrs. carruth's nurse "down souf" and still regarded that dignified lady as her "chile," and subject to her dictation. she was the only servant which mrs. carruth now kept, the others having been what mammy stigmatized as "po' northern no 'count niggers" who gave the minimum of work for the maximum of pay, and were prompt to take their departure when adversity overtook their employer. not so mammy. when the crisis came mrs. carruth stated the case to her and advised her to seek another situation where she would receive the wages her ability commanded, and which mrs. carruth, in her reduced circumstances, could no longer afford to pay her. the storm which the suggestion produced was both alarming and amusing. placing her arms upon her hips, and raising her head like a war-horse scenting battle, mammy stamped her foot and cried: "step down an' out? get out 'en de fambly? go wo'k fer some o' dese hyer strange folks what aint keer a cent fo' me, an' aint know who i _is_? _me?_ a blairsdale! huh! what sort o' fool talk is _dat_, baby? yo' cyant _git_ me out. yo' need 'n ter try, kase 'taint gwine be no good ter. i's hyer and hyer i's gwine _stay_, no matter _what_ come. 'taint no use fer ter talk ter _me_ 'bout money and wages an' sich truck. what i kerrin' fer dem? i'se got 'nough, an' ter spare. what yo' t'ink i'se been doin' all dese years o' freedom? flingin' my earnin's 'way? huh! you _know_ i aint done no sich foolishness. i'se got a pile--yis, an' a _good_ pile too,--put 'way. i need n't ter ever do a stroke mo' work long 's i live if i don't wantter. i'se _rich_, i is. but i _gwine_ ter work jist 's long's i'se mind ter. ain't i free? who gwine ter say i cyant wo'k? now go long an' tend ter yo' business and lemme lone ter tend ter mine, and dat's right down wid de pots and de kettles, and de stew pans, an' de wash biler and de wash tubs, an' i reckon i kin do more 'n six o' dese yer norf niggers put togedder when i set out ter good an' hard if i _is_ most sixty years old. hush yo' talk chile, an' don't let me ketch you a interferin' wid _my_ doin's agin. you heah _me_?" and at the end of this tirade, mammy turned sharply about and marched off like a grenadier. mrs. carruth was deeply touched by the old woman's loyalty, but knowing the antebellum negro as she did, she realized how wounded mammy had been by the suggestion that she seek a more lucrative situation among strangers. mammy had been born and raised a slave on mrs. carruth's father's plantation in north carolina, and would always consider herself a member of mrs. carruth's family. alas for the days of such ties and such devotion! so mammy was now the autocrat of the household and ruled with an iron hand, although woe to anyone who dared to overstep the bounds _she_ had established as her "miss jinny's" rights, or the "chillen's" privileges as "old marster's gran'-chillern." "old marster" was mammy's ideal of what a gentleman should be, and "de days befo' de gre't turmoil" were the only days "fitten for _folks_ (always to be written in italics) to live in." she was an interesting figure as she stood in the doorway, and snapped out her question, although her old face, surmounted by its gay bandanna turban was the personification of kindliness, and her keen eyes held only love for her "white folks." she was decidedly corpulent and her light print gown and beautifully ironed white apron stood out from her figure until they completely filled the doorway. mrs. carruth turned toward her and asked with a quizzical smile; "what is spoiling, mammy?" "huh! ain't nuffin spilin's i knows on, but dat miss nornie done say she ain't had no co'n cakes 'n 'bout 'n age an' if she _want_ 'em so turrible she'd better come and _eat_ 'em,"--and with a decisive nod mammy stalked off toward the dining-room. "come, girls, unless you want to evoke the displeasure of the presiding genius of the household," said mrs. carruth smiling, as she led the way in mammy's wake. it was a pleasant meal, for mammy would not countenance the least lapse from the customs of earlier days, and the same pains were taken for the simple meals now served as had been taken with the more elaborate ones during mr. carruth's lifetime. the linen must be ironed with the same care; the silver must shine as brightly, and the glass sparkle as it had always done. miss jinny must not miss any of the luxuries to which she had been born if mammy could help it. "isn't he splendid, mother?" asked jean, as she buttered her third corn cake. "he was _so_ good to baltie and to me." "i am very glad to know him, dear, for lyman was much attached to him." "where has he been all these years, mother, that we have never met him in riveredge?" asked eleanor. "he has lived abroad when not at college. he took his degree last spring. his mother died there a little more than a year ago, i understand. she never recovered from the blow of his father's death when hadyn was about fifteen years of age. she went abroad soon after for her health and never came back. he came over for his college course at princeton, but always rejoined her during his holidays." "how old a man is he, mother? he seems both young and old," said constance. "i am not sure, but think he must be about lyman's age--nearly twenty-four. but the society seems to have made a wise choice in electing him its president; he has certainly taken energetic measures in this case and i am glad that he has, for it is disgraceful to have such a thing occur in riveredge. poor old horse! it would have been more merciful to shoot him. how could jabe raulsbury have been so utterly heartless?" "but, mother, suppose no one will take old baltie and give him a home?" persisted jean, "will he _have_ to be shot then?" "would it not be kinder to end such a hapless existence than to leave it to an uncertain fate, dear?" asked mrs. carruth gently. "well, maybe, but _i_ don't want him killed. he _loves_ me," was jean's answer and the little upraising of the head at the conclusion of the remark conveyed more to constance than to the others. constance understood jean better than any other member of the family, and during the summer just passed jean had many times gone to the field in which baltie was pastured to carry some dainty to the poor old horse and her love for him and compassion for his wretchedness were deep. no more was said just then, but constance knew that the subject had not passed from jean's thoughts and one afternoon, exactly two weeks from that evening, this was verified. mrs. carruth had gone to sit with a sick friend. eleanor was in her room lost to everything but a knotty problem for monday's recitation, and mammy was busily occupied with some dainty dish against her miss jinny's home-coming. constance was laying the tea-table when the crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, upon the gravel of the driveway caused her to look up, there to behold jean with old baltie in tow. "merciful powers, what _has_ the child done now?" she exclaimed as she let fall with a clatter the knife and fork she was about to place upon the table and flew to the front door, crying as she hastily opened it: "jean carruth what in this world _have_ you been doing?" "i've brought him home. i _had_ to. i went down to ask mr. pringle if anybody had come to take him, but he wasn't there. there wasn't _any_body there but old deaf mike who cleans the stable and i couldn't make _him_ understand a single thing i said. he just mumbled and wagged his head for all the world like that china mandarin in the library, and didn't do a thing though i yelled at him as hard as i could." "but _how_ did you get baltie and, greater marvel, _how_ did you bring him all this way home?" persisted constance, bound to get to the bottom of facts. "i went into the box-stall--it's close to the door you know--and got him and led him here." "but where was mike, and what was he doing all that time to _let_ you do such a thing?" "o, he went poking off down the stable and didn't pay any attention to me. it wouldn't have made any difference if he _had_; i had gone there to rescue baltie and save him from being shot, and i didn't mean to come away without doing it. the two weeks were up to-day and he was _there_. if any one had been found to take him he _wouldn't_ have been there yet, would he? so _that_ settled it, and i wasn't going to take any chances. if i'd let him stay one day longer they might have shot him. if i could have found mr. pringle i'd have told him, but i couldn't, and i didn't dare to wait. i left my bank money, almost five dollars, to pay for this week's board--mr. stuyvesant said it would be enough--and a little note to tell him it was for baltie; i wrote it on a piece of paper in his office, and then i came home as fast as baltie could walk, and here we are." jean had talked very rapidly and constance was too dumfounded for the time being, to interrupt the flow of words. presently however, she recovered her speech and, resting one hand on baltie's withers and the other on jean's shoulder, asked resignedly: "and now that you've got him, may i ask what in this world you propose to _do_ with him?" "take him out to the stable of course and take care of him as long as he lives," was the uncontrovertible reply. "mother will _never_ let you do such a thing, jean, and he must be taken back to pringle's at once," said constance, with more emphasis than usually entered her speech toward this mad-cap little sister. "i won't! i won't! i _won't_ let him go back!" broke out jean, a storm of sobs ending the protest and bringing mammy upon the scene hot-foot, for mammy's ears were keen for notes of woe from her baby. "what's de matter, honey? what done happen ter yo'?" she cried as she came hurrying across the little porch upon which the dining-room opened. "bress gawd what yo' got dere, chile? huccum dat old horse here?" "oh mammy, mammy, its baltie, and she says i can't keep him, and they are going to _kill_ him, 'cause he's old and blind and hasn't anyone to take care of him. and mammy, mammy, _please_ don't let 'em 'cause i _love_ him. i do, i do, mammy," cried jean as she cast baltie's leader from her and rushed to mammy, to fling herself into those protecting arms and sob out her woes. "wha', wha', wha', yo' say, baby?" stammered mammy, whose tongue sometimes became unruly under great excitement. "somebody gwine tek away dat old horse dat yo' love, an' breck yo' heart? huh! who gwine do dat when mammy stan' by? i like 'er _see_ 'em do it! _co'se_ i knows baltie. ain' i seen him dese many years? an' yo' gwine pertec' him an' keer fer him in his discrepancy? well, ef yo' wantter yo' _shall_, an' dat's all 'bout it." "but mammy, mammy, she can't; she mustn't; what will mother say?" remonstrated constance smiling in spite of herself at the ridiculous situation for mammy had promptly put on her war-paint, and was a formidable champion to overcome. "an' what yo' _ma_ gotter say 'bout it if _i_ sets out ter tak' care of an' old horse? 'taint _her_ horse. _she_ aint got nothin' 'tall ter _do wid_ him. he's been a lookin', an' a waitin'; and de lawd knows but he's been _a-prayin'_ fer a pertecter----how _we-all_ gwine know he aint _prayed_ ter de lawd fer ter raise one up fer him in his mis'ry? an' now he's _got_ one an' it's _me_ an' dis chile. go 'long an' set yo' table an' let us 'lone. come on honey; we'll take old baltie out yonder ter de stable an' bed him _down_ an' feed him _up_ twell he so sot up he like 'nough bus' wid pride, an' i just like ter see who gwine _stop_ us. hi yah-yah, yah," and mammy's wrath ended in a melodious laugh as she caught hold of the leader and stalked off with this extraordinary addition to her already manifold duties, jean holding her free hand and nodding exultingly over her shoulder at constance who had collapsed upon the lower step. chapter vi blue monday october, with its wealth of color, its mellow days, and soft haze was passing quickly and november was not far off: november with its "melancholy days" of "wailing winds and wintry woods." baltie had now been a member of the carruth family for nearly a month and had improved wonderfully under mammy melviny's care. how the old woman found time to care for him and the means to provide for him was a source of wonder not only to mrs. carruth, but to the entire neighborhood who regarded the whole thing as a huge joke, and enjoyed many a hearty laugh over it, for mammy was considered a character by the neighbors, and nobody felt much surprised at any new departure in which she might elect to indulge. two or three friends had begged mrs. carruth to let them relieve her of the care of the old horse, assuring her that they would gladly keep him in their stables as long as he needed a home, and ended in a hearty laugh at the thought of mammy turning groom. but when mrs. carruth broached the subject to mammy she was met with flat opposition: "send dat ole horse off ter folks what was jist gwine tek keer of him fer cha'ity? _no_ i aint gwine do no sich t'ing. de lawd sartin sent him ter me ter tek keer of an' i'se gwin ter _do_ it. aint he mine? didn't jabe raulsbury say dat anybody what would tek keer of him could _have_ him? well i'se tekin' keer of him so _co'se_ he's _mine_. i aint never is own no live stock befo' an now i _got_ some. go 'long, miss jinny; you'se got plenty ter tend ter 'thout studyin' 'bout my _horse_. bimeby like 'nough i have him so fed up and spry i can sell him fer heap er cash--dough i don' believe anybody's got nigh 'nough fer ter buy him whilst baby loves him." and so the discussion ended and baltie lived upon the fat of the land and was sheltered in mrs. carruth's unused stable. dry leaves which fell in red and yellow clouds from the maple, birch and oak trees made a far softer bed than the old horse had known in many a day. a bag of bran was delivered at mrs. carruth's house for "mammy melviny," with hadyn stuyvesant's compliments. mammy herself, invested in a sack of oats and a bale of cut hay, to say nothing of saving all bits of bread and parings from her kitchen, and baltic waxed sleek and fat thereon. jean was his devoted slave and daily led him about the grounds for a constitutional. up and down the driveway paced the little girl, the old horse plodding gently beside her, his ears pricked toward her for her faintest word, his head held in the pathetic, listening attitude of a blind horse. he knew her step afar off, and his soft nicker never failed to welcome her as she drew near. to no one else did he show such little affectionate ways, or manifest such gentleness. he seemed to understand that to this little child, which one stroke of his great hoofs could have crushed, he owed his rescue and present comforts. and so the weeks had slipped away. the money which jean had left for mr. pringle had been promptly refunded with a note to explain that the society had borne all the expenses for baltie's board. mrs. carruth sat in her library wrinkling her usually serene brow over a business letter this chilly monday morning, and hurrying to get it completed before the arrival of the letter carrier who always took any letters to be mailed. her face wore a perplexed expression, and her eyes had tired lines about them, for the past year had been harder for her than anyone suspected. her income, at best, was much too limited to conduct her home as it had always been conducted, and the general expenses of living in riveredge were steadily increasing. true, mammy was frugality itself in the matter of providing, and mrs. carruth often marveled at the small amounts of her weekly bills. but the demands in other directions were heavy, and the expenses of the place itself were large. more than once had she questioned the wisdom of striving to keep the home, believing that the tax upon her resources, and her anxiety, would be less if she gave it up and removed to town where she could live for far less than in riveredge. then arose the memory of the building of the home, the hopes, the plans, and the joys so inseparable from it, the children's well-being and their love for the house their father had built; their education, and the environment of a home in such a town as riveredge. now, however, new difficulties were confronting her, for some of her investments were not making the returns she had expected and her income was seriously affected. in spite of the utmost frugality and care the outlook was not encouraging, and just now she had to meet the demand of the fire insurance upon the home and its contents, and just how to do so was the question which was causing her brows to wrinkle. she had let the matter stand until the last moment, but dared to do so no longer for upon that point mr. carruth had always been most emphatic; the insurance upon his property must never lapse. he had always carried one, and since his death his wife had been careful to continue it. but _now_ how to meet the sum, and meet it at once, was the problem. she had completed her letter when mammy came to the door. "is yo' here, miss jinny? is yo' busy? i wants to ax you sumpin'," she said as she gave a quick glance at mrs. carruth from her keen eyes. "come in, mammy. what is it?" the voice had a tired, anxious note in it which mammy was quick to catch. "wha' de matter, honey? wha's plaguin' you dis mawnin'?" she asked as she hurried across the room to rest her hand on her mistress' shoulder. like a weary child mrs. carruth let her head fall upon mammy's bosom--a resting place that as long as she could remember had never failed her--as she said: "mammy, your baby is very weary, and sorely disheartened this morning, and very, very lonely." the words ended in a sob. instantly all mammy's sympathies were aroused. gathering the weary head in her arms she stroked back the hair with her work-hardened hand, as she said in the same tender tones she had used to soothe her baby more than forty years ago: "dere, dere, honey, don' yo' fret; don' yo' fret. tell mammy jist what's pesterin' yo' an' she'll mak' it all right fer her baby. hush! hush. mammy can tek keer of anythin'." "oh, mammy dear, dear old mammy, you take care of so much as it is. what _would_ we do without you?" "hush yo' talk chile! what i gwine do widout yo' all? dat talk all foolishness. don't i b'long ter de fambly? now yo' mind yo' mammy an' tell her right off what's a frettin' yo' dis day. yo' heah _me_?" mammy's voice was full of forty-five years of authority, but her eyes were full of sympathetic tears, for her love for her "miss jinny" was beyond the expression of words. "o mammy, i am so foolish, and i fear so pitifully weak when it comes to conducting my business affairs wisely. you can't understand these vexatious business matters which i must attend to, but i sorely miss mr. carruth when they arise and _must_ be met." "huccum i cyan't understand 'em? what massa bernard done tackle in his business dat i cyan't ef _yo'_ kin? tell me dis minute just what you' gotter do, an' i bate yo' ten dollars i c'n _do_ it." "i know there isn't anything you would not try to do, mammy, from taking care of an old horse, to moving the contents of the entire house if it became necessary," replied mrs. carruth, smiling in spite of herself, as she wiped her eyes, little realizing how near the truth was her concluding remark regarding mammy's prowess. "i reckon i c'd move de hull house if i had _time_ enough, an' as fer de horse--huh! ain't he stanin' dere a livin' tes'imony of what a bran-smash an' elbow-grease kin do? 'pears lak his hairs rise right up an' call me bres-sed, dey's tekin' ter shinin' so sense i done rub my hans ober 'em," and mammy, true to her racial characteristics, broke into a hearty laugh; so close together lies the capacity for joy or sorrow in this child race. the next instant, however, mammy was all seriousness as she demanded: "now i want yo' ter tell me all 'bout dis bisness flummy-diddle what's frettin' yo'. come now; out wid it, quick." was it the old habit of obedience to mammy's dictates, or the woman's longing for someone to confide in during these trying days of loneliness, that impelled mrs. carruth to explain in as simple language as possible the difficulties encompassing her? the burden of meeting even the ordinary every-day expenses upon the very limited income derived from mr. carruth's life insurance, which left no margin whatsoever for emergencies. of the imperative necessity of continuing the fire insurance he had always carried upon the home and its contents, lest a few hours wipe out what it had required years to gather together, and his wife and children be left homeless. how, under their altered circumstances this seemed more than ever imperative, since in the event of losing the house and its contents there would be no possible way of replacing either unless they kept the insurance upon them paid up. mammy listened intently, now and again nodding her old head and uttering a um-uh! um-uh! of comprehension. when mrs. carruth ceased speaking she asked: "an' how much has yo' gotter plank right out dis minit fer ter keep dis hyer as'sur'nce f'om collaps'in', honey?" "nearly thirty dollars, mammy, and that seems a very large sum to me now-a-days." "hum-uh! yas'm. so it do. um. an' yo' aint got it?" "i have not got it to-day, mammy. i shall have it next week, but the time expires day after to-morrow and i do not know whether the company will be willing to wait, or whether i should forfeit my claim by the delay. i have written to ask." "huh! wha' sort o' compiny is it dat wouldn't trus' a _blairsdale_, i like ter know?" demanded mammy indignantly. mrs. carruth smiled sadly as she answered: "these are not the old days, mammy, and you know 'corporations have no souls.'" "no so'les? huh, _i'se_ seen many a corpo'ration dat hatter have good thick _leather_ soles fer ter tote 'em round. well, well, times is sho' 'nough changed an' dese hyer norf ways don't set well on my bile; dey rises it, fer sure. so dey ain't gwine _trus'_ you, baby? where dey live at who has de sesso 'bout it all?" "the main office is in the city, mammy, but they have, of course, a local agent here." "wha' yo' mean by a locum agen', honey?" "a clerk who has an office at state street, and who attends to any business the firm may have in riveredge." "is yo' writ yo' letter ter him? who _is_ he?" "no, i have written to the new york office, because mr. carruth always transacted his business there. i thought it wiser to, for this mr. sniffins is a very young man, and would probably not be prepared to answer my question." "wha' yo' call him? yo' don' mean dat little swimbly, red-headed, white-eyed sumpin' nu'er what sets down in dat basemen' office wid his foots cocked up on de rail-fence in front ob him, an' a segyar mos' as big as his laig stuck in he's mouf all de time? i sees _him_ eve'y time i goes ter market, an' he lak' ter mek me sick. is _he_ de agen'?" "yes, mammy, and i dare say he is capable enough, although i do not care to come in contact with him if i can avoid it." "if i ketches yo' in dat 'tater sprout's office i gwine smack yo' sure's yo' bo'n. yo' heah _me_? why _his_ ma keeps the _sody_-fountain on main street. wha-fo you gotter do wid such folks, baby?" "but, mammy, they are worthy, respectable people,"--protested mrs. carruth. "hush yo' talk, chile. _i_ reckon i knows de diff'rence twixt quality an' de _yether_ kind. dat's no place fer yo' to go at," cried mammy, all her instincts rebelling against the experiences her baby was forced to meet in her altered circumstances. "gimme dat letter. i'se gwine straight off ter markit dis minit and i'll see dat it get sont off ter de right pusson 'for i'se done anudder ting." "but what did you wish to ask me, mammy?" "nuffin'. 'taint no 'count 'tall. i'll ax it when i comes back. go 'long up-stairs and mek yo' bed if yo pinin' for occerpation," and away mammy flounced from the room, leaving mrs. carruth more or less bewildered. she would have been completely so could she have followed the old woman. chapter vii mammy generalissimo half an hour later a short, stout colored woman in neat, print gown, immaculate white apron, gorgeous headkerchief and gray plaid shawl, entered the office of the red star fire insurance company, at no. state street, and walking up to the little railing which divided from the vulgar herd the sacred precincts of mr. elijah sniffins, representative, rested her hand upon the small swinging gate as she nodded her head slightly and asked: "is yo' mister sniffins, de locum agen' fer de fire insur'nce comp'ny?" "i am," replied that gentleman,--without removing from between his teeth the huge cigar upon which he was puffing until he resembled a small-sized locomotive, or changing his position--"mr. elijah sniffins, representative of the red star insurance company. are you thinkin' of taking out a policy?" concluded that gentleman with a supercilious smirk. mammy's eyes narrowed slightly and her lips were compressed for a moment. "no, sir, i don' reckon i is studyin' 'bout takin' out no pol'cy. i jist done come hyer on a little private bisness wid yo'." mammy paused, somewhat at a loss how to proceed, for business affairs seemed very complicated to her. mr. elijah sniffins was greatly amused and continued to eye her and smile. he was a dapper youth of probably twenty summers, with scant blond hair, pale blue, shifty eyes, a weak mouth surmounted by a cherished mustache of numerable hairs and a chin which stamped him the toy of stronger wills. mammy knew the type and loathed it. his smirk enraged her, and rage restored her self-possession. raising her head with a little sidewise jerk as befitted the assurance of a blairsdale, she cried: "yas--sir, i done come to ax yo' a question 'bout de 'surance on a place in riveredge. i hears de time fer settlin' up gwine come day atter to-morrer an' if 'taint settled up de 'surance boun' ter collapse. is dat so?" "unless the policy is renewed it certainly _will_ 'collapse,'" replied mr. sniffins breaking into an amused laugh. "huh! 'pears like yo' find it mighty 'musin'," was mammy's next remark and had mr. elijah sniffins been a little better acquainted with his patron he would have been wise enough to take warning from her tone. "well, you see i am not often favored with visits from ladies of your color who carry fire insurance policies. a good many carry _life_ insurance, but as a rule they don't insure their estates against _fire_, an' the situation was so novel that it amused me a little. no offense meant." "an' none teken--from _your_ sort," retorted mammy. "but how 'bout dis hyer pol'cy? what i gotter do fer ter keep it f'om collapsin' ef it aint paid by day atter to-morrer?" "pay it _to-day, or_ to-morrow," was the suave reply accompanied by a wave of the hand to indicate the ultimatum. "'spose dey ain't got de money fer ter pay right plank down, but kin pay de week atter? could'n' de collapse be hild up twell den?" "ha! ha!" laughed mr. elijah. "i'm 'fraid not; i've heard of those 'next week' settlements before, and experience tells me that 'next week' aint never arrived yet. ha! ha!" "den yo' won't trus' de ca-- de fambly?" mammy had very nearly betrayed herself. "well, if it was the rogers, or the wellmans, or the stuyvesants, or some of them big bugs up yonder on the hill, that everybody knows has got piles of money, and that everybody knows might let the policy lapse just because it had slipped their memory--why, that 'd be a different matter. we'd know down in this here office that it was just an oversight, yer see; not a busted bank account. so, of course, we'd make concessions; just jog 'em up a little and a check 'd come 'long all o.k. and no fuss. but these small policies--why--well, i've got ter be more careful of the company's interests; i hold a responsible position here." "de good lawd, yo' don' sesso!" exclaimed mammy, turning around and around to scrutinize every corner of the tiny office, and then letting her eyes rest upon the being whose sense of responsibility was apparently crushing him down upon his chair, if one could judge from his semi-recumbent position. "dat's shore 'nough a pity. look lak it mought be mos' too much fer yo'. don' seem right fer a comp'ny ter put sich a boy as yo' is in sich a 'sponsible 'sition, do it now?" mammy's expression was solicitude personified. mr. elijah sniffins' face became a delicate rose color, and his feet landed upon the floor with emphasis as he straightened in his chair, and dragged nervously at the infinitesimal mustache, meanwhile eying mammy with some misgivings. mammy continued to smile upon him benignly, and her smile proved as disconcerting as she meant it should. she resolved to have her innings with the smug youth who had begun by slighting her race and ended by doing far worse; failing to class the carruths among those whom everyone trusted as a matter of course. the former slight might have been disregarded; the latter? _never._ consequently mammy had instantly decided "ter mak' dat little no'count sumpin 'er ner'er squirm jist fer ter te'ch him what's due de quality," and the process had begun. poor mammy! she would never learn that in the northern world where her lot was now cast the almighty dollar was king, queen and court combined. that its possession could carry into high places bad manners, low birth, aye actual rascality and hold them up to the shallow as enviable things when veneered with golden luster. that "de quality" without that dazzling reflector were very liable to be cast aside as of no value, as the nugget of virgin gold might be tramped upon and its worth never suspected by the unenlightened in their eagerness to reach a shining bit of polished brass farther along the path. but mammy's traditions were deeply rooted. "i think i can take care of the position. what can i do for you? my time is valuable," snapped mr. elijah sniffins, rising from his chair and coming close to the dividing railing, as a hint to mammy to conclude her business. "de lawd er massy! is dat so? now i ain't never is 'spitioned dat f'om de looks ob t'ings. 'pears lak yo' got a sight o' time on han'. wal i 'clar fo' it i do'n un'nerstan' dese hyer bisness places no how. well! well! so yo' want me fer ter state mine an' cl'ar long out, does yo' mr. 'lijah? 'lijah; _'lijah_. was yo' ma a studyin' 'bout yo' doin's when she done giv' yo' dat name? sort o' fits yo' pine blank, don' it now? like 'nuf de cha'iot 'll come kitin' 'long one o' dese hyer days an' hike yo' inter de high places. yah! yah!" and mammy's mellow laugh filled the office. "see here, old woman, if you've got some little picayune payment to make, _make_ it and clear out. i ain't got time ter stand here talkin' ter niggers," cried the agent, his temper taking final flight. mammy eyed him steadily as she said: "wall _dis yere_ time yo's gwine deal wid a nigger, an' yo's gwine do lak _she say_. dis yere comp'ny 'sures de carruth house an' eve'y last t'ing what's inside it, an' de policy yo' say 's gotter be settled up when it's gotter be, or de hul t'ing 'll collapse? now miss jinny ain't never _is_ had no dealin's wid _yo'_, case i don' _let_ her have dealin's wid no white trash--_i_ handles _dat_ sort when it has ter be handled--an' i keeps jist as far f'om it as ever i kin _while_ i handles it. but i'se gotter settle up dis policy fer de fambly so what is it? how much is i gotter pay yo'?" the varying expressions passing over mr. sniffins' countenance during mammy's speech would have delighted an artist. "what er? what er? what er you telling me?" he stammered. "de ain't no 'watter' 'bout it; it's _fire_, an' i done come ter settle up," asserted mammy. "have you brought the necessary papers with you? have we a record in this office?" "don' know nuffin' 'tall 'bout no papers nor no records. jist knows dat miss jinny's insured fer $ , ," said mammy, causing the youth confronting her to open his eyes. "dis hyer letter what she done wrote dis mawn'in tells all 'bout it i 'spec'. she tol' me pos' it ter de comp'ny an' i reckons _yo'll_ do fer de comp'ny _dis_ time when de time's pressin' an' der ain't nuffin' _better_ ter han'." the contempt in mammy's tone was tangible, as she held the letter as far from her as possible. mr. sniffins took it, noted the address and broke the seal. when he had read the letter he said with no little triumph in his voice: "but in this letter mrs. carruth says distinctly that she is not prepared to pay the sum which falls due day after to-morrow, and asks for an extension of time. i am not prepared to make this extension. _that's_ up to the company," and he held the letter toward mammy as though he washed his hands of the whole affair. mammy did not take it. instead she said very much as she would have spoken to a refractory child who was not quite sure of what he could or could _not_ do: "la honey, don' yo' 'spose i sensed _dat_ long go? co'se i knows _yo'_ cyant do nuffin' much; yo's only a lil' boy, an' der cyant no boy do a man's wo'k. yo's hyer fer ter tek in de _cash_, an' so _dat's_ what i done come ter pay. miss jinny she done mek up her mine dat she better pay dat policy dan use de money fer frolic'in'. i reckons yo' can tek cyer of it an' sen' it long down yonder whar de big comp'ny 's at. dat's all i want _yo'_ ter do, so now go 'long an' git busy an' _do_ it. _dere's_ thirty dollars; count it so's yo's suah. den write it all out crost de back ob miss jinny's letter so's i have sumpin fer ter show dat it's done paid." "but i'll give you a regular receipt for the amount," said the clerk, now eager to serve a customer whose premium represented so large a policy. "yo' kin give me dat too if yo' wantter, but i wants de sign on de letter too, an' yo' full name, mr. elijah sniffins, ter boot, you knows what yo' jist done said 'bout trus'in' folks, an' _yo'_ don' berlong ter de rogersers, ner de wellmans, ner de stuyvesants, but _i_ berlongs ter de _blairsdales_!" mammy grew nearly three inches taller as she made this statement, while her hearer seemed to grow visibly shorter. the receipt was duly filled out, likewise an acknowledgment written upon the blank side of mrs. carruth's letter and elijah sniffins' name signed thereto. mammy took them scrutinized both with great care (she could not read one word) nodded and said: "huh, um. yas, sir. i reckon _dat_ all squar'. if de house burn down ter night _we_ all gwine git de 'surance sure 'nough. yas--yas." "you certainly could collect whatever was comin' to you," mr. sniffins assured her, his late supercilious smile replaced by a most obsequious one for this representative of the possessors of the dollars he worshiped. mr. sniffins meant to have a good many dollars himself some day and the luxuries which dollars stand for. mammy nodded, and placing the receipt and letter in her bag gave a slight nod and turned to leave the office. mr. sniffins hurried to open the door for her. as she was about to cross the threshold she paused, eyed him keenly from the crown of his smoothly brushed head to his patent-leather-shod feet and then asked: "huccum yo' opens de do' fer niggers? ef yo' b'longed ter de quality yo'd let de niggers open de do's fer _yo_. yo' better run 'long an' ten' yo' ma's sody foun'in 'twell yo' learns de quality manners." an hour later mammy was busy in her kitchen, the receipts safely pinned within her bodice and no one the wiser for the morning's business transaction. chapter viii chemical experiments "eleanor! eleanor! where are you?" cried constance at the foot of the third-story stairs the following day after luncheon. blue monday had passed with its dull gray clouds and chill winds to give place to one of those rare, warm days which sometimes come to us late in october, as though the glorious autumn were loath to depart and had turned back for a last smile upon the land it loved. the great river lay like shimmering liquid gold, the air was filled with the warm, pungent odors of the late autumn woods, and a soft haze rested upon the opposite hills. "here in my room," answered eleanor. "what is it? what do you want? i can't come just this minute. come up if it's important." the voice was somewhat muffled as though the speaker's head were covered. constance bounded up the stairs, hurried across the hall and entered the large third-story front room which eleanor occupied. there was no sign of its occupant. "more experiments i dare say," she murmured as she entered, crossed the room and pushed open the door leading into a small adjoining room whereupon her nostrils were assailed by odors _not_ of araby--the blessed. "phew! ugh! what an awful smell! what under the sun are you doing? if you don't blow yourself to glory some day i shall be thankful," she ended as she pinched her nostrils together. "shut the door quick and don't let the smell get through the house or mother will go crazy when she gets home. yes, it _is_ pretty bad, but tie your handkerchief over your nose and then you won't mind it so much. as for blowing myself to glory, perhaps that will be my only way of ever coming by any, so i ought to be willing to take that route. but what do you want?" concluded eleanor, pouring one smelly chemical into a small glass which contained another, whereupon it instantly became a most exquisite shade of crimson. constance watched her closely without speaking. presently she said: "well i dare say it is 'everyone to her fancy,' as the old lady said when she kissed her cow (jean could appreciate that, couldn't she? she kisses baltie often enough) but _i'd_ rather be excused when chemical experiments are in order. don't for the life of me understand how you endure the smells and the mess. what is _that_ horrid looking thing over there?" and constance pointed to a grewsome-looking object stretched upon a small glass table at the farther side of the room. "my rabbit. i got it at the school laboratory and i've been examining its respiratory organs. they're perfectly wonderful, constance. want to see them? i'll be done with this in just a minute." "_no i don't!_" was the empathic negative. "i dare say it's all very wonderful and interesting and i ought to know all about breathing apparatus----_es_, or apparatti, or whatever the plural of our wind-pump machine _is_, but if i've got to learn by hashing up animals i'll never, _never_ know, and that's all there is about it. i'll take my knowledge on theory or supposition or whatever you call it. but i've nearly forgotten to tell you the news. i've had a letter from mrs. hadyn, mr. stuyvesant's aunt, the one he is named for you know, asking me to help at the candy counter at the memorial hospital fair, week after next, and, incidentally, contribute some of my 'delicious pralines and nut fudge'--that's in quotes remember,--and remain for the dance which will follow after ten-thirty on the closing evening. she will see that i reach home safely. how is _that_ for a frolic? i've been wild for a dance the past month." "is mother willing? what will you wear?" was the essentially feminine inquiry which proved that eleanor, even though absorbed in her sciences and isms, was a woman at heart. "what is the use of asking that? you know i've got to wear whatever is on hand to be utilized into gay and festive attire. i can't indulge in new frocks now-a-days when the finances are at such a low ebb. need all we've got for necessities without thinking of spending money for notions. but i'll blossom out gloriously; see if i don't. that was one reason i came up to talk to you. can you tear yourself away from your messes long enough to come up to the attic with me? i've been wanting to rummage for days, but haven't been able to get around to it. so tidy up, and come along. you've absorbed enough knowledge to last you for one while." eleanor wavered a moment and then began to put aside her materials, and a few moments later the two girls were up in the attic. "do you know what i believe i'll do?" said constance, after a half hour's rummaging among several trunks had brought forth a perplexing array of old finery, winter garments and outgrown apparel. "i believe i'll just cart down every solitary dud we've got here and have them all aired. i heard mother say last week that they ought to be, and she would have it done the first clear, dry day, and this one is simply heavenly. come on; take an armful and get busy. they smell almost as abominably from tar camphor as your laboratory smells of chemicals." "think i'd rather have the chemicals if my choice were consulted," laughed eleanor as obedient to instructions, she gathered up an armful of clothing and prepared to descend the stairs. "thanks, i'll take the tar. go on; i'll follow." little was to be seen of either girl as she moved slowly down the stairs. at the foot stood mammy. "fo' de lawd sake wha' yo' chillen at _now_?" she demanded as she stood barring their progress. "bringing out our winter wardrobes, mammy. good deal of it as to quantity; what it will turn out as to quality remains to be seen," cried constance cheerily. "lak' 'nough mos' anyt'ing if yo' had de handlin' ob it. yo' sartin' _is_ de banginest chile wid yo' han's," was mammy's flattering reply. "perhaps if i could 'bang' as well with my brains as with my hands i might amount to something, mammy. but nornie has all the brains of the family. _she_'ll make our fame and fortune some day; see if she doesn't." "guess i'll have to do something clever then if i am to become famous in _this_ day and age," said eleanor, as she made her way past mammy. "thus far i haven't given very noble promise." "who sesso?" demanded mammy. "ain' yo' de fust and fo'most up dere whar de school's at? what fur ole miss sendin' yo' dar fer den? huh, i reckon _she_ know whar ter spen' her money, an' gawd knows she ain' spendin' none what ain' gwine ter pintedly make up fer all she gin out. _she_ no fool, i tell yo'." the girls broke into peals of laughter, for mammy's estimation of "ol' miss," as she called mr. carruth's aunt by marriage, was a pretty accurate one, "aunt eleanor" being a lady who had very pronounced ideas and no hesitation whatever in giving expression to them, as well as a very strong will to back them up. she also had a pretty liberally supplied purse, the supply being drawn from a large estate which she had inherited from her father, a central new york farmer, who had made a fortune in fruit-growing and ended his days in affluence, although he had begun them in poverty. she had no children, her only son having died when a child, and her husband soon afterward. bernard carruth had always been a favorite with her, although she never forgave him for what she pronounced his "utter and imbecilic folly." it was aunt eleanor who made the seminary possible for the niece who had been named for her; a compliment which flattered the old lady more than she chose to let others suspect, for the niece was manifesting a fine mind, and the aunt had secretly resolved to do not a little toward its development although she took pains to guard the fact. "go along up-stairs and get an armful of things, mammy. that will keep you from flattering me and making me conceited," cried eleanor, when the laugh ended. "huh! mek a blairsdale 'ceited?" retorted mammy, as she started up to the attic. "dey's got too much what dey _knows_ is de right stuff fer ter pester dey haids studyin' 'bout it; it's right dar all de endurin' time; dey ain' gotter chase atter it lessen dey loses it." "was there ever such a philosopher as mammy?" laughed constance as they got beyond hearing. "wish there were a few more with as much sound sense--black or white--" answered eleanor as she shook out one of jean's frocks and hung it across the clothes-line. a moment later mammy joined them with more garments which cried aloud for the glorious fresh air and sunshine. she hung piece after piece upon the line, giving a shake here, a pat there, or almost a caress upon another, for each one recalled to her loving old heart the memory of more prosperous days, and each held its story for her. when all were swinging in the sunshine she stepped back and surveyed the array, her mouth pursed up quizzically, but her eyes full of kindness. "what are you thinking of mammy?" asked constance, slipping her fingers into mammy's work-hardened hand very much as she had done when a little child. "hum; um: what's i t'inkin' of? i'se t'inkin' dat ar lot ob clo'se supin lak we-all here: de'y good stuff in um, an' i reckon dey c'n stan' 'spection, on'y dey sartin _do_ stan' in need ob jist a _leetle_ spondulix fer ter put em in shape. dar's _too much_ ob em spread all _ober_. what dey needs is ter rip off some o' dem _ruffles_ and jis hang ter de plain frocks ter tek keer ob. we spen's a heap ob time breshin' ruffles dat we better spen' tekin' keer ob de frocks in," concluded mammy with a sage nod as she turned and walked into the house. "upon my word i believe mammy's pretty near right eleanor. we _have_ got a good many _ruffles_ to take care of on this big place and i sometimes feel that mother is wearing herself out caring for them. perhaps we would be wiser to give them up." "perhaps we would," agreed eleanor, "but where will we go if we give up the home? we have hardly known any other, for we were both too little to think much about homes or anything else when we came into this one. for my part, i am ready to do whatever is best and wisest, although i love every stick and stone here. mother has looked terribly worried lately although she hasn't said one word to me. has she to you? "no, nothing at all. but i know what you mean; her eyes look so tired. i wonder if anything new has arisen to make her anxious. she says so little at any time. i mean to have a talk with her this evening if i can get a chance. do you get jean out of the way. she is such an everlasting chatterbox that there is no hope of a quiet half hour while she is around. now let's take an inventory of this array and plan my frivolity frock," and constance drew eleanor down upon a rustic seat at one side of the lawn to discuss the absorbing question of the new gown to be evolved from some of the old ones which were swaying in the wind. perhaps a half hour passed, the girls were giving little heed to time, for the drowsy dreamy influence of the afternoon was impressing itself upon them. constance had planned the gown to the minutest detail, eleanor agreeing and secretly marveling at her ability to do so, when both became aware of a strong odor of smoke. "what is burning, i wonder?" said constance, glancing in the direction of a patch of woodland not far off. "leaves, most likely. the henrys' gardener has burned piles and piles of them ever since they began falling. i shouldn't think there would be any left for him to burn," answered eleanor, looking in the same direction. "it doesn't smell like leaves, it smells like wood, and--oh! eleanor, eleanor, look! look at your window! the smoke is just pouring from it! the house is a-fire! run! run! quick! quick!" chapter ix spontaneous combustion had the ground opened and disgorged the town, men, women and children could hardly have appeared upon the scene with more startling promptitude than they appeared within five minutes after constance's discovery of the smoke. how they got there only those who manage to get to every fire before the alarm ceases to sound can explain, and, as usual, there arrived with them the over-officious, and the over-zealous. as constance and eleanor rushed into the house, the multitude rushed across the grounds and followed them hotfoot, while one, more level-headed than his fellows, hastened to the nearest fire-box to turn in an alarm. meanwhile mammy had also smelt the smoke, and as the girls ran through the front hall she came through the back one crying: "fo' de lawd's sake wha' done happen? de house gwine burn down on top our haids?" "quick, mammy. it's eleanor's room," cried constance as she flew up the stairs. mammy needed no urging. in one second she had grasped the situation and was up in mrs. carruth's room dragging forth such articles and treasures as she knew to be most valued and piling them into a blanket. there was little time to waste for the flames had made considerable headway when discovered and were roaring wildly through the upper floor when the fire apparatus arrived. mrs. carruth was out driving with a friend and jean was off with her beloved amy fletcher. only those who have witnessed such a scene can form any adequate idea of the confusion which followed that outburst of smoke from eleanor's windows. men ran hither and thither carrying from the burning house whatever articles they could lay their hands upon, to drop them from the windows to those waiting below to catch them. firemen darted in and out, apparently impervious to either flames or smoke, directing their hose where the streams would prove most effectual and sending gallons of water upon the darting flames. the fact that the fire had started in the third-story saved many articles from destruction by the flames, although the deluge of water which flooded the house and poured down the stairways like miniature niagaras speedily ruined what the flames spared. eleanor rushed toward her room but was quickly driven back by a burst of flames and smoke that nearly suffocated her, while constance flew to jean's and her own room, meanwhile calling directions to mammy. five minutes, however, from the time they entered the house they were forced to beat a retreat, encountering as they ran miss jerusha pike, a neighbor who never missed any form of excitement or interesting occurrence in her neighborhood. "what can i do? have you saved your ma's clothes? did you get out that mirror that belonged to your great-grandmother?" she cried, as she laid a detaining hand upon constance's arm. "i don't know, miss pike. come out quick. it isn't safe to stay here another second. we must let the men save what they can. come." "no! no! i _must_ save your grandmother's mirror. i know just where it hangs. you get out quick. i won't be a second. go!" "never mind the mirror, there are other things more valuable than that," cried eleanor as she tugged at the determined old lady's arm. but miss pike was not to be deterred and rushed away to the second story in spite of them. "she'll be burned to death! i _know_ she will," wailed constance, as a man ran across the hall calling: "miss carruth, miss constance, where are you? you must get out of here instantly!" "oh, mr. stuyvesant, miss pike has gone up to mother's room and i must go after her." "you must do nothing of the sort. come out at once both of you. i'll see to her when i've got you to a place of safety," and without more ado hadyn stuyvesant hurried them both from the house to the lawn, where a motley crowd was gathered, and their household goods and chattels were lying about in the utmost confusion, while other articles, escorted by various neighbors, were being borne along the street to places of safety. one extremely proper and precise maiden lady was struggling along under an armful of mr. carruth's dress-shirts and pajamas brought forth from nobody knew where. a portly matron, with the tread of a general, followed her with a flatiron in one hand and a tiny doll in the other, while behind her a small boy of eight staggered beneath the weight of a wash boiler. "where is mammy? o _where_ is mammy?" cried eleanor, clasping her hands and looking toward the burning building. "here me! here me!" answered mammy's voice as she hurried toward them with a great bundle of rescued articles. "i done drug dese yer t'ings f'om de burer in yo' ma's room an' do you keep tight fas' 'em 'twell i come back. mind now what i'se telling' yo' kase dere's t'ings in dar dat she breck her heart ter lose. i'se gwine back fer sumpin' else." "o mammy! mammy, _don't go_. you'll be burned to death," cried constance, laying her hand upon mammy's arm to restrain her. "you mustn't mammy! you mustn't," echoed eleanor. "stay here with the girls, mammy, and let me get whatever it is you are bent upon saving," broke in hadyn stuyvesant. "aint no time for argufying," cried mammy, her temper rising at the opposition. "you chillun stan' _dar_ an' tek kere ob _dat_ bundle, lak i tell yo' an' yo', massa stuyv'sant, come 'long back wid me," was the ultimatum, and, laughing in spite of the gravity of the situation, hadyn stuyvesant followed mammy whom he ever afterward called the general. as they hurried back to the kitchen entrance the one farthest removed from the burning portion of the building, mammy's eyes were seemingly awake to every thing, and her tongue loosed of all bounds. as they neared the dining-room someone was dropping pieces of silver out of the window to someone else who stood just below it with skirts outspread to catch the articles. "ain' dat de very las' bit an' grain o' nonsense?" panted mammy. "dey's a-heavin' de silver plate outen de winder, an' bangin' it all ter smash stidder totin' it froo' de back do', and fo' gawd's sake look dar, massa stuyv'sant! dar go de' lasses!" cried mammy, her hands raised above her head as her words ended in a howl of derision, for, overcome with excitement the person who was dropping the pieces of silver had deliberately turned the syrup-jug bottom-side up and deluged the person below with the contents. had he felt sure that it would have been his last hadyn stuyvesant could not have helped breaking into peals of laughter, nor was the situation rendered less absurd by the sudden reappearance of miss pike clasping the treasured mirror to her breast and crying: "thank heaven! thank heaven i'm alive and have _saved_ it. _where_, where are those dear girls that i may deliver this priceless treasure into their hands?" "out yonder near the hedge, miss pike. i'm thankful you escaped. they are much concerned about you. better get along to them quick; i'm under mammy's orders," answered hadyn when he could speak. off hurried the zealous female while hadyn stuyvesant followed mammy who was fairly snorting with indignation. "dat 'oman certain'y _do_ mak' me mad. dat lookin' glass! huh! i reckons when miss jinny git back an' find what happen she aint goin' ter study 'bout no lookin' glasses. no suh! she be studyin' 'bout whar we all gwine put our _haids_ dis yere night. an' dat's what _i_ done plan fer," concluded mammy laying vigorous hold of a great roll of bedding which she had carried to a place of safety just outside the kitchen porch. "please, suh, tek' holt here an' holp me get it out yander ter de stable, i'se done got a sight o' stuff out dere a-reddy," and sure enough mammy, unaided, had carried enough furniture, bedding and such articles as were absolutely indispensable for living, out to the stable to enable the family to "camp out" for several days, and with these were piled the garments hastily snatched from the clothes-lines, baltie mounting guard over all. mrs. carruth had not been so very far wrong when she told mammy she believed she could move the house if necessity arose. meanwhile miss pike and her rescued mirror had reached the hedge, the girls breathing a sigh of relief when they saw her bearing triumphantly down upon them. "there! there! if i never do another deed as long as i live i shall feel that i have _not_ lived in vain! what _would_ your poor mother have said had she returned to find this priceless heirloom destroyed," she cried, as she rested the mirror against a tree trunk and clasped her hands in rapture at sight of it. "perhaps mother _might_ ask first whether _we_ had been rescued," whispered constance, but added quickly, "_there_ is mother now. o i wonder who told her," for just then a carriage was driven rapidly to the front gate and as the girls ran toward it mrs. carruth stepped quickly from it. she was very white and asked almost breathlessly, "girls, girls, is anyone hurt? are you _all_ safe? where's mammy?" "we are all safe mother, mammy is here. don't be frightened. we have done everything possible and the fire is practically out now," said constance, passing her arm about her mother who was trembling violently. "don't be alarmed, mother. it isn't really so dreadful as it might have been; it truly isn't," said eleanor soothingly. "loads of things have been saved." "yes, mammy has outgeneraled us all, mrs. carruth," cried hadyn stuyvesant, who now came hurrying upon the scene. "i guess she has shown more sense than all the rest of us put together, for she's kept her head." "and oh, my dear! my dear, if all else were lost there is one invaluable treasure spared to you! come with me. i saved it for you with my own hands. come!" cried miss pike, as she slipped her arm through mrs. carruth's and hurried her willy-nilly across the lawn. there was the little round mirror in its quaint old-fashioned frame leaning against the tree and reflecting all the weird scene in its shining surface, and there, too, directly in front of it, strutted a lordly game cock which belonged to the carruths' next door neighbor. how he happened to be there, in the midst of so much excitement and confusion no one paused to consider, but as miss pike hurried poor mrs. carruth toward the spot, sir chanticleer's burnished ruff began to rise and the next instant there was a defiant squawk, a frantic dash of brilliantly iridescent feathers, and the cherished heirloom lay shattered beneath the triumphant game-cock's feet as he voiced a long and very jubilant crow. it was the stroke needed, for in spite of the calamity which had overtaken her this was too much for mrs. carruth's sense of humor and she collapsed upon the piano stool which stood conveniently at hand, while miss pike bewailed chanticleer's deed until one might have believed it had been her own revered ancestor's mirror which had been shattered by him. just then mammy came hurrying upon the scene and was quick enough to grasp the situation at a glance. "bress de lawd, honey, ain' i allers tol' ye' chickens got secon' sight? dat roos'er see double suah. he see himself in dat lookin' glass an' bus' it wide open, an' he see we-all need ter laf stidder cry, an' so he set out ter mek us." at sight of her mrs. carruth stretched forth both hands like an unhappy child and was gathered into her faithful old arms as she cried: "but oh, mammy; mammy, the insurance; the insurance. if i had _only_ been able to pay it yesterday." "huh! don't you fret ober de 'surance. jis clap yo' eyes on _dat_," and mammy thrust into her miss jinny's hands a paper which she hastily drew from the bosom of her frock. chapter x readjustment it was all over. the excitement had subsided and all that remained to tell the story of the previous afternoon's commotion was a fire-scorched, water-soaked dwelling with a miscellaneous collection of articles decorating its lawn. when the early morning sunshine looked down upon the home which for eight years had sheltered the carruths, it beheld desolation complete. alas for eleanor's chemicals! her experiments had cost the family dear. the only living being in sight was a policeman mounting guard over the ruins. a staid and stolid son of the vatterland who had spent the wee sma' hours upon the premises and now stood upon the piazza upright and rigid as the inanimate objects all about him. beside him was a small, toy horse "saddled and bridled and ready to ride," and anything more absurd than the picture cut by this guardian of the law and his miniature charger it would be hard to imagine. meanwhile the family was housed among friends who had been quick to offer them shelter, mr. stuyvesant insisting that mrs. carruth and constance accept his aunt's hospitality through him, while the next door neighbor, mr. henry, harbored eleanor, jean and mammy, who refused point blank to go beyond sight of the premises and her charge--baltie. mammy was the heroine of the hour; for what the old woman had not thought of when everyone else's wits were scattered was hardly worth thinking of. in the blanket which she had charged the girls to guard were all of mrs. carruth's greatest treasures, among them a beautiful miniature of mr. carruth of which no one but mammy had thought. jewelry which had belonged to her mother was there, valuable papers hastily snatched from her desk, and many of the girl's belongings which would never have been saved but for mammy's forethought. at seven o'clock, when all was over, the crowd dispersed and the family gathered together in mr. henry's living-room to collect their wits and draw a long breath, mrs. carruth drew mammy to one side to ask: "mammy, what is the meaning of this receipt? i cannot understand it. who has paid this sum and where was it paid?" "baby, dere comes times when 'taint a mite er use ter tell what we gwine _do_. dat 'surance hatter be squar'd up an' dat settled it. so _i_ squar'd it--." "oh, mammy! mammy!" broke in mrs. carruth, almost in tears. "hush, chile! pay 'tention ter _me_. what would a come of we-all if i hadn't paid dat bill den an' dar? bress de lawd i had de cash an' don' pester me wid questions. ain' i tole yo' i'se _rich_? well den, dat settles it. when _yo_ is, yo' kin settle wid _me_. _dat_ don' need no argufyin' do it? now go long wid miss constance an' massa stuyvesant lak dey say an' git yo' sef ca'med down. yo' all a shakin' an' a shiverin' lak yo' got de ager, an' dat won' never do in de roun' worl'. yo'll be down sick on my han's." and that was all the old woman would ever hear about it. when the thirty dollars were returned to her in the course of a few days she took it with a chuckle saying: "huh! reckons _i_ knows wha' ter investigate _my_ money. done git my intrus so quick it like ter scar me." after the first excitement was over came the question of where the family was to live, and it was hadyn stuyvesant who settled it forthwith by offering the home which had been his mother's; a pretty little dwelling in the heart of riveredge which had been closed since his mother's death and his own residence with his aunt. so in the course of the next week the carruths were installed therein and began to adjust themselves to the new conditions the first question to be answered was the one concerning their home. should it be rebuilt with the money to be paid by the insurance company, or should it be sold? it was hard to decide, for sentiment was strongly in favor of returning to the home they all loved, while sound sense dictated selling the land and thus lessening expenses. sound sense carried the day, and the little house on hillside street became home, and in the course of a few weeks the machinery ran along with its accustomed smoothness, although it was some time before the family recovered from the shock of realizing how close they had come to losing all they possessed, and also keenly alive to the fact that what _had_ been saved must be carefully guarded. fifteen thousand was not an alarming sum to fall back upon and the rent for the new home although modest, compared with what their own would have commanded, had to be considered. meanwhile the girls had returned to their school duties, the older ones working harder than ever, especially eleanor, whose conscience troubled her not a little at thought of her carelessness which had caused all the trouble, for well she realized that her failure to care properly for the powerful acids with which she had been experimenting when constance appeared upon the scene had started the fire. constance had immediately set to work to evolve from the apparel rescued a winter wardrobe for the family, and displayed such ingenuity in bringing about new gowns and headgear from the old ones that the family flourished like green bay trees. still constance was not satisfied, and one afternoon said to eleanor, who now shared her room, but who had _not_ laid in a new supply of chemicals: "nornie, put down that book and listen to me, for i'm simmering with words o' wisdom and if i don't find a vent i'll boil over presently." eleanor laid aside the book she was poring over, laughing as she asked: "what is it--some new scheme for making a two-pound steak feed five hungry mouths, or a preparation to apply to the soles of shoes to keep them from wearing out?" "it has more to do with the stomach than the feet, but i'm not joking. i want to take account of stock and find out just where we are _at_ and just what we _can_ do. mother has her hands and head more than full just now, and i think _i_ ought to give a pull at the wheel too." "and what shall _i_ be about while you are doing the pulling? it seems to me a span can usually pull harder than a single horse. by-the-way, apropos of horses, what _has_ mammy done to poor old baltie? do you realize that she has not yet had him two months, but no one would ever recognize the old horse for the decrepit creature jean led home that afternoon." "i know it! isn't she a marvel? i believe she is half witch. why, blind and twenty-five years old as he is, old baltie to-day would bring jabe raulsbury enough money to make the covetous old sinner smile, i believe; if anything on earth could make him smile. i thought i should have screamed when she started off with her steed the other day. that old phaeton and harness she found in the barn here were especially sent by providence, i believe. i never expect to see a funnier sight if i live to be a hundred years old than mammy driving off down the road with that great basket of apples by her side and jean perched behind in the rumble. mammy was simply superb and proud as the african princess she insists she is," and constance laughed heartily at the picture she made. "what did she do with her apples? i wish i could have seen her," cried eleanor. "she had them stored away in our cellar. she had gathered them herself from mother's pet tree and packed them carefully in a couple of barrels. how on earth she finds time to do all the things she manages to i can't understand. she took that basket out to mrs. fletcher. you remember mrs. fletcher once said there were no apples like ours and mammy remembered it. still, i am afraid mrs. fletcher would never have seen that basket of apples if her home had not adjoined the raulsbury place. you know jabe had to pay a large fine before he could get free. such an hour of triumph rarely comes to two human beings as came to mammy and jean when they drove that old horse past jabe's gateway and kind fate drew him to that very spot at the moment. mammy is still chuckling over it, and jean isn't to be lived with. but enough of mammy and her charger, let's get to stock-taking." "yes, do," said eleanor. "i've been putting things down in black and white and here it is," said practical constance, opening a little memorandum book and seating herself beside her sister. "you see mother has barely fifteen hundred dollars a year from father's life insurance and even _that_ is somewhat lessened by the slump in those old stocks. now comes the fire insurance settlement and the interest on that won't be over seven hundred at the outside, will it?" "i'm afraid not," said eleanor with a doubtful shake of her head. "but suppose we are able to sell the old place?" "yes, 'suppose.' if we _do_, well and good, but supposes aren't much account for immediate needs, and those are the things we've got to think about now." "then let me think too," broke in eleanor. "you may _think_ all you've a mind to; that's exactly what your brains are for, and some day you'll astonish us all. meanwhile _i'll_ work." "now, constance, what are you planning? you know perfectly well that if you leave school and take up something that _i_ shall too. i _won't_ take all the advantages." "who said i had any notion of leaving school? not a bit of it. my plan won't affect my school work. but of that later. now to our capital. mother will have at the outside nineteen hundred a year, and out of that she will have to pay five hundred rent for this house. that leaves fourteen hundred wherewith to feed and clothe five people, doesn't it? now, she can't possibly _feed_, let alone clothe, us for less than twenty dollars a week, can she? and out of that must come fuel which is no small matter now-a-days. that leaves only three hundred and sixty dollars for all the other expenses of the year, and, nornie, it isn't enough. we _could_ live on less in town i dare say, but town is no place for jean while she's so little. she'd give up the ghost without a place to romp in. then, too, mother loves every stone in riveredge, and she is going to _stay_ here if i can manage it. so listen: you know what a fuss everybody at the fair made over my nut-fudge and pralines. well, i'm going to make candy to sell----." "oh, constance, you can't! you mustn't!" interrupted eleanor whose instincts shrank from any member of her family launching upon a business enterprise. "i can and i _must_," contradicted constance positively. "and what is more, i shall. so don't have a conniption fit right off, because i've thought it all out and i know just exactly what i can do." "mother will _never consent_," said eleanor firmly, and added, "and i hope she won't." "now nornie, see here," cried constance with decided emphasis. "what _is_ the use of being so ridiculously high and mighty? we aren't the first people, by a long chalk, that have met with financial reverses and been forced to do something to earn a livelihood. the woods are full of them and they are none the less respected either. for my part, i'd rather hustle round and earn my own duddies than settle down and wish for them, and wail because i can't have them while mother strives and struggles to make both ends meet. i haven't _brains_ to do big things in the world, but i've got what mammy calls 'de bangenest han's' and we'll see what they'll bang out!" concluded constance resolutely. "mammy will never let you," cried eleanor, playing what she felt to be her trump card. "on the contrary, mammy is going to _help_ me," announced constance triumphantly. "_what_, mammy consent to a blairsdale going into trade?" cried eleanor, feeling very much as though the foundations of the house were sinking. "even so, lady," answered constance, laughing at her sister's look of dismay. "old baltie was not rescued for naught. his days of usefulness were not ended as you shall see. but don't look so horrified, and, above all else, don't say one word to mother. there is no use to worry her, and remember she _is_ a blairsdale and it won't be so easy to bring her to my way of thinking as it has been to bring _you_; you're only half one, like myself, and remember we've got carruth blood to give us mercantile instincts." "as though the carruths were not every bit as good as the blairsdales," brindled eleanor indignantly. "cock-a-doodle! see its feathers ruffle. you are as spunky as the henry's game cock," cried constance laughing and gathering eleanor's head into her arms to maul it until her hair came down. "well," retorted eleanor, struggling to free herself from the tempestuous embrace, "so they are." "yes, my beloved sister. i'll admit all that, but bear in mind that _their_ ancestors were born in pennsylvania _not_ in 'ole caroliny, and that's the difference 'twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. i don't believe mad anthony stopped to consider whether he was a patrician or a plebeian when he was storming old stony point, or getting fodder for valley forge, so i don't believe _i_ will, when i set out to hustle for frocks and footgear for his descendants. so put your pride in your pocket, nornie, and watch me grow rich and the family blossom out in luxuries undreamed of. i'm going to _do_ it: you'll see," ended constance in a tone so full of hope and courage that eleanor then and there resolved not to argue the point further or discourage her. "when are you going to begin this enterprise?" she asked. "this very day. i'm only waiting for mammy to come back from market with some things i need, and there she is now. good-bye. go look after the little mumsie, or jean; you'd find your hands full with the last undertaking, no doubt," and with a merry laugh constance ran down-stairs to greet mammy who was just entering the back door. chapter xi first ventures "did you get all the things, mammy?" cried constance, as she flew into the kitchen where mammy stood puffing and panting like a grampus, for the new home was at the top of a rather steep ascent and the climb took the old woman's breath. "co'se ise got 'em," panted mammy, as she untied the strings of her bright purple worsted hood. "dar dey is, all ob 'em, eve'y one, an yo' kin git busy jes' as fas' as yo's a mind ter. but, la, honey, don' yo' let yo' _ma_ know nothin' 'tall 'bout it, 'cause she lak 'nough frail me out fer lettin' yo' do hit. but sumpin 's gotter be done in dis yere fambly. what wid de rint fer _dis_ place, an' de taxes for de yether, an' de prices dey's teken' ter chargin', fer t'ings ter _eat_, i 'clar' ter goodness dar ain't gwine be nuffin 'tall lef' fer we-all ter fall back on ef we done teken sick, er bleeged ter do sumpin' extra," ended mammy as she bustled about putting away her things and untying the packages as constance lifted them from the basket. "yes, you've got every single thing i need, mammy, and now i'll begin right off. which kettles and pans can you spare for my very own? i don't want to bother to ask every time and if i have my own set at the very beginning that saves bother in the end," cried constance, as she slipped her arms through the shoulder straps of a big gingham apron and after many contortions succeeded in buttoning it back of her shoulders. "dar you is!" said mammy, taking from their hooks, above her range two immaculate porcelain saucepans, and standing them upon the well-scrubbed kitchen table with enough emphasis to give the transfer significance. "dey's yours fer keeps, but don' yo' let me ketch yo' burnin' de bottoms of 'em." mammy could not resist this authoritative warning. then bustling across to her pantry she took out three shining pans and placed them beside the saucepans, asking: "now is yo' fixed wid all de impert'nances ob de bisness?" "all but the fire, mammy," laughed constance, rolling up her sleeves to disclose two strong, well-rounded arms. "well yo' fire's gwine ter be gas _dis_ time, chile'. yo' kin do what yo's a-mind ter wid dat little gas refrig'rator, what yo' turns on an' off wid de spiggots; _i_ aint got er mite er use fer hit. it lak ter scare me mos' ter deaf de fust mawnin' i done try ter cook de breckfus on it,--sputterin' an' roarin' lak it gwine blow de hull house up. no-siree, i ain' gwine be pestered wid no sich doin's 's _dat_. stoves an' wood 's good 'nough fer _dis_ 'oman," asserted mammy with an empathic wag of her head, for she had never before seen a gas range, and was not in favor of innovations. "then i'm in luck," cried constance, as she struck a match to light up her "gas refrigerator," mammy meanwhile eying her with not a little misgiving, and standing as far as possible from the fearsome thing. "tek keer, honey! yo' don' know what dem new-fangled mak'-believe stoves lak ter do. fust t'ing yo' know it bus' wide open mebbe." "don't be scared, mammy. they are all right, and safe as can be if you know how to handle them, and lots less trouble than the stove." "dat may be too," was mammy's skeptical reply. "but _i'll_ tek de trouble stidder de chance of a busted haid." before long the odor of boiling sugar filled the little kitchen, the confectioner growing warm and rosy as she wielded a huge wooden spoon in the boiling contents of her saucepans, and whistled like a song thrush. constance carruth's whistle had always been a marvel to the members of her family, and the subject of much comment to the few outsiders who had been fortunate enough to hear it, occasionally, for it was well worth hearing. it had a wonderful flute-like quality, with the softest, tenderest, low notes. moreover, she whistled without any apparent effort, or the ordinary distortion of the mouth which whistling generally involves. the position of her lips seemed scarcely altered while the soft sounds fell from them. but she was very shy about her "one accomplishment," as she laughingly called it, and could rarely be induced to whistle for others, though she seldom worked without filling the house with that birdlike melody. as she grew more and more absorbed with her candy-making the clear, sweet notes rose higher and higher, their rapid _crescendo_ and increasing _tempo_ indicating her successful progress toward a desired end. while apparently engaged in preparing a panful of apples, mammy was covertly watching her, for, next to her baby, jean, constance was mammy's pet. when the candy was done, constance poured it into the pans. "now in just about two jiffies that will be ready to cut. keep one eye on it, won't you mammy, while i run up-stairs for my paraffin paper," she said, as she set the pans outside to cool and whisked from the kitchen, mammy saying under her breath as she vanished: "if folks could once hear dat chile _whis'le_ dey'd hanker fef ter hear it agin, an' dey'd keep on a hankerin' twell dey'd _done_ hit. she beat der bu'ds, an' dat's a fac'." "now i guess i can cut it," cried constance, as she came hurrying back. the sudden chill of the keen november air had made the candy the exact consistency for cutting into little squares, and in the course of the next half hour they were all cut, carefully wrapped in bits of paraffin paper and neatly tied in small white paper packages with baby-ribbon of different colors. four dozen as inviting parcels of delicious home-made candy as any one could desire, and all made and done up within an hour and a half. "there, mammy! what do you think of _that_ for my initial venture?" asked constance, looking with not a little satisfaction upon the packages as they lay in the large flat box into which she had carefully packed them. "bate yo' dey hits de markit spang on de haid," chuckled mammy. "an' now _i'se_ gwine tek holt. la, ain' i gwine cut a dash, dough! yo' see _me_," and hastily donning her hood and shawl, and catching up an apple from her panful, off mammy hurried to the little stable which stood in one corner of the small grounds, where baltie had lived, and certainly flourished since the family came to dwell in this new home. mammy never entered that stable without some tidbit for her pet, for she had grown to love the blind old horse as well as jean did, and was secretly consumed with pride at his transformation. as she entered the stable, baltie greeted her with his soft nicker. "yas, honey, mammy's comin'; comin' wid yo' lolly-pop, kase she want yo' ter step out spry. yo's gwine enter a pa'tner-ship, yo' know _dat_, baltie-hawse? yo' sure _is_. yo's de silen' pa'tner, yo' is, an' de bline one too. jis as well ter hab one ob 'em bline mebbe," and mammy chuckled delightedly at her own joke. "now come 'long out an' be hitched up, kase we's gwine inter business, yo' an' me' an' we gotter do some hustlin'. come 'long," and opening the door of the box-stall in which old baltie now-a-days luxuriated, mammy dragged him forth by his forelock and in less time than one could have believed it possible, had him harnessed to the old-fashioned basket phaeton which during mrs. stuyvesant's early married life had been a most up-to-date equipage, but which now looked as odd and antiquated as the old horse harnessed to it. but in mammy's eyes they were tangible riches, for hadyn stuyvesant had presented her with both phaeton and harness. opening wide the stable doors, mammy clambered into her chariot, and taking up the reins, guided her steed gently forward. baltie ambled sedately up to the back door where constance was waiting to hand mammy the box. "mind de do' an' don' let my apples bake all ter cinders," warned mammy. "i will. i won't. good luck," contradicted constance, as she ran back into the house, and mammy drove off toward south riveredge; a section of the town as completely given over to commercial interests as riveredge proper was to its homes. there a large carpet factory throve and flourished giving employment to many hands. there, also, stood a large building called the central arcade in which many business men had their offices. it was about a mile from the heart of riveredge proper and as mammy jogged along toward her destination, she had ample time to think, and chuckle to herself at her astuteness in carrying out her own ideas of the fitness of things while apparently fully concurring with constance's wishes. mammy had no objections to constance _making_ all the candy she chose to make; that could be done within the privacy of her own home and shock _no_ one's sensibilities. but when the girl had announced her intention of going among her friends to secure customers, mammy had descended upon her with all her powers of opposition. the outcome had been the present compromise. very few people in south riveredge knew the carruths or mammy, and this was exactly what the old woman wished. driving her "gallumping" steed to the very heart of the busy town she drew up at the curbstone in front of the arcade just a few moments before the five o'clock whistles blew. stepping from her vehicle she placed a campstool upon the sidewalk beside it, and lifting her box of candy from the seat established herself upon her stool with the open box upon her lap. within two minutes of the blowing of the whistles the streets were alive with people who came hurrying from the buildings on every side. mammy was a novelty and like most novelties took at once, so presently she was doing a thriving business, her tongue going as fast as her packages of candy. people are not unlike sheep; where one leads, all the others follow. "home-made candy, sah! fresh f'om de home-kitchen; jis done mek hit. ain' hardly col'. ten cents a package, sah. yes _sah_, yo' better is bleeve hit's deleshus. yo' ain' tas' no pralines lak dem in all yo' bo'n days," ran on mammy handing out her packages of candy and dropping her dimes into the little bag at her side. "here, aunty, give me four of those packages of fudge," cried a genial, gray-haired, portly old gentleman with a military bearing. "porter, here, has just given me some of his and they're simply great! did you make 'em? they touch the spot." "la, suh, i ain' _got_ four left: i ain', fer a fac'. tek some of de pralines; deys mighty good, suh," bustled mammy, offering her dainties. "take all you've got. did _you_ make 'em?" persisted her customer. "my _pa'tner_ done mak 'em," said mammy with dignity, as she handed over her last package. "well you darkies _can_ cook," cried the gentleman as he took the candy. for a moment it seemed as though mammy were about to fly at him, and her customer was not a little astounded at the transformation which came over her old face. then he concluded that the term "darkie" had been the rock on which they had split, and smiled as he said: "better set up business right here in the arcade. buy you and your _partner_ out every day. good-bye, auntie." "good-bye, suh! good-bye," responded mammy, her equanimity quite restored, for her good sense told her that no reflections had been cast upon her "pa'tner" in riveredge, or her identity suspected. moreover, her late customer had put a new idea into her wise old head which she turned over again and again as she drove back home. constance was waiting with the lantern, and hurried out to the stable as mammy turned in at the gate. "oh, mammy, did you _sell_ some?" she asked eagerly. "sell some! what i done druv dar fer? co'se i sell some; i sell eve'y las' bit an' grain. tek dat bag an' go count yo' riches, honey. _sell some!_ yah! yah!" laughed mammy as she descended from her chariot and began to unharness her steed, while constance hugged the bag and hurried into the house. "what are you hiding under your cape?" demanded jean as her sister ran through the hall, and up the stairs. jean's eyes did not often miss anything. "my deed to future wealth and greatness," answered constance merrily, as she slipped into her room and locked the door, where she dumped the contents of the bag, dimes, nickels, and pennies, into the middle of the bed. "merciful sakes! who would have believed it?" she gasped. "four dollars and eighty cents for one afternoon's work, and at least three-eighty of it clear profit, and mammy has _got_ to share some of it. mumsie, dear, i think i can keep the family's feet covered at all events," she concluded in an ecstatic whisper. chapter xii another shoulder is added thanksgiving and christmas had come and passed. constance's "candy business" as she called it, throve and flourished spasmodically. could she have carried out her wishes concerning it, the venture might have been more profitable, but mammy, the autocrat, insisted that it should be kept a secret, and the habit of obedience to the old woman's dictates was deeply rooted in the carruth family, even mrs. carruth yielding to it far more than she realized. so constance made her candy during her free hours after school and mammy carried it into south riveredge when opportunity offered. this was sometimes twice, but more often only once, a week, for the faithful old soul had manifold duties and was too conscientious to neglect one. sometimes all the packages were sold off as quickly as they had been on that first red-letter day, but at other times a good many were left over. could they again have been offered for sale upon the following day they might easily have been disposed of, but mammy could not go to south riveredge two days in succession and, consequently, the candy grew stale before another sale's day arrived, was a loss to its anxious manufacturer, and caused her profits to shrink very seriously. things had been going on in this rather unsatisfactory manner for about six weeks when one saturday morning little miss paulina pry, as constance sometimes called jean, owing to her propensity to get to the bottom of things in spite of all efforts to circumvent her, came into her sister's room to ask in the most innocent manner imaginable: "connie, who does mammy know in south riveredge?" "nobody, that i know of," answered constance unsuspectingly. "i thought she had a cousin living there," was the next leader. "a cousin, child! why mammy hasn't a relative this side of raleigh and i don't believe she has two to her name down there. if she has, she hasn't seen them since mother brought her north before we were born." "i knew it!" was the triumphant retort, "and _now_ i'll get even with her for telling me fibs." "jean, what do you mean?" cried constance now fully alive to the fact that she had fallen into a trap. "i mean just this: i've been watching mammy drive off to south riveredge every solitary week since before thanksgiving, and i've asked her ever so many times to take me with her; she lets me go everywhere else with her and baltie. but she wouldn't take me there and when i asked her why not, she always said because she was going to visit with her cousins in-the-lord, and 'twan't no fit place for white folks. i _knew_ she was telling a fib, and _now_ i'm going right down stairs to tell her so," and jean whirled about to run from the room. constance made a wild dive and caught her by her sleeve. "jean, stop! listen to me. you are not to bother mammy with questions. she has a perfect right to do or go as she chooses," said constance with some warmth, and instantly realized that she had taken the wrong tack, for the little pepper-pot began to liven up. jerking herself free she struck an attitude, saying: "you are just as bad as mammy! _you_ know where she goes, and what she goes for, but you won't tell me. keep your old secrets if you want to, but i'll find out, see if i don't. and i'll get even too. you and mammy think i'm nothing but a baby, but you'll see. i'm most eleven years old, and if i can't be told the truth about things now, i'd like to know why," and with a final vigorous wrench jean freed herself from her sister's grasp and fled down the stairs, constance murmuring to herself as the little whirlwind disappeared: "i wonder if it wouldn't be wiser to let her into the secret after all? in the first place it is all nonsense to _keep_ it a secret, and just one of mammy's high-falutin ideas of what's right and proper for a blairsdale. fiddlesticks for the blairsdales say i, when certain things should be done. i'm going to tell that child anyway. she is ten times easier to deal with when she knows the truth, and she can keep a secret far better than some older people i might mention. jean; jean; come back; i want to tell you something." but jean had gone beyond hearing. "never mind; i'll tell her by-and-by," resolved constance and soon forgot all about the matter while completing her english theme for monday. could she have followed her small sister her state of mind would have been less serene. jean's first reconnoiter was the dining-room. all serene; nothing doing; mother up in her room. eleanor gone out. mammy in the kitchen stirring quietly about. jean slipped into the butler's pantry. there on a shelf stood a big white box marked "lord & taylor, ladies' suit dept." jean's nose rose a degree higher in the air as she drew near it and carefully raised the lid. "ah-hah! didn't i know it! i guess her cousins-in-the-lord must like candy pretty well, for she has taken that box with her every single time she's gone to south riveredge," whispered this astute young person. now it so happened that as mammy had advanced in years, she had grown somewhat hard of hearing, and had also developed a habit quite common to her race; that of communing aloud with herself when alone. jean was quite alive to this and more than once had caused the old woman to regard her with considerable awe by casually mentioning facts of which mammy believed her to be entirely in ignorance, and, indeed, preferred she _should_ be, little guessing that her own monologues had given the child her cue. clambering softly upon the broad shelf which ran along one side of the pantry, jean gently pushed back the sliding door made to pass the dishes to and from the kitchen, and watched mammy's movements. the kitchen was immaculate and mammy was just preparing to set forth for her saturday morning's marketing, a task she would not permit any one else to undertake, declaring that "dese hyer norf butcher-men stood ready fer ter beat folks outen dey eyesight ef dey git er chance." as usual mammy was indulging in a soliloquy. "dar now. dat's all fix an' right, an' de minit i gits back i kin clap it inter de oven," she murmured as she set her panfuls of bread over the range for their second rising. "i gotter git all dis hyer wo'k off my han's befo' free 'clock terday ef i gwine get ter souf riveredge in time fer ter sell all dat mes o' candy." behind the window a small body's head gave a satisfied nod. "'taint lak week days. de sto'es tu'n out mighty early on sattidays. hopes i kin sell eve'y bit and grain _dis_ time. i hates ter tote any home agin, an' dat chile tryin' so hard ter holp her ma." over little paulina pry's face fell a shadow, and for a moment the big eyes grew suspiciously bright. then wounded pride caused them to flash as their owner whispered to herself, "she _might_ have told me the truth." then the kitchen door was shut, locked from the outside, and mammy departed. jean got down from her perch and stood for a few moments in the middle of the pantry floor in deep meditation. then raising her head with a determined little nod she said under her breath, "_i'll_ show 'em." to hurry out to the hall closet where her everyday hat, coat and gloves were kept, took but a moment. in another she had put them on, and was on her way to the stable. to harness baltie was somewhat of an undertaking, but by the aid of a box which raised her to the necessary height this was done, the old horse nickering softly and rubbing his head against her as she proceeded. "yes baltie, dear. _you_ and _i_ have a secret now and _don't_ you _tell_ it. if _they_ think they are so smart, _we'll_ show them that _we_ can do something too." at length the harnessing was done, and slipping back to the house jean went into the pantry, lifted up the box so plainly labeled "ladies' suits" and sped away to the stable where she placed it carefully upon the bottom of the phaeton, tucking the carriage rug around and about it in such a manner that even the liveliest suspicion would have nothing to feed upon. then opening the double doors she led baltie through them, and out of the driveway to the side street on which it opened, and which could not be seen from the front of the house where the young lady knew her mother and sister to be at this critical moment. only a second more was needed to run back and close the stable doors and the gates, and all tracks were covered. in that immediate vicinity the queer turnout was well-known by this time, so no curiosity was aroused by its appearance. as usual, jean had not paused to mature her plans. their inception was enough for the time being; details could follow later. plod, plod, fell baltie's hoofs upon the macadamized street as jean guided him slowly along. the day was cold, but clear and crisp, with just a hint of wind or snow from the mare's tails overhead in the blue. jean had no very clear idea of what her next step would be, and was rather trusting to fate to show her. perhaps baltie had a better one than his driver, or perhaps it was sense of direction and force of habit which was heading him toward south riveredge; baltie's intelligence did not appear to wane with his years. at all events, he was going his usual route when jean spied mammy far ahead and in a trice fate had stepped in to give things a twist. to pull baltie around and guide him into a street which led to east instead of south riveredge was the work of a second. jean thought she could go back by another street which led diagonally into south riveredge but when she reached it she found it closed for repairs. turning around involved more or less danger and she had a thought for that which lay at her feet. so on she went, hoping to get into south riveredge sooner or later. like many suburban towns, riveredge had certain sections which were given over to the poorer element, and in such sections could always be found enough idle, mischievous youngsters to make things interesting for other people, particularly on saturdays when they were released from the restraint of school. jean had proceeded well along upon her way when she was spied by two or three urchins upon whose hands time was hanging rather heavily, and to whom the novel sight of a handsome, neatly-clad child, perched in a phaeton which might have been designed for noah, and driving a blind horse, was a vision of joy. "hi, billy, get on ter de swell rig," bawled one worthy son of mckim's hollow. "gee! aint he a stunner! say, where did yer git him?" yelled billy, prompt to take up the ball, and give it a toss. "mebbe he's de ghost av yer granfather's trotter," was the next salute. "hi, what's his best time. forty hours fer de mile?" asked a larger lad, hanging on to the back of the phaeton and winding his heels into the springs. "get down! go away!" commanded jean. "couldn't," politely replied her passenger. "say yer oughter have a white hawse wid all dat red hair," yelled a new addition to the number already swarming after her. "git a move on," was the next cry, as a youth armed with a long stick joined the crowd. things were growing decidedly uncomfortable for jean whose cheeks were blazing, and whose eyes were flashing ominously. just then one urchin made a grab for the whip but she was too quick for him, and once having it in her hand was tempted to lay about vigorously. as though divining her thoughts, the smaller boys drew off but he of the stick scorned such an adversary, although discretion warned him not to lay it upon her. the old horse, however, was not so guarded by law and the stick descended upon his flanks with all the strength of the young rowdy's arms. he would better have struck jean! never since coming to live in his present home had baltie felt a blow, but during all those four months had been petted, loved and cared for in a manner to make him forget former trials, and in spite of his age, renew his strength and spirits. true, he was never urged to do more than jog, jog, jog along, but under the spur of this indignity some of his old fire sprung up and with a wild snort of resentment he plunged forward. as he did so, down came the whip across his assailant's head, for jean had forgotten all else in her wrath; she began to lay about her with vigor, and the battle was on in earnest. perhaps john gilpin cut a wilder dash yet it is doubtful. chapter xiii the battle of town and gown jean had come about a mile from riveredge before encountering her unwelcome escort, and a mile for old baltie was considered a good distance by mammy who always blanketed him carefully and gave him a long rest after such exertion. the sight of the old woman's care for her horse had won her more than one feminine customer in south riveredge and not infrequently they entered into conversation with her regarding him. mammy needed no greater encouragement to talk, and baltie's history became known to many of her customers. could mammy have witnessed baltie's wild careerings as he pounded along to escape his tormentors, while jean strove desperately to beat them off, she would probably have expired upon the spot. but baltie's strength was not equal to any long-sustained effort and his breath soon became labored. the shouting cavalcade had gone about half a mile at its wild pace and jean had done her valiant best, but the numbers against her had been steadily augmented as she proceeded, and the situation was becoming really dangerous. she stood up in the phaeton, hat hanging by its elastic band, hair flying and eyes flashing as she strove to beat off her pursuers. most of them, it must be admitted, were good-natured, and were simply following up their prank from a spirit of mischief. but two or three had received stinging lashes from the whip and the sting had aroused their ire. jean's strength as well as old baltie's was giving out when from the opposite side of a high arbor-vitæ hedge arose a cry of: "gown to the rescue! gown to the rescue!" and the next second the road seemed filled with lads who had apparently sprung from it, and a lively scrimmage was afoot. the boys who had so lately been making things interesting for jean and baltie, turned to flee precipitately, but were pretty badly hustled about before they could escape; he of the stick being captured red-handed as he launched a blow that came very near proving a serious one for jean since it struck the whip from her hands and landed it in the road. the poor child collapsed upon the seat, and strove hard to suppress a sob, for she would have died sooner than cry before the boys of the "irving preparatory school." baltie needed no second hint to make him understand that the time had come to let his friends take up the battle, and bracing his trembling old legs he stood panting in the middle of the road. "i say, what did this fellow do to you, little girl?" demanded a tall, fine-looking lad, whose dark gray eyes were flashing with indignation, and whose firm mouth gave his captive reason to know that he meant whatever he said. at any other time jean would have resented the "little girl," but during the past fifteen minutes she had felt a very small girl indeed. "he's a coward! a great, hulking coward!" she blazed at the hapless youth whom her champion held so firmly by his collar as he stood by the phaeton. the other lads who had now completely routed jean's tormentors were gathering about her, some with looks of concern for her welfare, some with barely restrained smiles at her plight and her turnout. "what'll i do to him? punch his head?" demanded knight errant. "no, shake it most off!" commanded jean. "he nearly made mine shake off," she concluded, as she pushed her hair from her eyes and jerked her hat back into place. "my goodness just look at the state i'm in and look at baltie; i don't know what mammy will say. aren't you ashamed of yourself, you great big bully, to torment a girl and a poor old blind horse. oh, i _wish_ i were a boy! if i wouldn't give you bally-whacks." a smile broke over knight errant's face, but his victim trembled in his boots. "all right then, here goes, since you won't let me punch it," and jean's injunctions to shake her tormentor's head "most off" seemed in a fair way to be obeyed, for the next second its owner was being shaken very much as a rat is shaken by a terrier and the head was jerked about in a most startling manner. "now get out! skiddoo! and if we catch you and your gang out this way again you'll have a pretty lively time of it, and don't you forget it either," said knight errant with a final shake, and long stick was hustled upon his way toward his friends who had not paused to learn his fate. this boy who acted as spokesman, and who appeared to be a leader among his companions, then said: "i say, your old horse is pretty well knocked up, isn't she? how far have you come? better drive into the school grounds and rest up a bit before you go back. come on!" and going to baltie's head the lad took hold of the rein to lead him through the gateway. baltie never forgot his manners, however great the stress under which he was laboring, so turning his sightless eyes toward his new friend, he nickered softly, and rubbed his muzzle against him. the lad laughed and raising his hand stroked the warm neck as he said: "found a friend at last, old boy? well, come on then, for you needed one badly." "guess he _did_!" said jean. "my gracious, i don't know what we would have done if you boys hadn't come out to help us. how did you happen to hear us?" "we were out on the field with the ball. i guess it's lucky for you we were, too, for there's a tough gang up there near riveredge. we're always on the lookout for some new outbreak, and we make it lively if they come up this way, you'd better believe. they don't try it very often, but you were too big a chance for 'em this time, and they sailed right in. but they sailed at the wrong time for we are never happier to exchange civilities with them than when we have on our togs," ended the lad, as he glanced at the foot-ball suits which he and a number of his chums were wearing. "oh, are you playing foot-ball? i wish i could see you," cried jean eagerly, all thoughts of her late plans flying straight out of her head. "better come over to the field then," laughed her escort. "i'd love to but i guess i can't to-day. i'm on important business. i'm going to south riveredge," she said, suddenly recalling her errand. "south riveredge!" echoed a lad who walked at the other side of the phaeton. "why it's nearly four miles from here. it's almost two to riveredge itself. what brought you out this way if you were going to south riveredge?" but to explain just why she had turned off the direct road to south riveredge would be a trifle embarrassing, so jean decided to give another reason: "i thought i knew my way but i guess i must have missed it, those boys tormented me so." "i guess you did miss it, but i don't wonder. well, rest here a little while, and then we'll start you safely back. guess one of us better go along with her hadn't we, ned?" he asked of the gray-eyed boy. "if we want her to get back whole i guess we had," was the laughing answer, as baltie's guide led him up to a carriage step and stopped. baltie's coat was steaming. "got a blanket? better let me put it on your horse. he's pretty warm from his race and the day is snappy." jean bounded up from the seat and pulled the blanket from it. it was not a very heavy blanket and when the boy had put it carefully upon the old horse, it seemed hardly thick enough to protect him. "let me have the rug too," he ordered, and without a second's thought jerked up the rug and gave it a toss. up came the box of candy with it, to balance a second upon one end as daintily as a tight-rope dancer balances upon a rope, then keel gracefully over and land bottom-side-up, upon the tan-bark of the driveway, the packages of candy flying in twenty different directions. jean's cry of dismay was echoed by the boys' shouts as their eyes quickly grasped the significance of those dainty white parcels. a wild scramble to rescue her wares followed, as jean was plied with questions. "are they yours? what are you going to do with them?" "are they for sale?" "can we buy some?" "how much are they?" "lend me some cash, bob?" never was an enterprising merchant so suddenly plunged into a rushing business. jean's head whirled for a moment. how much were the packages of candy? she hadn't the vaguest idea, and circumstances had not made it convenient to ascertain before she set forth. however, her wits came to her rescue and she recalled the little packages which constance had made for the fair, and which had sold for ten cents each. so ten cents _she_ would charge, and presently was doling out her rescued packages of fudge and dropping dimes into her box to take the place of the packages which were so quickly disappearing from it. given four dozen packages of exceptionally delicious home-made candy, and twenty or thirty boys, after an hour's foot-ball exercise, upon a crisp january morning, each more or less supplied with pocket money, and it is a combination pretty sure to work to the advantage of the candy-maker. jean's eyes danced, and her face was radiant. her business was in its most flourishing stage when she became aware that another actor had appeared upon the scene, and was regarding her steadily through a pair of very large, very round, and very thick-lensed eye-glasses, and with the solemn expression of a meditative owl. how long he had been a silent observer of her financial operations jean had no idea. his presence did not appear to embarrass the boys in any way; indeed, when they became aware of it two or three of them promptly urged him to partake of their toothsome dainties. this he did in the same grave, absorbed manner. "great, aint they, professor?" asked one lad. "quite unusual. who is the juvenile vender?" he asked. "we don't know. she was out yonder in the road with half mckim's hollow after her when we fellows rallied to the rescue. she was as plucky as any thing, and was putting up a great standoff when we got in our licks." "ah! indeed! and how came she to have such a feast along with her. i'll take another, thank you, ned. they are really excellent," and instead of "another" the last three of "ned's" package were calmly appropriated and eaten in the same abstracted manner that the other pieces had been. ned looked somewhat blank and turning toward one of his companions, winked and smiled slyly, then said to the professor: "better buy some quick. they are going like hot cakes." chapter xiv the candy enterprise grows "i believe i shall," and drawing closer to the phaeton the professor peered more closely at its occupant as he said: "i say, little girl, i think i'll take all you have there. they are exceedingly palatable. and i would really like to know how it happens that a child apparently so respectable as yourself should be peddling sweets. you--why you might really be a gentleman's daughter," he drawled. now it had never for a moment occurred to jean that appearances might prove misleading to those whose powers of observation were not of the keenest, or that a much disheveled child driving about the country in an antiquated phaeton, to which was harnessed a patriarchal horse, might seem to belong to a rather lower order in the social scale than her mother had a right to claim. so the near-sighted professor's remark held anything but a pleasing suggestion. for a moment she hardly grasped its full significance, then drawing up her head like an insulted queen, she regarded the luckless man with blazing eyes as she answered: "i am a carruth, thank you, and the carruths do as they _please_. you need not buy these candies if you don't wish to. i can get plenty of customers among my friends--the boys." when did unconscious flattery prove sweeter? those same "friends--the boys" would have then and there died for the small itinerant whose wares had so touched their palates, and who was openly choosing their patronage over and above that of an individual who had now and again caused more than one of them to pass an exceedingly bad quarter of an hour. a suppressed giggle sounded not far off, but the professor's face retained its perfect solemnity as he bent his head toward jean to get a closer view. "hum; ah; yes. i dare say you are quite right. i was probably over hasty in drawing conclusions," was the calm response. "_mammy_ says a _gentleman_ can always rec'o'nize a lady," flashed jean, unconsciously falling into mammy's vernacular. "and who is mammy, may i inquire?" asked the imperturbable voice, its owner absently eating lumps of fudge and pralines at a rate calculated to speedily reduce the supply he had on hand, the lads meanwhile regarding the vanishing "lumps of delight" with longing eyes. "why she's _mammy_," replied jean with considerable emphasis. "mammy _what_?" was the very unprofessional question which followed. "mammy blairsdale, of course. _our_ mammy." there was no answer for a moment as the candy continued to melt from sight like dew before the morning sun. then the professor looked at her steadily as he slowly munched his sweets, causing jean to think of the henrys' cow when in a ruminative mood. "little girl, are you from the south?" "don't _call_ me 'little girl' again!" flared jean, bringing her foot down upon the bottom of the phaeton with a stamp. "i just naturally despise to be called 'little girl.' i'm jean, and i want to be called jean." "jean, jean. pretty name. well _miss_ jean, are you from the south?" "my _mother is_. she was a _blairsdale_," replied "miss" jean, much as she might have said she is the daughter of england's queen, much mollified at having the cognomen added. "do you happen to know which part of the south you come from?" "_i_ don't come from the south at all. i was born right here in riveredge. my mother came from forestvale, north carolina." "i thought i knew the name. yes, it is very familiar. blairsdale. yes. quite so. quite so. rather curious, however. so many years. my grandmother was a blairsdale too. singular coincidence, _she_ had red hair, i'm told, yes, really. think i must follow it up. very good, indeed. did _you_ make them? i judge not. who did? i must know where to get more when i have a fancy for some," and having eaten the last praline the professor absent-mindedly put into his mouth the paper in which they had been wrapped, having unconsciously rolled it into a nice little wad while talking. a funny twinkle came into his eyes when his mistake dawned upon him and turning to the grinning boys he said: "i have heard of men putting the lighted end of a cigar into their mouths by mistake. this was less unpleasant at all events," and the wad was tossed to the driveway. the boys burst into shouts of laughter and the ice was broken. crowding about the phaeton they asked: "who makes the candy? do you always sell it? when can we get some more? say, professor, do you really know her folks? who _is_ she any how?" "i told you my name, and i live in riveredge. my sister makes the candy, but she doesn't know i'm selling it. maybe she'll let me bring you some more, and maybe she won't. i don't know. and maybe i'll catch hail-columbia-happy-land when i get back home," concluded the young lady, her lips coming together with decision and her head wagging between doubt and defiance. "but i don't care one bit if i do. i've sold _all_ the candy, and i've got just piles of money; so _that_ proves that i _can_ help as well as the big girls even if _i_ am too little to be trusted with their old secrets. and now i've got to go straight back home or they'll all be scared half to death. perhaps they won't want to scold so hard if they are good and scared." "one of us will go with you till you get past mckim's hollow," cried the boys. "ned can, can't he, professor?" "i believe i'll go myself," was the unexpected reply. "i was about to walk over to riveredge, but i think perhaps miss jean will allow me to ride with her," and without more ado professor forbes, b.a., b.c., b.m., and half a dozen other bachelors, gravely removed the coverings from old baltie, folding and carefully placing the blanket upon the seat and laying the rug over jean's knees. after he had tucked her snugly in, he took his seat beside her. "now, miss jean, i think we are all ready to start." if anything could have been added to complete jean's secret delight at the attention shown her, it was the dignified manner in which the professor raised his hat, the boys as one followed his example, as baltie ambled forth. "that is the way i _like_ to be treated. i _hate_ to be snubbed because i'm only ten years old," thought she. as they turned into the road the distant whistles of south riveredge blew twelve o'clock. jean started slightly and glanced quickly up at her companion. "the air is very clear and still to-day," he remarked. "we hear the whistles a long distance." "it's twelve o'clock. i wonder what mammy is thinking," was jean's irrelevant answer. "does mammy think for the family?" asked the professor, a funny smile lurking about the corners of his mouth. jean's eyes twinkled as she answered: "she was _mother's_ mammy too." "ah! i think i understand. i lived south until i was fifteen." "did you? how old are you now?" was the second startling question. "how old should you think?" was the essentially yankee reply, which proved that the southern lad had learned a trick or two from his northern friends. jean regarded him steadily for a few moments. "well, when you raised your hat a few minutes ago your hair looked a little thin on _top_, so i guess you're going to be bald pretty soon. but your eyes, when you laugh, look just about like the boys'. perhaps you aren't so very old though. maybe you aren't much older than mr. stuyvesant. do you know him?" "yes, i know him. he is younger than i am though." the professor did not add "exactly six months." "yes, i thought you were lots older. he's the kind you _feel_ is young and you're the kind you feel is old, you know." "oh, am i? wherein lies the difference, may i inquire?" the voice sounded a trifle nettled. "why i should think anyone could understand _that_," was the surprised reply. "mr. stuyvesant is the kind of a man who knows what children are thinking right down inside themselves all the time. they don't have to explain things to _him_ at all. why the day i found baltie he knew just as well how i felt about having him shot, and i knew just as well as anything that _he'd_ take care of him and make it all right. we're great friends. i love him dearly." "whom? baltie?" "now there! what did i tell you? _that's_ why _you_ are _years_ and _years_ older than mr. stuyvesant. he _would'nt_ have had to say 'whom? baltie?' he'd just know such things without having to ask." the tone was not calculated to inspire self-esteem. "hum," answered the man who could easily have told anyone the distance of mars from the earth and many another scientific fact. "i think i'm beginning to comprehend what constitutes age." "yes," resumed jean as she flapped the reins upon baltie who seemed to be lapsing into a dreamy frame of mind. "you can't always tell _how_ old a person is by just looking at 'em. maybe you aren't nearly as old as i think you are, though i guess you can't be far from forty, and that's pretty bad. but if you'd sort of get gay and jolly, and try to think how you felt when you were little, or maybe even as big as the boys back yonder, you wouldn't seem any older to me than mr. stuyvesant." the big eyes were regarding him with the closest scrutiny as though their owner wished to avoid falling into any error concerning him. "think perhaps i'll try it. it may prove worth while," and the professor fell into a brown study while old baltie plodded on and jean let her thoughts outstrip his slow progress. at the other end of her commercial venture lay a reckoning as well she knew, and like most reckonings it held an element of doubt as well as of hope. it was nearly one o'clock when they came to the outskirts of riveredge. the pretty town was quite deserted for it was luncheon hour. when they reached the foot of hillside street, jean said: "this is my street; i have to go up here," and drew up to the sidewalk for her passenger to descend. he seemed in no haste to take the hint, and jean began to wonder if he would turn out a regular old man of the sea. before she could frame a speech both positive and polite as a suggestion for his next move, her ears were assailed by: "bress gawd, ef dar aint dat pesterin' chile dis very minit! what i gwine _do_ wid yo'? jis' tell me dat?" and mammy came puffing and panting down the hill like a runaway steam-roller. professor forbes roused himself from the reverie in which he had apparently been indulging for several moments, and stepping from the phaeton to the sidewalk, advanced a step or two toward the formidable object bearing down upon him, and raising his hat as though saluting a royal personage, said: "i think i have the pleasure of addressing mammy----_blairsdale_." chapter xv the reckoning the descending steam-roller slowed down and finally came to a standstill within a few feet of the professor, too non-plussed even to snort or pant, while that imperturbable being stood hat in hand in the sharp january air, and smiled upon it. there was something in the smile that caused the steam-roller to reconsider its plan of action, rapidly formed while descending the hill, for great had been the consternation throughout the dwelling which housed it, and the cause of all that consternation was now within reach of justice. "mammy blairsdale?" repeated the professor suavely. "mammy blairsdale," echoed that worthy being, although the words were not quite so blandly spoken. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, mammy. i have taken the liberty of escorting this young lady back home. she is very entertaining, and extremely practical, as well as enterprising. i am sure you will find her a successful coöperator. she has done a most flourishing business this morning." "b'isness! b'isness! for de lawd's sake wha' dat chile been at now, an' we all cl'ar 'stracted 'bout her? whar yo' bin at? tell me dis minute. an' yo' ma, and miss constance and me jist plumb crazy 'bout you and dat hawse." the professor attempted to put in a word of explanation, but a wave of mammy's hand effectually silenced him and motioned him aside, as she stepped closer to the phaeton. baltie had instantly recognized her voice and as she drew nearer, nickered. "yas, baltie hawse, what dat chile been doin' wid yo'?" she said softly as she laid her hand upon the old horse's neck. but the more resolute tone was resumed as she turned again to the phaeton, and demanded: "i wanter know wha' yo's been. you hear me? we's done chased de hull town ober fer yo' an' dat hawse, an' yo' ma done teken de trolley fer souf riveraige, kase someone done say dey seed yo' a gwine off dat-a-way. now whar in de name o' man _is_ yo' been ter?" "i've been out to the irving school selling your old _candy_, and your cousins-in-the-lord, over in south riveredge, can _wait_ a while for some. you and connie thought you could fool me with your old talk but you couldn't; i found out _all_ about it. _she_ makes it and _you_ sell it, and now _i've_ sold it--yes every single package--and there's your money; i don't want it, but i've proved that i _can_ help mother, so there now!" and, figuratively speaking, jean hurled at mammy's feet the gauntlet, in the shape of her handkerchief, in which she had carefully tied the proceeds of her morning's sale, a no mean sum, by the way. then, bounding out of the old phaeton, tore up the hill like a small whirlwind, leaving mammy and the professor to stare after her open-mouthed. the latter was the first to recover his speech. "well, really! quite vehement! good deal of force in a small body." "fo'ce! well yo' ain' know dat chile ten years lak _i_ is. she cl'ar break loose some times, an' dis hyre's one ob 'em. but i 'spicioned dat she's done teken dat box o' candy. minit my back turned out she fly wid it. an' sell hit, too? what _yo'_ know 'bout it, sar? is yo' see her?" "i certainly did, and i haven't seen such a sight in some time. she's a good bit of a metaphysician into the bargain," and in a few words professor forbes told of the morning's business venture, and the lively experiences of the young merchant, mammy listening attentively, only now and again uttering an expressive "um-m! uh-h!" when he had finished she looked at him sharply and said: "you know what dat chile' oughter be named? wal, suh, scape-many-dangers would fit her pine blank. de lawd on'y knows what she gwine tu'n out, but hits boun' ter be one ting or turrer; she gwine be de banginest one ob de hull lot, or she gwine be jist nothin' but a little debbil. now, suh, who is _yo'_?" the concluding question was sprung upon the professor so suddenly that he nearly jumped. he looked at the old woman a moment, the suggestion of a twinkle in the eyes behind the big glasses, then answered soberly: "i might be termed a knight errant i presume; i've been guarding a young lady from the perils of the highway." "night errand? 'tain't no night errand as _i_ kin see. can't be much broader day dan tis dis minute," retorted mammy, looking up at the blazing luminary directly over her head by way of proving her assertion. "if you's on a errand dat's yo' b'isness; 'taint mine. but i'd lak ter know yo' name suh, so's i kin tell miss jinny." "is miss jinny the older sister who manufactures that delicious candy?" asked the professor, as he drew his card case from his pocket and handed mammy his card. "no, suh, she's _my_ miss jinny: miss jinny blairsdale; i mean carruth. my mistis. dat chile's mother. thank yo', suh. i'll han' her dis cyard. is she know yo', suh?" "no, i haven't the pleasure of mrs. carruth's acquaintance though i hope to before long. (mammy made a slight sound through her half-closed lips.) my grandmother was a blairsdale." "open sesame" was a trifling talisman compared with the name of blairsdale. "wha', wha', wha', yo say, suh?" demanded mammy, stammering in her excitement. "yo's a blairsdale?" "no, i am homer forbes. my mother's mother was a blairsdale. i cannot claim the honor." "yo' kin claim de _blood_ dough, an' dat's all yo' hatter claim. yo' don' need ter claim nuttin' else ef yo' got some ob _dat_. but i mustn't stan' here talkin' no longer. yo' kin come an' see my miss jinny ef yo' wantter. if yo's kin ob de blairsdales' she'll be pintedly glad fer ter know yo'," ended mammy, courtesying to this branch of the blood royal, and turning to lead baltie up the hill. "thank you. i think i'll accept the invitation before very long. i'd like to know miss jean a little better. good-day mammy _blairsdale_." "good-day, suh! good-day," answered mammy, smiling benignly upon the favored being. as she drew near the house a perplexed expression overspread her old face. she still held the handkerchief with its weight of change; earnest of the morning's good intentions. yet what a morning it had been for her and the others! "i clar ter goodness dat chile lak ter drive us all 'stracted. fust she scare us nigh 'bout ter death, an' we ready fer ter frail her out fer her doin's. den she come pa'radin' home wid a bagful ob cash kase she tryin' fer ter help we-all. _den_ what yo' gwine 'do wid her? smack her kase she done plague yo', or praise her kase she doin' her bes' fer ter mek t'ings go a little mite easier fer her ma?" ended mammy, bringing her tongue against her teeth in a sound of irritation. meanwhile the cause of all the commotion had gone tearing up the hill and into the house where she ran pell-mell into eleanor who had just come home, and who knew nothing of the excitement of the past few hours. constance had gone over to amy fletcher's to inquire for the runaway. jean was on the border land between tears and anger, and eleanor was greeted with: "now i suppose _you_ are going to lecture me too, tell me i'd no business to go off. well you just needn't do any such a thing, and i don't care if i _did_ scare you. it was all your own fault 'cause you wouldn't let me into your old secret, and i'm _glad_ i scared you. yes i am!" the words ended in a storm of sobs. for a moment eleanor stood dumfounded. then realizing that something more lay behind the volley of words than she understood, she said: "come up to my room with me, jean. i don't know what you are talking about. if anything is wrong tell me about it, but don't bother mother. the little mumsey has a lot to bother her as it is." jean instantly stopped crying and looked at this older sister who sometimes seemed very old indeed to her. "_you_ don't know what all the fuss is about, and why mammy is waiting to give me hail columbia?" she asked incredulously. "i have just this moment come in. i have been out at aunt eleanor's all the morning, as you know quite well if you will stop to think," answered eleanor calmly. "then come up-stairs quick before mammy gets in; i see her coming in the gate now. i did something that made her as mad as hops and scared mother. come i'll tell you all about it," and jean flew up the stairs ahead of eleanor. rushing into her sister's room she waited only for eleanor to pass the threshold before slamming the door together and turning the key. eleanor dropped her things upon the bed and sitting down upon a low chair, said: "come here, jean." jean threw herself upon her sister's lap, and clasping her arms about her, nestled her head upon her shoulder. eleanor held her a moment without speaking, feeling that it would be wiser to let her excitement subside a little. then she said: "now tell me the whole story, jean." jean told it from beginning to end, and ended by demanding: "don't you really, truly, know anything about the candy constance is making to sell?" "i know that she is making candy, and that she contrives somehow to sell a good deal of it, but she and mammy have kept the secret as to _how_ it is sold. they did not tell me, and i wouldn't ask," said eleanor looking straight into jean's eyes. "oh!" said jean. "mammy has rather high ideas of what we ought or ought not to do, you know, jean," continued eleanor, "and she was horrified at the idea of constance making candy for money. and yet, jean, both constance and i _must_ do something to help mother. you say we keep you out of our secrets. we don't keep you _out_ of them, but we see no reason _why_ you should be made to bear them. constance and i are older, and it is right that we should share some of the burden which mother must bear, but you are only a little girl and ought to be quite care-free." jean's head dropped a trifle lower. "but since you have discovered so much, let _me_ tell you a secret which only mother and i know, and then you will understand why she is so troubled now-a-days. even connie knows nothing of it. can i trust you?" "i'd _die_ before i'd tell," was the vehement protest. "very well then, listen: you know our house was insured for a good deal of money--fifteen thousand dollars. well, mother felt quite safe and comfortable when she found that mammy had paid the premium just before the house burned down, and we all thought we would soon have the amount settled up by the company and that the interest would be a big help--" "what is the interest?" demanded jean. "i can't stop to explain it all now, but when people put money in a savings bank a certain sum is paid to them each year. the bank pays the people the smaller sum each year because it--the bank, i mean--has the use of the larger amount for the time being. do you understand?" "yes, it's just as if i gave you my five dollars to use and you gave me ten cents each week for lending you the five dollars till i wanted it, isn't it?" "yes, exactly. well mother thought she would have about six hundred dollars each year, and everything seemed all right, and so we came to live here because it was less expensive. but, oh, jean, my miserable experiments! my dreadful chemicals! when the insurance company began to look into the cause of the fire and learned that i had gasoline, and those powerful acids in my room, and the box of excelsior in which they had been sent out from the city was in the room where the fire started, they--they would not settle the insurance, and _all_ the money we had paid out was lost, and we could hardly collect anything. and it was _all_ my fault. _all_ my fault. but i did not know it! i did not guess the harm i was doing. i only thought of what i could learn from my experiments. and _see_ what mischief i have done," and poor eleanor's story ended in a burst of sobs, as she buried her head against the little sister whom she had just been comforting. jean was speechless for a moment. then all her sympathies were alert, and springing from eleanor's lap she flung her arms about her crying: "don't cry, nornie; don't cry! you didn't _mean_ to. you didn't know. you were trying to be good and learn a lot. you didn't know about those hateful old companies." "but i _ought_ to have known! i ought to have understood," sobbed eleanor. "how _could_ you? but don't you cry. i'm glad now i _did_ run away with the box, 'cause i've found a way to make some money every single saturday and i'm going to _do it_, mammy or no mammy. baltie is just as much my horse as hers, and if he can't help us work i'd like to know why. now don't you cry any more, 'cause it isn't your fault, and i'm going right straight down stairs to talk with mother, and tell her i'm sorry i frightened her but _i'm not_ sorry i went," and ending with a tempestuous hug and an echoing kiss upon her sister's cheek, little miss determination whisked out of the room. chapter xvi united we stand, divided we fall it need hardly be stated that mrs. carruth had passed anything but a tranquil morning. indeed tranquillity of mind was almost unknown to her now-a-days, and her nights were filled with far from pleasant dreams. from the hour her old home had burned, disasters had crowded upon her. her first alarm lest the insurance upon her property had lapsed, owing to her inability to meet the premium punctually, had been allayed by mammy's prompt action and all seemed well. no one had given a thought to the conditions of the agreement, and, alas! no one had thought of eleanor's laboratory. indeed, had she done so, mrs. carruth was not sufficiently well informed upon such matters to have attached any importance to it. but one little clause in the policy had expressly prohibited the presence of "gasoline, excelsior or chemicals of any description upon the premises," and all three had been upon it when the house burned; and, fatal circumstance, had been the _cause_ of the fire. such investigations move slowly, and weeks passed before these facts were brought to light and poor mrs. carruth learned the truth. she strove in every way to realize even a small proportion of the sum she could otherwise have claimed, and influential friends lent their aid to help her. but the terms of the contract had, unquestionably, been broken, even though done in ignorance--and the precautions taken for so many years ended in smoke. mrs. carruth had not meant to let the girls learn of it until, if worse came to worst, all hope of recovering something had to be given up. but, several days before, eleanor had found her mother in a state of nervous collapse over the letter which brought the ultimatum, and had insisted upon knowing the truth. mrs. carruth confessed it only upon the condition of absolute secrecy on eleanor's part, for constance was in the midst of mid-year examinations and her mother would not have an extra care laid upon her just then. eleanor had kept the secret until this morning when jean's outbreak seemed to make it wiser to tell the truth, and, if the confession must be made, poor eleanor could no longer conceal her remorse for the mischief her experiments had brought upon them all. she had gone that morning to her aunt eleanor's home to confess the situation to her, and to ask if she might leave school and seek some position. the interview had been a most unpleasant one, for mrs. eleanor carruth, senior, never hesitated to express her mind, and having exceptional business acumen herself, had little patience with those who had less. "your mother has no more head for business than a child of ten. not as much as _some_, i believe. and, your father wasn't much better. good heavens and earth! the idea of a man in his sane senses agreeing to pay another man's debts. i don't believe he _was_ in his senses," stormed mrs. eleanor. "please, aunt eleanor, don't say such things to me about father and mother," said eleanor, with a little break in her voice. "perhaps mother doesn't know as much about business matters as she ought, and father's heart got the better of his good sense, but they are father and mother and have always been devoted to us. i don't want to be rude to you, but i _can't_ hear them unkindly spoken of," she ended with a little uprearing of the head, which suddenly recalled to the irate lady a similar mannerism of her late husband who had been a most forebearing man up to a certain point, but when that was reached his wife knew a halt had been called; the same sudden uplifting of the head now gave due warning. however, eleanor was only a child in her aunt's eyes, and, fond as she was of her, in her own peculiar way, she could not resist a final word: "well, i've no patience with such goin's on. and now here's a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake. you've taken hadyn stuyvesant's house for a year, and of course you've got to _keep_ it, yet every cent you've got in this world to live on is twelve hundred dollars a year. that means less than twenty-five dollars a week to house, clothe and feed five people. i 'spose it can be done--plenty do it--but they're not carruths, with a carruth's ideas. and now _you_ want to quit school and go to work? well, i don't approve of it; no, not for a minute. you'll do ten times better to stay at school and then enter college next fall. _you've_ got the ability to do it, and it's flyin' in the face of providence _not_ to." aunt eleanor might just as well have added, "i representing providence," since her tone implied as much. "now run along home and leave me to think out this snarl. i can think a sight better when i'm alone," and with that summary and rather unsatisfactory dismissal, eleanor departed for her own home to be met by jean with her trials and tribulations. meanwhile mrs. carruth had gone in quest of that young lady, for upon mammy's return from market, jean, baltie and the box of candy had been missed, and the old woman had raised a hue and cry. at first they believed it to be some prank, but as the hours slipped away and jean failed to reappear, mrs. carruth grew alarmed and all three set forth in different directions to search for her. constance going to amy fletcher's home. mammy to their old home, or at least all that was left of it, for jean frequently went there on one pretext or another, and mrs. carruth down town, as the marketing section of riveredge was termed. while there, one of the shopkeepers told her that jean had driven by, headed for south riveredge. upon the strength of this vague information mrs. carruth had 'phoned home that she was setting out for south riveredge by the trolley and hoped to find the runaway. but the search, naturally, was unavailing and she was forced to return in a most anxious state of mind. as she turned into hillside street and began to mount the steep ascent, her limbs were trembling, partly from physical and partly from nervous exhaustion. before she reached the top she saw the object of her quest bearing down upon her with arms outstretched and burnished hair flying all about her. jean had not paused for the hat or coat, which she had impatiently flung aside upon entering eleanor's room. her one impulse after learning of the calamity which had overtaken them was to offer consolation to her mother. the impact when she met that weary woman came very near landing them both in the gutter, and nothing but the little fly-away's agility saved them. jean was wonderfully strong for her age, her outdoor life having developed her muscles to a most unusual degree. "oh, mother, mother. i'm _so_ sorry i frightened you. i didn't mean to; truly i didn't. i only wanted to prove i _could_ help, and now i _can_, 'cause i've got a _lot_ of new customers and made most four dollars. i could have made more if some of the papers hadn't bursted and spilt the candy in the road. we got some of it up, but it was all dirty and i couldn't take any money for _that_, though the boys _ate_ it after they'd washed if off at the hose faucet. it wasn't so very dirty, you know. and now i'm going out there every single saturday morning, and connie and i--" "jean; jean; stop for mercy's sake. what _are_ you talking about? have you taken leave of your senses, child?" demanded poor mrs. carruth, wholly bewildered, for until this moment she had heard absolutely nothing of the candy-making, mammy and constance having guarded their secret well. it had never occurred to jean that even her mother was in ignorance of the enterprise, and now she looked at her as though it had come her turn to question her mother's sanity. they had now reached the house and were ascending the steps, jean assisting her mother by pushing vigorously upon her elbow. "come right into the living-room with me, jean, and let me learn where you've been this morning. you have alarmed me terribly, and mammy has been nearly beside herself. she was sure you and baltie were both killed." "pooh! fiddlesticks! she might have known better. she thinks baltie is as fiery as mr. stuyvesant's comet, and that nobody can drive him but herself. i've been to east riveredge with the candy--" "_what_ candy, jean? i do not know what you mean." "_constance's_ candy!" emphasized jean, and then and there told the whole story so far as she herself knew the facts regarding it. mrs. carruth sat quite speechless during the recitation, wondering what new development upon the part of her offspring the present order of things would bring to light. "and mumsey, darling," continued jean, winding her arms about her mother's neck and slipping upon her lap, "i'm going to help _now_; i really am, 'cause nornie has told me about that horried old insurance and i know we haven't much money and--" "nornie has told _you_ of the insurance trouble, jean? how came she to do such a thing?" asked mrs. carruth, at a loss to understand why eleanor had disobeyed her in the matter. "she told me 'cause i was so mad at her and connie for having secrets, and treating me as if i hadn't the least little bit of sense, and couldn't be trusted. i am little, mumsey, dear, but i can help. you see if i can't, and the boys were just splendid and want me to come every saturday. please, please say i may go," and jean kissed her mother's forehead, cheeks and chin by way of persuasion. it must be confessed that mrs. carruth responded to these endearments in a rather abstracted manner, for she had had much to think of within the past few hours. "please say yes," begged jean. "childie, i can not say yes or no just this moment. i am too overwhelmed by what i have heard. i must know _all_ now, and learn it from mammy and constance. i cannot realize that one of my children had actually entered upon such a venture. what _would_ your father say?" ended mrs. carruth, as though all the traditions of the carruths, to say nothing of the blairsdales, had been shattered to bits and thrown broadcast. "but you'll tell me before _next_ saturday, won't you? you know the boys will be on the lookout for their candy and will be _so_ disappointed if i don't take it." "i can not promise _anything_ now. the first thing to do is to eat our luncheon; it is long past two o'clock. _then_ we will hold a family council and i hope i shall recover my senses; i declare i feel as though they were tottering." mrs. carruth rose from her chair and with jean dancing beside her entered the dining-room to partake of a very indifferent meal, for mammy had been too exercised to give her usual care and thought to its preparation. chapter xvii a family council luncheon was over and mrs. carruth, the girls and mammy were seated in the library; mammy's face being full of solicitude for her miss jinny. mammy could no more have been left out of this family council than could eleanor. "an' you haint got dat 'surance money and cyant git hit, baby?" she asked, when mrs. carruth had finished explaining the situation to them. "no, mammy; it is impossible. i have hoped until the last moment, but now i must give up all hope." "but--but i done _paid_ de prem'ym ter dat little sniffin's man, an' _he_ say we _git_ de money all right an' straight," argued mammy, loath to give up _her_ hope. "i know that, mammy. he told you so in all good faith. it is not his fault in the least. it would have been settled at once, had we not--had we not--" mrs. carruth hesitated. she was reluctant to lay the blame upon eleanor. "oh, it is _all_ my fault! all. if i had not brought those hateful acids into the house we would _never_ have had all this trouble. i shall never forgive myself, and i should think you'd all want to kill me," wailed the cause of the family's misfortune, springing to her feet to pace rapidly up and down the room, quite unconscious that a long feather boa which happened to have been upon the back of her chair, had caught upon her belt-pin and was trailing out behind in a manner to suggest darwin's theory of the origin of man. "my child you need not reproach yourself. you were working for our mutual benefit. you knew nothing of the conditions--" "knew nothing! knew nothing!" broke in eleanor. "that's just _it_. it was my business to know! and i tell you one thing, in future i _mean_ to know, and not go blundering along in ignorance and wrecking everybody else as well as myself. i'm just no better than a fool with _all_ my poring over books and experimenting. after this i'll find out where my _feet_ are, even if my head _is_ stuck in the clouds. and now, mother, listen: since i _am_ responsible for this mess it is certainly up to me to help you to pull out of it, and i'm going to _do_ it, i've spoken to mr. hillard, and asked him about coaching, and he says he can get me plenty of students who will be only too glad if i can give them the time. and i'm going to do it three afternoons a week. i shall have to do it between four and six, as those are my only free hours, and if i can't coach better than some i've known to undertake it, i'll quit altogether." as eleanor talked, mammy's expression became more and more horrified. when she ceased speaking the old woman rose from the hassock upon which she sat, and crossing the room to mrs. carruth's side laid her hand upon her shoulder as she asked in an awed voice: "baby you won't _let_ her do no sich t'ing as dat? cou'se you won't. wimmin folks now-a-days has powerful strange ways, dat i kin see myse'f, but we-all don' do sich lak. miss nornie wouldn't never in de roun' worl' do _dat_, would she, honey? she jist a projectin', ain't she?" mammy's old face was so troubled that mrs. carruth was much mystified. "why mammy, i don't know of anything that eleanor is better qualified to do than coach. and mammy, dear, we _must_ do something--every one of us, i fear. we can not all live on the small interest i now have, and i shall never touch the principal if i can possibly avoid doing so. eleanor can materially help by entering upon this work, and constance has already shown that she can aid also. even baby has helped," added mrs. carruth, laying her arm caressingly across jean's shoulders, for jean had stuck to her side like a burr. "then you _will_ let me go to east riveredge with the candy?" cried jean, quick to place her entering wedge. "we will see," replied mrs. carruth, but jean knew from the smile that the day was won. "i know all dat, honey," resumed mammy, "but dis hyer coachin' bisness. i ain' got _dat_ settle in my mind. hit just pure scandal'zation 'cordin' ter my thinkin'. gawd bress my soul what we-all comin' to when a blairsdale teken ter drive a nomnibus fer a livin'? tck! tck!" and mammy collapsed upon a chair to clasp her hands and groan. then light dawned upon the family. "oh, mammy! i don't intend to become a stage-coach driver," cried eleanor, dropping upon her knees beside the perturbed old soul, and laying her own hands upon the clasped ones as she strove hard not to laugh outright. "you don't understand at _all_, mammy. a coach is someone who helps other students who can't get on well with their studies. who gives an hour or two each day to such work. and it is very well paid work, too, mammy." mammy looked at her incredulously as though she feared she was being made game of. then she glanced at the others. their faces puzzled her, as well they might, since the individuals were struggling to repress their mirth lest they wound the old woman's feelings, but still were anxious to reassure her. "miss jinny, is dat de solemn prar-book truf?" "it surely is mammy. we are not quite so degenerate as you think us," answered mrs. carruth soberly, although her eyes twinkled in spite of her. "well! well! jes so; jes so. i sutin'ly is behine de times. i speck i ain' unnerstan dese yer new-fangled wo'ds no mor'n i unnerstan de new-fangled stoves. if coachin' done tu'ned ter meanin' school marmin' i hatter give up. now go on wid yo' talkin': i gwine tek a back seat an' listen twell i knows sumpin'," and, wagging her head doubtingly, mammy went back to her hassock. "well _two_ of us have settled upon our plan of action, now what are _you_ going to do, connie? you said you were determined to make your venture a paying one. what is your plan?" asked eleanor, turning to constance, who thus far had said very little. "i can't tell you right now. i've had so many plans simmering since i began to make my candy, but mammy has always set the kettle on the back part of the stove just as it began to boil nicely, haven't you mammy?" asked constance, smiling into mammy's face. "'specs i's 'sponsuble fer a heap o' unbiled kittles, dough hits kase i hates p'intedly ter see de blairsdales fixin' ter bu'n dey han's," was the good soul's answer. "our hands can stand a few burns in a good cause, mammy, so don't worry about it. we're healthy and they'll heal quickly," was constance's cheerful reply. "mebbe so," said mammy skeptically. "seriously, constance, what have you thought of doing, dear?" asked mrs. carruth, a tender note coming into her voice for this daughter who had been the first to put her shoulder to the wheel for them all. "well, you let me answer that question day after to-morrow, mumsey? or, perhaps, it may take even a little longer. but i'll tell you all about my simmering ideas when i have had time to make a few inquiries. don't grow alarmed, mammy; i'm not going to apply for a position as motor-girl on a trolley car," said constance, as she laughingly nodded at mammy. "aint nothin' ever gwine 'larm me no mo', i reckons. speck some day i fin' dat chile stanin' down yonder on de cawner sellin' candy an' stuff. mought mos' anyt'ing happen," answered mammy, as she rose from her hassock. "well, if _yo'_-all gwine go inter bisness, i specs _i_ gotter too, so don' be 'sprised ef yo' see me. now i'se gwine ter get a supper dat's fitten fer ter _eat_; dat lunch weren't nothin' but a disgrace ter de hull fambly," and off she hurried to the kitchen to prepare a supper that many would have journeyed far to eat. "children," said mrs. carruth, as mammy disappeared, "whatever comes we must try to keep together. we can meet almost any difficulty if we are not separated, but _that_ would nearly break my heart, i believe; father so loved our home and the companionship of his family, that i shall do my utmost to keep it as he wished. we may be deprived of the major portion of our income, and find the path rather a stony one for a while, but we have each other, and the affection which began more than twenty years ago, when i came north to make my home has grown deeper as the years have passed. each new little form in my arms made it stronger, and the fact that father is no longer here to share the joys or sorrows with us can never alter it. in one sense he is always with us. his love for us is manifested on every hand. we will face the situation bravely and try to remember that never mind what comes, we have each other, and his 'three little women,' as he used to love to call you, are worthy of that beautiful name. he was very proud of his girls and used to build beautiful 'castles in spain' for them. if he could only have been spared to realize them." mrs. carruth could say no more. the day had been a trying one for her, and strength and voice failed together as she dropped upon a settee and the girls gathered about her. jean with her head in her lap as she clasped her arms around her; eleanor holding her hands, and constance, who had slipped behind the settee, with the tired head clasped against her breast and her lips pressed upon the pretty hair with its streaks of gray. for a few moments there was no sound in the room save mrs. carruth's rapidly drawn breaths as she strove to control her feelings. she rarely gave way in the presence of her children, but they knew how hard it was for her to maintain such self-control. it was very sweet to feel the strength of the young arms about her, and the presence of the vigorous young lives so ready to be up and doing for her sake. "come up-stairs and rest a while before supper," said constance, softly. "will you? do, please. we'll be your handmaidens." "yes do, mumsey, dear. i'll tuck you all up 'snug as a bug in a rug,'" urged jean. "and i'll go make you a cup of tea just as you love it," added eleanor hurrying from the room. as mrs. carruth rose from the settee constance slipped her strong arm about her to lead her up to her own room, jean running on ahead to arrange the couch pillows comfortably. presently mrs. carruth was settled in her nest with jean upon a low hassock, at her feet, patting them to make her "go byelow," she said. in a few moments eleanor came back with a dainty little tray and tea service, which she set upon the taborette constance had placed for it, and proceeded to feed her mother as she would have fed an invalid. "do you want to quite spoil me?" asked mrs. carruth, from her nest of pillows. "not a bit of it! we only want to make you realize how precious you are, don't you understand?" said eleanor, kissing her mother's forehead. "there! that is the last bite of cracker and the last drop of tea. now take 'forty winks' and be as fresh as a daisy for supper. come on, jean, let mumsey go to sleep." "oh, please let me stay here cuddling her feet. i'll be just as quiet as a mouse," begged jean. "please _all_ stay; and connie, darling, whistle me to the land o' nod," said mrs. carruth, slipping one hand into constance's and holding the other to eleanor, who dropped down upon the floor and rested her cheek against it as she nestled close to the couch. only the flickering flames of the logs blazing upon the andirons, lighted the room as the birdlike notes began to issue from the girl's lips. she whistled an air from the burgomeister, its pretty melody rippling through the room like a thrush's notes. presently mrs. carruth's eyelids drooped and, utterly wearied by the day's exciting events, she slipped into dreamland upon the sweet melody. chapter xviii "save me from my friends" "miss jinny! miss jinny! wait a minit. dar's a man yander at de back do' dat wants fer ter ax yo' sumpin' he say," called mammy, as she hurried through the hall just as mrs. carruth was leaving the house upon the following monday morning. "what is it, mammy?" asked mrs. carruth, pausing. "he say he want ter see yo' pintedly." mrs. carruth retraced her steps and upon reaching the back porch found mr. pringle waiting to see her. "hope i haven't delayed you, mrs. carruth, but i wanted to see you on a matter of business which might help both of us, you see. ah, i thought--i thought mebbe you'd like to hear of it." "i certainly should like to if it is to my advantage, mr. pringle," replied mrs. carruth, with a pleasant smile for the livery stable keeper, who stood self-consciously twirling his cap. "yes, ma'am. i thought so, ma'am. well it's this: your stable, ma'am, up at the old place, are you usin' it at all?" "not as a stable. it is more like a storehouse just now, for many things saved from the fire are stored there." "could you put them somewhere else and rent the stable to me, ma'am? i'm much put to it to find room for my boarding horses, and the carriages; my place is not big, and i thought could i rent your stable i'd keep most of my boarding horses up there; it's nearer to their owners you see, ma'am." mrs. carruth thought a moment before replying. "i shall have to think over your proposal, mr. pringle. there is a great deal of stuff stored in the stable and i am at a loss to know what we could do with it. however, i will let you know in a day or two if that will answer." "take your own time, ma'am. take your own time. there's no hurry at all. i'll call round about thursday and you can let me know. i'd be willing to pay twenty-five dollars a month for it, ma'am." pringle did not add that the step had been suggested to him by hadyn stuyvesant, or that he had also set the figure. when they were all gathered in the pleasant living-room that evening, she spoke of the matter, ending with the question: "but _where_ can we put all that furniture? _this_ house will not hold another stick i'm afraid; we are crowded enough as it is." for a few moments no one had a suggestion to offer, then constance cried: "mother couldn't we _sell_ a good many of the things? people do that you know. the boyntons did when they left riveredge." "yes, they had a private sale and disposed of many things. they advertised for weeks. i am afraid that would delay things too much." "why not have an auction then? _that_ moves quickly enough. the things go or they _don't_ go, and that is the end of it." "oh, i should dislike to do that. so many of those things hold very tender associations for me," hesitated mrs. carruth. "yet i am sure there are many things there which can't possibly have, mother. that patent washing machine, for example, that is as big as a dining-room table, and mammy 'pintedly scorns,'" laughed eleanor. "and jean's baby carriage. and the old cider-press, and that noah's ark of a sideboard that we never _can_ use," added constance. "and my express-wagon. i'll never play with _that_ again you know; i'm far too old," concluded jean with much self-importance. "i dare say there are a hundred things there we will never use again, and which would better be sold than kept. come down to the place with us to-morrow afternoon, mumsey, and we will have a grand rummage," said eleanor. and so the confab ended. the following afternoon was given over to the undertaking, and as is invariably the case, they wondered more than once why so many perfectly useless articles had been so long and so carefully cherished. among them, however, were many which held very dear memories for mrs. carruth, and with which she was reluctant to part. among these was a small box of garden-tools, which had belonged to her husband, and with which he had spent many happy hours at work among his beloved flower beds. also a reading lamp which they had bought when they were first married, and beneath whose rays many tender dreams had taken form and in many instances become realities. to be sure the lamp had not been used for more than ten years, as it had long since ceased to be regarded as either useful or ornamental, and neither it nor the garden tools were worth a dollar. but wives and mothers are strange creatures and recognize values which no one else can see. the girls appreciated their mother's love for every object which their father's hands had sanctified, and urged her to put aside the things she so valued, arguing that the proceeds could not possibly materially increase the sum they might receive for the general collection. but mrs. carruth insisted that if one thing was sold all should be, and that her personal feelings must not influence or enter into the matter. so in time all was definitely arranged; the auctioneer was engaged and the sale duly advertised for a certain saturday morning. no sooner were the posters in evidence than miss jerusha pike, likewise, became so. she swept in upon mrs. carruth one morning when the latter was endeavoring to complete a much-needed frock for jean, as that young lady's elbows were as self-assertive as herself, and had a trick of appearing in public when it was most inconvenient to have them do so. between letting down skirts and putting in new sleeves mrs. carruth's hands were usually kept well occupied. "morning, mammy," piped miss pike's high-pitched voice, as mammy answered her ring at the front door. "what's the meaning of these signs i see about town. you don't mean to tell me you are going to sell _out_? i couldn't believe my own eyes, so i came right straight here to find out. _where_ is that dear, dear woman?" "she up in her room busy wid some sewin'," stated mammy, with considerable emphasis upon the last word as a hint to the visitor. "well, tell her not to mind _me_; i'm an old friend, you know. i'll go right up to her room; i wouldn't have her come down for the world." "hum! yas'm," replied mammy, moving slowly toward the stairs. too slowly thought miss pike, for, bouncing up from the reception-room chair, upon which she had promptly seated herself, she hurried after the retreating figure saying: "now don't you bother to go way up-stairs. i don't doubt you have a hundred things to do this morning, and i've never been up-stairs in this house, anyway. go along out to your kitchen, mammy, and i'll just announce myself." and brushing by the astonished old woman she rushed half way up the stairs before mammy could recover herself. it was a master coup de main, for well miss pike knew that she would never be invited to ascend those stairs to the privacy of mrs. carruth's own room. mammy knew this also, and the good soul's face was a study as she stared after her. miss pike disappeared around the curve of the stairs calling as she ascended: "it's only _me_, dear. don't mind me in the least. go right on with your work. i'll be charmed to lend you a hand; i'm a master helper at sewing." mammy muttered: "well ef yo' aint de banginest han' at pokin' dat snipe nose o' yours inter places whar 'taint no call ter be _i'd_ lak ter know who _is_. i'se jist a good min' ter go slap bang atter yo' an' hustle yo' froo' dat front door; i is fer a fac'." meanwhile, aroused from her occupation by the high-pitched voice, mrs. carruth dropped her work and hurried into the hall. she could hardly believe that this busy-body of the town had actually forced herself upon her in this manner. she had often tried to do so, but as often been thwarted in her attempts. "oh, _why did_ you get up to meet me? you shouldn't have done it, you dear thing. i know how valuable every moment of your time is now-a-days. dear, dear, how times have changed, haven't they? now go right back to your room and resume your sewing and let me help while i talk. i _felt i must_ come. those awful signs have haunted me ever since i first set my eyes upon them. _don't_ tell me you are going to sell anything! surely you won't leave riveredge? why i said to miss doolittle on my way here, well, if the carruths have met with _more_ reverses and have got to sell out, _i'll_ clear give up. you haven't, have you? but this house must be an awful expense, ain't it? how much does hadyn stuyvesant ask you for it anyway? i'll bet he isn't _giving_ it away. his mother was rather near, you know, and i dare say he takes after her. _do_ you pay as much as fifty a month for it? i said to miss doolittle i bet anything you didn't get it a cent less. now do you? it's all between ourselves; you know i wouldn't breathe it to a soul for worlds." if you have ever suddenly had a great wave lift you from your feet, toss you thither and yonder for a moment, and then land you high and dry upon the beach when you have believed yourself to be enjoying a delightful little dip in an apparently calm ocean, you will have some idea of how mrs. carruth felt as this tornado of a woman caught her by her arm, hurried her back into her quiet, peaceful bedroom, forced her into her chair, and picking up her work laid it upon her lap, at the same time making a dive for an unfinished sleeve, as she continued the volley. "oh, i see just _exactly_ what you're doing. i can be the greatest help to you. go right on and don't give this a thought. i've been obliged to do so much piecing and patching for the family that i'm almost able to patch _shoes_. now _what_ did you say haydn stuyvesant charged you for this house?" the sharp eyes were bent upon the sleeve. "i don't think i said, miss pike. and, thank you, it is not necessary to put a patch upon the elbow of that sleeve as you are preparing to do; i have already made an entire new one. as to our leaving riveredge i am sorry you have given yourself so much concern about it. when we decide to do so i dare say _you_ will be the first to learn of our intention. yes, the auction is to take place at our stable as the announcement states. you learned all the particulars regarding it from the bills, i am sure. if you are interested you may find time to be present that morning. and now, since i am strongly averse to receiving even my most intimate friends in a littered-up room i will ask you to return to the reception room with me," and rising from her chair this quiet, unruffled being moved toward the door. "but your work, my dear. your work! you can't afford to let me interrupt it, i'm afraid. your time must be so precious." "it seems to have been interrupted already, does it not? sometimes we would rather sacrifice our time than our temper, don't you think so?" and a quizzical smile crept over mrs. carruth's face. "well, now, i hate to have you make company of me. i really do. i thought i'd just run in for a little neighborly chat and i seem to have put a stop to everything. dear me, i didn't think you'd mind _me_ a mite. are you going to sell this set of furniture? 'taint so very much worn, is it? only the edges are a little mite frayed. some people mightn't notice it, but my eyesight's exceptional. well, do tell me _what's_ goin'." as though fate had taken upon herself the responsibility of answering that question, the door-bell rang at the instant and when it was answered by mammy, mrs. eleanor carruth stalked into the hall. mrs. carruth rose to greet her. _miss pike rose to go._ if there was one person in this world of whom jerusha pike stood in wholesome awe it was mrs. eleanor carruth, for the latter lady had absolutely no use for the former, and let her understand it. madam carruth, as she was often called, shook her niece's hand, looked at her keenly for a moment and then said: "my stars, jenny, what ails you? you look as though you'd been blown about by a whirlwind. oh, how do _you_ do, miss pike. just going? you're under too high pressure, jenny. we must ease it up a little, i guess. good-bye, miss pike. my niece has always been considered a most amiable woman, hasn't she? i think she hasn't backbone enough at times. that is the reason i happen along unexpectedly to lend her some. fine day, isn't it?" two minutes later miss pike was in close confab with her friend miss doolittle. aunt eleanor was up in her niece's room putting in the neglected sleeve and saying: "if _i'd_ been in that front hall i'll guarantee she would never have clomb those stairs. now tell me all about this auction." chapter xix "an auction extraordinary" "my! just look at them perfec'ly good, new window screens. it _does_ seem a shame to sell 'em, don't it now? they might come in real handy sometime," cried one eager inspector of the collection of articles displayed for sale in the carruths' barn the following saturday morning. that the house for which those screens had been made lay almost in ashes not a hundred feet from her, and that the chances of their ever fitting any other house, unless it should be expressly built for them, did not enter that lady's calculations. "yes, and just look at his elergant sideboard. my! it must have cost a heap o' money. say, don't you think them carruths were just a little mite extravagant? seems ter me they wouldn't a been so put to it after carruth's death if they hadn't a spent money fer such things as them. but i wonder what it'll bring? 'tis elergant, aint it? i'm just goin' ter keep my eyes peeled, and maybe i c'n git it." "why what in this world would you do with it if you _did_? you haven't a room it would stand in," cried the friend, looking first at the huge, old-fashioned, walnut sideboard, that constance had called a noah's ark, and then at its prospective purchaser as though she questioned her sanity. "yes, it _is_ big, that's so," agreed that lady, "but it's _so_ elergant. why it would give a real air to my dining-room, and i guess i could sell our table if both wouldn't stand in the room. we could eat in the kitchen fer a spell, you know, till maybe jim's wagers were raised an' we could go into a bigger house. anyway i'm goin' ter _bid_ on it. it's too big a chanst ter let slip." "yes, it _is_ pretty big," replied her friend, turning away to hide a slight sneer, for _she_ was a woman of discretion. "now, ladies and gentlemen," called the auctioneer at that moment, "may i claim your attention for this most unusual sale; a sale of articles upon which you would never have had an opportunity to bid but for the 'calamity at your heels'--to quote the immortal william." the people massed in front of him, for riveredge had turned out en masse, started and glanced quickly over their shoulders. "but for the tragedy of them ashes these elegant articles of furniture would never have been placed on sale; your opportunity would never have been. alas! 'one man's meat is ever another man's poison.' now what am i offered for this roll of fine japanese matting? yards and yards of it as you see; all perfectly new; a rare opportunity to secure a most superior floor covering for a low figure. what am i bid, ladies and gentlemen?" "one dollar," ventured a voice. "_one dollar!_ did i hear right? surely not. one dollar for at least fifteen yards of perfectly new japanese matting? never. who will do better 'n that? two? two--two--" "two-fifty!" "good, that's better, but it's a wicked sacrifice come now--two-fifty--two-fifty--" "three. three-fifty. four," ran up the bids in rapid competition until seven dollars were bid for the roll. it was bought by the discreet lady. at that moment jean, who had been everywhere, appeared upon the scene. "oh, did you buy those pieces of matting?" she observed. "mother told me to tell the auctioneer not to bother with them 'cause she didn't think there were two yards of any single pattern. i didn't get here in time though, i'm sorry, but i had to stop on my way." "not two yards of any one pattern? why there's yards and yards in this roll. do you mean to tell me 'taint all alike?" "i guess not. it's pieces that were left from our house and all the rest was burned up." just then jean spied constance and flew toward her leaving the discreet lady to discover just what she _had_ paid seven dollars for. on her way she ran into jerusha pike, who laid upon her a detaining hand. "jean, you're exactly the child i want. where is your sister constance? i want to see her. is your mother here?" "no, miss pike, mother didn't come. connie is right yonder. see her?" off hurried miss pike to the tree beneath which constance stood watching the progress of the sale, which was now in full swing; the auctioneer feeling much elated at the returns of his initial venture, was warming up to his work. eleanor, with her aunt eleanor, who was much in evidence this day, was seated behind the auctioneer's raised stand, and thus quite sheltered from observation. "constance carruth, you are the very girl i must see. _you_ can and will tell me what i wish to know, i am sure," cried miss pike, in a stage whisper. "if i can i will, miss pike," answered constance with a mental reservation for the "can." "i want you to tell me what your poor dear mother most values among the things she has here. there _must_ be some treasures among them which she cherishes for sweet associations' sake. name them, i implore you. i have never forgiven myself for the accident which befell that priceless mirror. if i can bid in something here for her let me do it, i beg of you. there is no one else to do it, and _you_ are far too young to be exposed to the idle gaze of these people." "but miss pike, eleanor and----" "no! no! i cannot permit either of you to do this thing. your dear mother would be shocked. _i'll_ attend to it for you, if you will only tell me." "but," began constance, and was interrupted by the auctioneer's voice calling: "_now_, ladies and gentlemen, here is a _fine_ set of garden tools in perfect order." "oh, they were daddy's. that is the set mother felt so bad about selling, isn't it, connie?" broke in jean, who had not been paying much attention to the conversation between her sister and miss pike. "there! what did i say! i was confident of it! _now_ is my opportunity to make reparation. _nothing_ shall balk me." "but miss pike; miss pike; you must not. aunt eleanor----" but miss pike had rushed toward the auction stand. meanwhile eleanor had been saying: "i wish we had not offered that garden set at all. it was father's and mother really felt dreadful about selling it. i fully intended to have it put aside without saying anything to mother, but there was so much to attend to that i forgot it, and now it is too late." "not in the least, _i'll_ bid it in," and rising from her chair, madam carruth prepared to do her duty by her niece. just then miss pike appeared from the opposite direction. "how much am i bid for this garden set? all in perfect condition." "ten cents," replied a strident voice. "scandalous!" cried miss pike. "_i'll_ bid one dollar. it is sanctified by the touch of a vanished hand." "indeed," murmured madam carruth, who could see miss pike, although that lady could not be seen by _her_. "well, i guess _not_. one-fifty." miss pike was too intent upon securing the object to give heed to the speaker's voice or recognize it. "one-seventy-five! one-seventy-five! one-seventy-five! going, going at one-seventy-five." "two-seventy-five!" "ah! that's better. it would be a shame to sacrifice this set for a song. it is no ordinary set of garden implements, but a most superior quality of steel. two-seventy-five; two-seventy-five--" "three! i must have them." the last words were spoken to a bystander, but madam carruth's ears were sharp. "must you? indeed! we'll see." one or two others, who began to believe that a rare article was about to slip from their possible grasp, now started in to bid, and in a few moments the price had bounded up to five dollars. the original cost of the set had been three. then it went gayly skyward by leaps and bounds until in a reckless instant miss pike capped the climax with ten. "well if she wants to be such a fool she may," exclaimed madam carruth. "i could buy four sets for that money and sometimes even sentiment comes too high. i'd save 'em for your mother if i could, but sound sense tells me she can make better use of a ten-dollar bill than of a half-dozen pieces of old ironmongery. that pike woman always _was_ a fool." "gone for ten dollars!" cried the auctioneer at that instant. miss pike's face was radiant. she was about to turn away when jean made her way through the crowd to her side crying: "did you really get them, miss pike? mother'll be so glad. when we were talking about selling these things she almost cried when she spoke about the garden tools and the lamp----" "_what_ lamp, child? oh these heartrending changes! tell me what the lamp is like. if it can be saved i'll save it for her. i can't understand _why_ your sisters permitted the objects, around which the tendrils of your mother's heart were so entwined, to be put up for sale. to me it seems a positive sacrilege." "but mother made them do it. she wouldn't let----and, oh, there's the lamp now. that one with the bronze bird on it, see?" "oh, the tender memories that must cluster about it. i will hold them sacred for her. they shall not be desecrated. stand beside me, child. i shall bid that in for your dear mother." again the lively contest for possession was on, although the sums named did not mount by such startling bounds as in the case of the garden tools. still, more than four dollars had been offered before miss pike, in flattering imitation of a large new york department store, offered $ . , and became the triumphant owner of it. miss pike had a small income, but was by no means given to flinging her dollars to the winds. so it was not surprising that many who knew her marveled at the sums she was spending for her two purchases. having paid her bill she promptly took possession of her lamp and her case of garden tools and stalked off through the throng of people in quest of constance whom she found talking to a group of schoolmates near the ruins of the old home. "congratulate me! congratulate me! i've saved the treasures from the vandals! i've rescued them from sacrilegious hands. behold! take them to your mother with my dearest love. i had a struggle to get them, for some woman was determined to secure that garden set but _i_ came off victorious. i had to do battle royal, but i conquered. now, my dear, when you go home take them with you. they _did_ come rather high; i had to pay ten dollars for the garden set, but i got the lamp for less than five!--four ninety-nine. but you need not pay me until it is _perfectly_ convenient. don't let it worry you for a moment. i am repaid for the time being in the thought that i secured them for your mother. i knew she would rather pay twice the sum than see them fall into the hands of utter strangers. good-bye, my dear, i must hurry home, for i have been absent too long already." as miss pike departed, constance dropped upon the carriage step, which, being of stone, had survived flame and flood. upon the ground before her lay their own garden set, and stood their own lamp for which her mother would have to return to jerusha pike, fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents owing to that lady's unbridled zeal. she looked at them a moment, then glancing up at her friends whose faces were studies, the absurdity of the situation overcame her and them also, and peals of laughter echoed upon the wintry air. "who was it that said 'save me from my friends!' connie?" asked a girl friend. constance looked unspeakable things. then bounding to her feet she cried: "well, it's lucky we can return her own money to her, but that settles it. it might have been worse anyway. i've been on the fence for several days without knowing which way to jump. _now_ i do know, and miss pike has given the push. it's been a case of: 'our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.' "there, belle, is a quotation to match yours, and bear in mind what i say: i'm going to live up to it. now i'm going home. come on, you people, and help me lug these treasures there," and off the laughing procession set, each girl or lad burdened with some article of the purchases, constance leading the way with the lamp, and all singing: 'doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar, doubt _not_ jerusha's love.' "i don't think i ever shall, but perhaps she has helped in one way, since she has settled _my_ doubts, and the next thing you people hear of me may make you open your eyes. no, i won't tell you a single thing. just wait until next week, then you'll see." chapter xx constance b.'s venture owing to the stirring events at home, jean had not set forth that morning, but the first excitement, incident to the sale of their belongings over, she prepared to drive out to east riveredge, with her box of candies. mrs. carruth entertained some misgivings regarding the wisdom of letting her again pass through mckim's hollow, but a compromise was effected by jean agreeing to take a different road. it made the trip a trifle longer, but was free from dangers, and jean set forth in high feather and bursting with importance. having seen her off, constance flew to her room, and within half an hour emerged therefrom dressed all in soft brown. little brown toque, with a modest brown quill stuck through the folds of the cloth. brown kilted skirt and box coat, brown furs and brown gloves. she looked almost as sedate as a little quakeress, although her cheeks were rosy from excitement and her eyes shone. "mother, i have a little matter to attend to in south riveredge. you won't feel anxious if i am not back before dark will you?" she asked as she paused at her mother's door, on her way down-stairs. mrs. carruth looked at her a moment before replying and wondered if the girl had any idea how attractive she was. then she asked: "am i to refrain from making inquiries?" "please don't ask a single question, for even if i wanted to answer them i couldn't," said constance, as she kissed her mother good-bye. half an hour later she was at the arcade in south riveredge, asking the elevator man to direct her to the office of the superintendent of the building. "room , fourth floor," directed the man. so to the fourth floor went constance. opening the door of no. , she entered, but stood for a second upon the threshold rather at a loss how to proceed. seated at a large rolltop desk was a man wearing a brisk, wide-awake air which instantly reminded her of her father. gaining confidence from that fact, so often are we swayed by trifles, she advanced into the room, saying: "good afternoon. are you the superintendent of the building?" "i am," answered the gentleman, smiling pleasantly, and rising from his chair. "what can i do for you, young lady?" now that she had actually come to the point of stating her errand, constance hardly knew where to begin. the superintendent noticing her hesitancy said kindly: "won't you be seated? it is always easier to talk business when seated, don't you think so?" and placing a chair near his desk, he motioned her toward it. mr. porter did not often have calls from such youthful business women, and was somewhat at a loss to understand the meaning of this one. constance was not aware that in placing the chair for her he had put it where the light from the window just back of him would fall full upon _her_ face. taking the chair she looked at him smiling half-doubtfully, and half-confidently as she said: "maybe you will think i am very silly and inexperienced, and i know i _am_, but i'd like to know whether you have any offices to rent in this building, and how much you charge for them?" the big eyes looked very childish as they were turned upon him, and mr. porter could not help showing some surprise at the question. he had a daughter about this girl's age, and wondered how he would feel if she were in her place. "yes, we have one unoccupied office on the eighth floor, in the rear of the building. it is divided into two fair-sized rooms and the rental is four hundred dollars a year." constance jumped. "four hundred a year! why that is almost as much as we pay for our _whole_ house! my goodness, isn't that a lot? i had no idea they cost so much. dear me, i'm afraid i can never, never do it," and her words ended with a doubtful shake of her head. "do you object to telling me just what you wish to do and why you need an office?" asked mr. porter kindly. "perhaps i could offer some suggestions. sometimes our tenants like to rent desk room, and if you needed no more than a desk----why----." "but i couldn't use a desk for a counter, could i?" hesitated constance. "that depends upon what the counter had to hold. suppose you tell me. then we will see." the deep blue eyes behind the glasses regarded her very encouragingly. constance's eyebrows were raised doubtfully as she replied: "i'm afraid you will think me very foolish and unsophisticated, and of course i am, but i just _know_ i can succeed if i once get started right. besides i _won't_ give up unless i _have_ to. other girls do things and there is no reason _i_ shouldn't. i know my candy is good, 'cause if it wasn't mammy could not sell it so easily, and--" "candy? are you planning to sell candy? if it's half as good as the candy an old colored woman sells around here you'll sell all you can make. i buy some of her every time she comes here, and my girls ask every day if she has been around with it. it's great candy." as mr. porter talked constance's cheeks grew rosier and rosier, and her eyes danced with fun. of this he speedily became aware, and looking at her keenly he asked: "have you ever eaten any of the old auntie's candy? does she make it herself? i've asked her a dozen times, but i can't get her to commit herself! she always gets off a queer rigmarole about her 'pa'tner,'" ended mr. porter, smiling as he recalled mammy's clever fencing with words. "yes, i've eaten it. no, she doesn't make it; she only sells it. _i_ make it," confessed constance, nervously toying with the ends of her fur collar. "you don't say so! why it's the best candy i've ever tasted. well, really! and you think of opening a _stand_?" concluded mr. porter, a little incredulously, for the girl before him did not seem to be one who would venture upon such an enterprise. "well yes, and no. i want to have a place to sell it here in south riveredge, but i can't exactly have a counter you see, because i am still in school the greater part of the day. so i thought up a plan and--and i want to try it. would you mind if i told you about it?" the sweet voice and questioning look with which the words were spoken would have won the ear of a less interested man than robert porter. more than an hour passed before this plan which had been simmering in the girl's active brain, was laid before the practical business man, and he was amazed at what he afterwards pronounced its "level-headedness." when the conversation ended, constance was wiser by many very sane suggestions made by her listener, and more than ever determined to carry her plan through. "now, young lady, by-the-way, do you mind letting me know your name? we can talk better business if i do. mine's porter." "i am constance carruth," said constance. "carruth? not bernard carruth's daughter?" "yes." "you don't say so! why i knew your father well, little girl, and respected him more than any man i've ever known. he was a fine man. bernard carruth's daughter? well i declare." constance's cheeks glowed more than ever. praise of her father was sweet to her ears. "well, well, bernard carruth's daughter," repeated mr. porter, as though he could not quite make it true. "well, come with me. i've an idea for this candy selling scheme and we'll see what we can do." rising from his chair he led the way to the elevator. upon reaching the main floor he walked to the rear of the building where the stairway was situated. in the alcove made by the box-stairs stood the public telephone switch board and two booths. at the right, close under the stairs, was an empty space too low for the booths, and yet of no use to the operator, since while she might be able to occupy it when sitting at a desk, she was very likely to encounter a cracked crown if she rose too quickly from her chair. all was enclosed with a little wooden railing and well lighted by the electric lights. "now i am wondering if we couldn't rig up a tempting little booth in this unoccupied space. good afternoon, miss willing. how would you like to share your quarters with this enterprising young lady? she has a mighty clever idea in that logical head of hers and i'm going to do my best to help her make it a success. how about _you_?" he ended, making a mental contrast between the strikingly handsome, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl at the telephone booth, whose glances flashed back at him so boldly, and whose toilet would have been better suited to an afternoon function than a telephone booth, and the modest, well-gowned, young girl beside him. "i guess i won't bother her, and i'm sure she won't bother _me_," was the reply which proved the speaker's fiber, and caused constance to look at her and wonder that any one _could_ be so lacking in refinement. little connie had many things to learn in the business world into which she was venturing. but the knowledge would do her no harm. she was well equipped to stand the test. the girl saw the look of surprise and no rebuke could have been keener. with a little resentful toss of her head, for this girl who had so innocently made her aware of her shortcomings, she turned to answer a call upon the 'phone, and constance to listen to mr. porter's words. "now, miss carruth, my idea is this: suppose we have this little space fitted up with attractive cases, and the necessary shelves. it is not very large, but neither is the venture--yet. when it grows bigger we will find a bigger cubby for it. the thing to do now is to find the _right_ one; one where you can make a good show, and be sure of catching your customers, and where the customers are likely to come to be _caught_. i don't know of any place where, in the long run, more are likely to come than to a 'phone booth. what do you think of it?" "it's just _splendid_!" cried constance. "i couldn't have found a better place no matter how long i tried. i'm _so_ much obliged to you, mr. porter." "better wait until you see how it pans out--the booth, not the candy. i can speak for the panning of that," laughed mr. porter, then added: "well, that is step no. taken. now for no. , and that is stocking up. have you thought about that?" "yes, i've thought. my goodness! i've thought until my wits are fairly muddled with thinking, but that is the part that bothers me most. i can make the candy easily enough after school hours, and i can manage to send it here, but i'm dreadfully afraid i haven't as much capital on hand as i ought to have to get all the boxes i need. they are very expensive i find. i wrote to two firms who make them, but it seems to me they charged me dreadful prices. perhaps they suspected from my letter that i wasn't much of a business woman," confessed constance, looking frankly into the friendly eyes. mr. porter laughed in spite of himself, then sobering down again asked: "have you time to come back to my office? i would like to make a proposition to you." "why yes, mr. porter, i have time enough," hesitated constance. "but i am afraid i am taking a good deal more of yours than i ought to." "am i not working in the interests of the owner of this building? i'm trying to secure a new tenant for him. what more could i do?" "i don't believe their income will be materially increased by _this_ tenant," answered constance much amused at the thought. "every one counts, you know. but now to business." entering his office with a brisk air, he again motioned constance to the chair by his desk, and asked: "are you willing to discuss all the details with me? you know i do not ask from idle curiosity, i am sure. i am interested; very deeply interested. i want to see this thing succeed. you have outlined your plan and it is all right. all it needs now is a little capital to carry it through successfully. now let us see if we can't _secure_ that." chapter xxi constance b.'s candies "now, miss carruth, tell me the prices quoted for the boxes, and how many you had thought of ordering," said mr. porter, in the voice so encouraging when used by older people to younger. "well, if i order _any_ i suppose i ought to order a hundred," began constance. "one hundred!" echoed mr. porter. "why, little girl, that would not be a flea-bite. you ought to order five hundred at least." "_five hundred!_" cried constance, in dismay. "why, mr. porter, i'm afraid i've hardly enough money to order one hundred at the rate they charge," and she named the sums asked by the firms to which she had written. "bosh! nonsense! that's downright robbery. you let _me_ write to a firm _i_ know of and we'll see what we'll see. and now i'm going to take some stock in this company right off. i'm going to invest one hundred dollars in it to be used as a working capital--there--don't say a word of protest," as constance voiced an exclamation. "_i_ know what i'm up to, and--i love sweets. if you can't pay back in any other way you can keep me supplied for a year. just now you've got to start out in good shape, and there is no use doing things half way. but you haven't asked me what i'm going to charge you for your booth?" concluded mr. porter, with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. "why i forgot all about the price," said constance in confusion. "oh, dear, how stupid i am." "well, since it is a space we never thought to rent anyway, and couldn't use for anything else if we wished to, suppose we say five dollars a month? i think those are pretty good returns for a cubby. if i do as well in proportion with all the other offices i'll make the owners rich." "i'm afraid it is _very_ low. i think you are only letting me have it so cheap just because you liked father. don't you think i ought really to pay more? i didn't think i could get _any_ sort of a place for _less_ than ten dollars a month," was constance's most unbusinesslike speech. mr. porter looked at the earnest face regarding him so frankly and confidingly, and a very suspicious moisture came into his eyes. rising from his chair he laid his hand kindly upon her shoulder as she arose and stood before him, and said very gently: "don't worry yourself on _that_ score, little girl, and--don't mind it if i _do_ call you little girl; you seem that to me spite of your business aspirations. i am asking you a fair price because i know you would rather feel that you are _paying_ a fair price for what you get, and would prefer beginning your business venture on such a basis. i am also advancing this sum of money because i am confident you will succeed. it is purely a business speculation. i would do it for your father's sake, but i know you would rather i did it upon strictly business principles. i can not lose my money in any case, because if i do not get the actual cash, i know i shall get my sweets--a whole hundred dollars' worth. it fairly makes my mouth water to think of them, and my girls will go wild when i tell them. keep up a brave heart, and, above all, keep that pretty modesty you have, for it will carry you farther than any amount of audacity. it is your best armor. there is nothing a man respects more than a brave and modest woman, my dear. nothing in this world. now, little woman, go home and think up the style and sizes of the boxes you will need and let me know at once. 'phone me early monday morning. design something yourself if you can; it will take quicker. next week i'll have your stall put into shape and you can make your candies and stock up as soon as your boxes come. _then_ we will soon learn whether your faith in your fellow-beings is justified or misplaced. i believe you will find it justified; upon my soul i do; though i have never before seen such a scheme put to the test. now good-bye; good-bye, and god bless you," ended mr. porter, warmly shaking the small gloved hand. "good-bye, mr. porter, and, oh, thank you _so_ much for your kind interest. i feel so brave and encouraged to begin now," cried constance, her eyes confirming her words, and her cheeks glowing. mr. porter accompanied her to the elevator, and with another hearty farewell, sped her upon her way brimful of enthusiasm, and more than ever resolved to carry into effect the scheme which had entered her head many weeks before, and which was now taking definite form and shape. the trolley car seemed fairly to crawl along, so did her desire to reach home and tell of the afternoon's undertaking outstrip its progress. it was quite dark when she alighted and climbed the hill at her home, thinking, as she ascended the steps, how sweet and cheerful the little home looked, for her mother, in spite of the warnings volunteered by some of her friends that some day she would be robbed as the outcome of letting all the world look in upon her, would never have the shades drawn. mrs. carruth always replied: "for the sake of those to whom a glimpse of our cheery hearth gives pleasure, and there are more than you guess, as i have learned to my own surprise, i shall take my chances with the possible unscrupulous ones." and so the window shades remained raised after the lamps were lighted, and many a passer-by was cheered along his way by a peep at the sweet, home-like picture of a gentle-faced woman, and three bright-faced girls, gathered around the blazing hearth, and reading or sewing in the soft lamp-light. "dear little mumsey," said constance, softly, as she paused a moment before crossing the piazza. "your girlie is going to help you keep just such a sweet home forever and ever, and ever." then giving the whistling bird-call by which the members of the family signaled to each other, she went close to the window and looked smilingly in. up bounced jean to fly to the door; eleanor raised her head from the book over which she was, as usual, bent, and nodded; mrs. carruth waved her hand and wafted a kiss. "oh, come in quick, and tell us where you have been, and what you have done," cried jean, opening the door with a whirl. "hello, baby! give me a big hug first," cried constance, and jean bounded into her arms. mrs. carruth had crossed the room to welcome the tardy one, and as soon as she was released from jean's tempestuous embrace, took the glowing face in both her hands gently to kiss the cheeks as she said: "what a bonny, bonny glow the cheeks wear, sweetheart. something very lovely must have happened." "oh, mother, i've had such a perfectly splendid afternoon and feel so brave and proud about it all. let me get my things off and i'll tell you all about it. but is supper almost ready? i'm half-starved? excitement sharpens one's appetite doesn't it? heigh-ho. nornie. what news of the ponies? if you're to be a coach-woman you've got to have some sort of an equine creature to hustle along, haven't you? did you have time to go and see the prospective ones this afternoon? and oh, _how_ did the auction turn out, mother? gracious, what stirring people the carruths are getting to be compared with the common-place, slow-going ones they were." "jean, dear, run out and tell mammy that constance is home, and we will have supper at once. you can tell us all the news at the table, dear." jean flew for mammy's quarters, quite as eager as constance to have the supper served. "mammy! mammy! connie's got back, and she's starved _dead_! mother says have supper right off quick," burst out jean, as she whisked through the butler's pantry. "jes so. whar dat chile been? go 'long back an' tell 'em de supper 'ready an' a waitin', as de hyme book say, an' i got sumpin' dat dat chile pintedly love." "what is it, mammy? what is it?" cried jean, eagerly, as she ran over to inspect the dishes upon the range. "get out! clear 'long! yo' keep yo' little nose outen my dishes!" cried mammy, with assumed wrath, as she pounced upon little miss inquisitive. "yo' go right 'long an' tell her i'se got lay-over-catch-meddlers in hyer an' lessen yo' take keer you'll turn inter one." "fiddlestick!" retorted jean, as she flew back. a few moments later the family had gathered about the delightful supper table and constance was relating the experiences of the afternoon, while first one and then another exclaimed over her venture, mammy crying as she urged her to take another of the dainty waffles she had made especially for her. "honey, what i tol' yo'? ain' i perdic' dat yo' boun' ter hit de tack spang on de right en'? i say dat dem pralines and fudges de banginest candies i ever _is_ see, an' de folks what done buy 'em--huh! my lan' dey fair brek dey necks fallin' ober one an'ner ter git _at_ 'em de minit i sot myse'f on dat ar camp stool. an' now yo' gwine open a boof an' 'splay 'em fer sale? but yo' aint gwine stan' behin' de counter is yo'? yo' better _not_ set out ter do no sich t'ing as _dat_, chile, whilst _i'se yo'_ mammy. no-siree! i ain' gwine stan' fer no sich gwines-on as dat--in a blairsdale. yo' kin hab yo' cubby, as yo' calls hit, an' take yo' chances wedder yo' gits cheated or wedder yo' meets up with hones' folks, but yo' cyant go behin' no counter, an' dats flat. when yo' gwine begin makin' all dat mess o' candy?" "just as soon as i have some boxes to sell it in, mammy, and those i must design. at least must suggest something pretty for the covers." "have a picture of baltie on the cover, connie. he was the first one to take your candies to south riveredge," cried jean, with thoughts ever for the faithful old silent partner. "no, baltie belongs to you and mammy. by-the-way, how did you get on at the school to-day? you haven't told me yet." "just _splendiferous_! the boys bought every bit i took; i mean every bit that was _left_ after professor forbes got all _he_ wanted. he was at the gate when i drove up, and what do you think he did? made me stop until he had bought six packages of fudge and six packages of pralines, and then made me promise always to save them for him. my goodness if that man doesn't have _one_ stomachache," ended this sage young lady speaking from bitter experiences of her own. "jean!" cried eleanor. "well, it's true. twelve whole packages of candy all for _himself_, greedy old thing! and he asked me if i couldn't come _twice_ a week. i told him i guessed not, and if he wanted it oftener than once a week he'd have to come after it. and he said that was precisely what he _would_ do, and to ask my sister to please to have twelve packages for him on wednesday afternoon. _that_ man's teeth will need a dentist just you see if they don't," ended jean with an ominous wag of the head for the sweet-toothed professor, while the rest of the family shrieked with laughter. "what do _you_ suggest for my boxes, mother?" asked constance, when the laugh had subsided. "how about little white moire paper boxes with some pretty flower on the cover?" "pretty, but not very distinctive i'm afraid," said constance, doubtfully. "how about those pretty japanese boxes they have at bailey's?" ventured eleanor. "still less distinctive. no; i must have some design that suggests _me_. don't think me conceited, but i want people to know that the candy is made and sold by a school-girl, who cannot be there to look after her counter, and must trust to their honesty. i've got an idea about my _sign_, but, somehow, i don't seem to be able to get one that is worth a straw for the boxes, yet i've been thinking as hard as i could think." "wait a minit, baby," said mammy, and hurried from the room. she came back in about ten minutes holding a small box in her hand. placing it upon the table before constance, she said: "now, honey, mebbe dis yere idee ob mine ain' nothin' in de worl' but foolishness, but seems ter me ef yo' want distincshumness you's got hit _dar_. i ain' half lak ter let yo' _do_ hit, but dey's _yo'_ candies, so i spec' yo' might as well let folks unnerstan' hit." the box was one which jean had given mammy the previous christmas. it was made of white moire paper with a small medallion in gilt in the left-hand upper corner, the medallion being in the shape of a little gold frame formed of gold beads. originally there had been a colored picture of santa claus's face within it, but over this mammy had carefully pasted a small photo of constance; one taken several years before. in the center of the box was written in gold script "merry christmas," and just beneath that the word "bonbons." "couldn't you have yo' name whar de merry christmas stan' at an' 'candies' whar de bong bongs is?" asked mammy. "mammy, you old dear!" cried constance, springing to her feet to throw her arms about the wise old creature. "you've hit it exactly. why i couldn't have anything better if i thought for a whole year. i'll have some pictures taken right off and the boxes shall be just exactly like this. hurrah for 'constance b.'s candies!' come on mammy, we've got to celebrate the brilliant idea!" and catching the astonished old woman by the arms, constance whirled her off on a lively two-step, whistling the accompaniment, while mammy cried: "gawd bress my soul, is yo' gone stark crazy, chile!" and at length broke away to vanish protesting within the privacy of her kitchen. chapter xxii first steps during the ensuing week it would have been hard to find a busier household than the carruths'. instead of telephoning to mr. porter on monday morning, as he had suggested, constance wrote a long letter saturday evening, giving accurate directions for the boxes, and enclosing a paper design to be sent to the manufacturers. the letter reached him by the early mail, causing him to exclaim: "george, what a level little head she _has_ got! she shall have those boxes before next saturday, if i have to go after them myself. why the idea is simply great!" going to his 'phone he called up mrs. carruth's home. constance had already gone to school, but mrs. carruth answered the 'phone. she was quite as delighted as constance would have been, and promised to deliver the message to her upon her return. when she heard it constance's cheeks glowed. "isn't he a _dear_, mother, to take so much trouble for me? and now i must get _busy, busy, busy_. i've pounds and pounds of candy to make between this and saturday, and i must make it afternoons." "i can not bear to think of you doing this, dear," said mrs. carruth, laying her hand tenderly upon the soft brown hair. "why not, i'd like to know?" cried constance. "because it takes the time you should spend in outdoor exercise. you work hard in school, and that has always seemed to me to be quite enough for any girl to undertake. yet here you and eleanor are about to give up your afternoons for this work and the coaching." mrs. carruth sighed, for it was hard for her to adjust herself to the new order of things in her family. raised upon a large plantation, where she, the only daughter, was her father's idol, for whom everything must be done, and whose every wish must be considered, she shrank from the thought of her girls laboring for their daily bread, or stepping out into the world beyond their own thresholds. her father would have felt that the world was about to cease revolving had _she_ been obliged to take such a step. indeed it would have quite broken his heart, for never had any woman of _his_ household been forced to do aught toward her own maintenance. but times had changed since reginald blairsdale had been laid away in the little burial plot upon the plantation, where his wife had slept for so many years, and his daughter had lived to see many changes take place which would have outraged all his traditions. "now, mother, _please_ listen to me," said constance, earnestly, as she slipped her arm about her mother's waist. "i am _not_ going to give up all my afternoons, and neither is eleanor. as to the exercise, we each have a pretty long walk to and from school mornings and afternoons, and, in addition to that, eleanor will go to her pupils' houses to do her coaching. that gives her a good bit of exercise three afternoons each week, and she has _all_ her saturdays free. i shall give little more than two hours a day to my candy making, and i know you and jean will gladly help me do the packing and tying up. just how i shall send it over, i haven't decided yet; that can be settled later when i send a ton or so each day," laughed constance. "meanwhile mammy will take it over, or _i_ can. only _please_ don't dampen my enthusiasm or worry because i am undertaking this step. i am perfectly well and strong, and i'll promise not to do anything to endanger that health and strength. so smile upon my venture, mumsey, dear, and make up your mind that it _is_ going to be a _great_ success,--because it _is_," ended constance, with a rapturous hug. "you are my brave, sweet girl!" said mrs. carruth, very tenderly. "yes, i'll put my blairsdale pride in my pocket--or rather my hand-bag, since pockets are no longer in fashion, and try to be a full-fledged, twentieth-century woman. now what is the first step?" "the first step is to make my candies before i try to sell 'em. no, the first is to order the stuff sent home to make them of. i'll 'phone right down to van dorn's this minute. i've plenty on hand for this afternoon's candy, but i'll lay in a big supply ahead." the 'phoning was soon done, and then constance hurried to the kitchen where for the two ensuing hours she worked like a beaver. at the end of that time several pounds of tempting sweets were made and ready to be wrapped in paraffin paper. when this was done all was packed carefully into tin boxes to await the arrival of the paper ones. constance surveyed the candy with much satisfaction, as indeed she well might, for no daintier sweets could have been found. turning to the others she cried: "i feel as self-satisfied and self-righteous as though i'd just put a new skirt braid on my skirt, and i don't know of anything that makes one feel more so. if i can make five pounds a day for six days i'd have a pretty good supply on hand for saturday, my 'opening day.' my, doesn't that sound business-like? nornie, don't you wish _you'd_ taken to a commercial rather than a professional life? come on jean, the others will die of envy when they see our candy booth spread and spread until it swallows up all the office space in the arcade," and catching up the saucepan in which she had made her candy, constance began to beat a lively tattoo upon the bottom of it, as an accompaniment to her whistling, as, still enveloped in her big apron, she pranced about the kitchen. jean, also in gingham array, promptly joining in, for jean's resentment had vanished since she had been taken into the girls' confidence and "entered the partnership" as she called it. in a day or two another message came over the 'phone to constance, asking her to call at the arcade, the following afternoon. upon reaching there at three o'clock, she was met by mr. porter, who had been on the lookout for her. "glad you've come, little girl! glad to see you," he said heartily. "come and look at your cubby and tell me what you think of it. _i_ think it great." while he talked mr. porter led the way to the rear of the arcade. as they drew near the stairway, miss willing glanced up, gave an indifferent nod in answer to constance's "how do you do, miss willing?" and turned to her 'phone. miss willing much preferred being the center of attraction beneath the stairs, and was not enthusiastic over the thought of sharing her corner with "one of them big-bugs, as they think themselves." could she have known it, this girl, whom she was so stigmatizing, felt herself a very tiny bug indeed in the world in which miss willing dwelt, and secretly stood in considerable awe of the young lady who could look with so much self-assurance into the eyes of the patrons of her 'phone booth, and smile and joke with old and young men alike. there were always several around the booth. constance wondered why they seemed to have to wait so long to have their calls answered. her own 'phone calls at home were answered so promptly. however, while these sub-conscious thoughts passed through her brain, the more wide-awake portion of it was taking in the changed appearance of her cubby's corner. mr. porter had lost no time and spared no trouble, and the arcade's carpenter to whom he had given instructions to "do that job in shape and mighty quick," had followed those instructions to a dot. there was the cubby, the wood all carefully painted in white enamel, the portable shelves made of sheets of heavy glass. a high railing and gate shut off one end, giving ingress to the proprietor, and privacy if she wished at any time to stay at her counter for awhile. on the lower shelf of the counter stood a little cash box divided into two sections: one for bills the other for silver. just above it was a small white sign upon which was plainly painted in dark blue letters: "constance b.'s candies." take what you wish. leave cost of goods taken. make your change from my cash box. respecting my patrons' integrity, constance b. c. kindly close the door. constance clasped her hands and gave a little cry of delight. all her ideas were so perfectly carried out. "oh, mr. porter, it is perfectly fascinating! how good you are! how am i ever going to pay for it though? i had no idea you were going to so much trouble and expense." "but you don't _have_ to pay for it. every office has to be fitted up for its tenant's needs you know, or he wouldn't rent it. so i had to have your cubby fitted up for yours. now you can stock up as soon as you're a mind to. and, by-the-way, those boxes will be along to-morrow morning. i told them they must hustle, and they have. are your photos ready to paste on 'em?" "yes, they came home last evening; at least six dozen of them did, and the rest will come next week. i'll send them to the box manufacturers for the next lot and they can be put right on there. it will save our time." "good! twelve dozen boxes will be delivered this time, and the rest will be along pretty soon. send your photos to them as quickly as you can. i'm glad you like your cubby." "like it! why i'd be the most ungrateful girl that ever lived if i didn't like it. it's just simply _splendid_! but a whole year's rent won't pay you back i'm afraid." "don't care whether it does or not. mean to make you sign a _five_ years' lease next time. when will you stock up?" "mammy is coming over with me early saturday morning. just think we have already made over twenty-five pounds of candy. i want to have fifty on hand to start with. do you think i'll _ever_ sell it?" and the pretty girlish face was raised to mr. porter's with the most winning of smiles. "little flirt! i wonder if she knows he has daughters as old as _she_ is," muttered the girl at the 'phone. constance was quite unconscious of either look or comment. "of course you'll sell it. mark my word it will go like hot cakes," was the encouraging answer. "i hope so. and thank you again and again for _all_ you have done. good-bye. please tell your daughters what a proud girl you have made me," and the little gloved hand was held toward him. he shook it warmly and walked with her to the front door. as he turned to go back a man who occupied a cigar stand near the door nodded and said with a laugh: "got a new tenant, mr. porter? goin' to let us have another pretty girl to talk to?" "i've got a new tenant, yes, breckel, but, unless i am very much mistaken, you will not talk to her a great deal, and when you _do_ you'll take your hat off, and toss away your cigar. it's a pity we can't have a few more such girls in our business world. it would raise the standard considerably. men would find a better occupation than making fool speeches to them then. mark my word that little woman will succeed." "i'm sure i hope she will if she's the right stuff," answered breckel, the laugh giving place to a more earnest expression and tone of voice, which proved that the man, like most of his stamp, had something good in him to be appealed to. chapter xxiii opening day at last the eventful morning arrived. constance and mammy were astir long before the clock struck six, and the candy kettles were bubbling merrily. constance was pulling her big lump of molasses candy when jean came bounding into the kitchen arrayed in her little night toga. "bress my soul!" cried mammy. "wha' yo' doin' down hyer? kite long back dis minit. does yer want ter kitch yo' deaf cold?" "but connie didn't call me, and i said i'd help," protested jean. "he'p! he'p! yo' look lak yo' could he'p, don't yo'? stannin' dar dressed in nuffin in de worl' but yo' nightie an' yo' _skin_. clar out dis minit befo' i smack yo' wid dis hyer gre't spoon," and mammy made a dive for the culprit as she darted away. a few hours later the candy boxes were in the bottom of the phaeton, constance mounting guard over them while mammy acted as jehu. when the arcade was reached mammy descended from the phaeton, blanketed baltie, and then taking one of the large boxes in which the smaller ones were packed, said: "now honey, yo' tek anodder--_no, not two_ of 'em--dey's too heavy fo' you; i'll come back fo' dose. now walk 'long head ob me, kase i want dese hyer folks what's a-starin' at us lak dey aint neber _is_ seen anybody befo', ter unnerstan' dat i'se _yo' sarvint_, an' here fer ter pertec' yo'. _an' i ain' gwine stan' no nonsense needer._" "you need not be afraid mammy. everybody is just as kind and lovely as possible." "huh! dey'd _better_ be," retorted mammy, with a warning snort. in a short time the little booth made a brave showing with its quarter-pound, half-pound, and pound boxes of candy, each tied with pretty ribbon, and each bearing upon its cover the smiling face of its young maker. when miss willing found a chance to take a sly peep at them she turned her head and sneered as she murmured: "well, of all the conceit. my! ain't she just stuck on that face of hers though." scarcely was all arranged, when mr. porter appeared upon the scene. "just in time to be the first customer," he cried gayly. "how are you this morning? how-de-do, auntie? ah, you see i know your partner now. what all have you got here anyhow?" he continued as he peered into the cases. "pralines, plain fudge, nut fudge, molasses candy, cream walnuts, caramels, butter-scotch. i say! you've been working, little girl, haven't you?" "lak ter wo'k her finges mos' off," asserted mammy. "they're none of them missing, though," laughed constance, holding up the pretty tapering fingers to prove her words. "then give me my candies, quick! i can't wait another minute. you can almost see my mouth water like my old hunting dog's." "which kind will you have mr. porter?" "_all_ kinds of course!" "not really?" "yes, _really_. do you think i'm going to miss any of the treat? biggest boxes, please." constance lifted from the case a pound box of each variety. "how much?" asked mr. porter. "why nothing to _you_? how _could_ i?" she asked, coloring at the thought of accepting more from him. "now see here, young lady, that won't do. you can't begin _that_ way. your business has got to be spot cash. don't forget that, or you'll get into difficulties," said her customer with a warning nod of his head. "as near as i can make out mr. porter, it's just the other way about; i'm getting my cash in advance. now please listen to me," said constance very seriously, an appealing look in her expressive eyes. "you have done a great deal for me in arranging this booth so attractively, and encouraging me in every way. in addition to that you have 'taken stock,' as you call it, in the venture. very well, _i_ call it simply advancing capital. now i shall never feel at ease until that sum is paid off, and one way for me to do it is to let you have all the candy you want. no--wait a minute; i haven't finished," as mr. porter raised his hand in protest. "if you will promise to come to the booth for all the candy you want, i will charge you just the same for it as i charge the others, but it must go toward canceling my obligation _so far as money_ can cancel it. now, _please_, say yes, and make my opening day a very happy one for me. otherwise i shall have to refuse to let you have _any_ candy until i have paid back the hundred dollars. isn't that right and fair, mammy?" she asked, turning to look into the kind old face beside her. "hits jist de fa'r an' squar' livin' truf. hit suah is, massa potah. ain' no gittin' roun' dat. we-all cyant tek no mo' 'vestments 'dout we gibs somepin fer ter mak hit right. miss constance, know what she a-sayin'." the gay bandanna nodded vigorously to emphasize this statement. mr. porter looked at them for a moment, and then broke into a hearty laugh. "i give it up!" he cried. "have it your own way, but if i eat sweets until i lose all my teeth, upon your heads be the blame. it isn't every man who has a hundred dollars worth to pick from as he chooses." "_you_ won't have very long, because i expect to pay back in more ways than just candies," cried constance, merrily. "but you surely don't want _all_ that?" she added, laying her hands upon the seven boxes lying upon the counter. "yes, i do! my soul, if she isn't trying to do me out of my own purchases. here, young lady, give me those boxes. i want them right in my own hands before you have some new protest to put forth," and hastily piling his seven pounds of candy upon his arm, mr. porter fled for the elevator, leaving mammy and constance to laugh at his speedy departure. at length all was arranged, the booth with its array of dainty boxes making a brave display. constance and mammy stood for a moment looking at it before taking their departure, well pleased with the result of their undertaking. then with a pleasant good morning to miss willing, whose eyes and ears had been more than busy during the past hour, they departed, leaving the little candy booth, its cash box, and its very unusual announcement upon the sign which swung above it, to prove or disprove the faith which one young girl felt in her fellow beings. chapter xxiv one month later one month had passed since the eventful opening day. a month of hard, incessant work for constance, mammy and jean, who insisted upon doing her share. it was nearly march, and the air already held a hint of spring. the pussy-willows were beginning to peep out upon the world, and in sheltered spots far away in the woodland the faint fragrance of arbutus could be detected. from her opening day, constance's venture had prospered, and the little candy booth's popularity became a fact assured. up betimes every morning, constance had her kettles boiling merrily and by seven o'clock many pounds of candy were ready to be packed in the dainty boxes. then came jean's part of the work and never had she failed to come to time. true to her word to be a "sure-enough partner," she was up bright and early and had her candies wrapped and packed before her breakfast was touched. mammy and baltie, soon became familiar figures in south riveredge, and many of constance's patrons believed the old woman to be the real mover of the enterprise. how she found time to convey the candy boxes to the booth, arrange them with such care, collect the money deposited there the previous day by the rapidly increasing number of customers, and still reach home in time to prepare the mid-day meal with her usual care, was a source of wonder to all. yet do it she did, and her pride and ambition for the success of the venture rivaled constance's. failure was not even to be dreamed of. no one ever guessed the hours stolen from her sleep by the good soul to make up for the hours stolen from her daily duties, but many a night after bidding the family an ostentatious "good-night, ladies," and betaking herself to her bedroom above stairs, did she listen until every sound was hushed and then creep back to her kitchen and work softly until everything was completed to her satisfaction. friday afternoons and saturdays, constance took matters into her own hands, and she soon discovered that another mode of transportation for her candy would be imperative, so rapidly was the demand for constance b.'s candies increasing. so after the first two weeks the local expressman was pressed into service, and the old colored man, who for years had run the elevator in the arcade, received the boxes upon their delivery. the way in which the old man had scraped acquaintance with mammy, caused mr. porter considerable amusement. mammy's intercourse with the colored people she had met since coming north, had not been calculated to increase her respect for her race. finding "uncle rastus" at the north, she instantly concluded that he had been born and raised there. that, like herself, he might have been transplanted, she did not stop to argue. but one day when mammy was struggling with an unusually large consignment of candy, uncle rastus hurried to offer his services "to one ob de quality colored ladies," as he gallantly expressed it. this led to a better understanding between the two old people, and when mammy discovered that rastus had been born and raised in the county adjoining her own, and that his old master and hers had been warm friends, rastus' claim to polite society was indisputable, and from that moment, mammy and rastus owned the arcade, and the courtly old negro, and dignified old negress caused not a little amusement to constance b.'s customers, and the people who frequented the arcade. it would be hard to tell which grew to take the greater pride in the venture, for rastus had all the old antebellum negro's love and respect for his white folks and mammy lost no opportunity for singing the praises of hers. and thus another member was added to the firm and constance's interests were well guarded. not once since launching upon her venture had constance met with any loss. the little cash box invariably held the correct amount to balance the number of boxes taken from the booth, and the returns surprised constance more than anyone else. "i tell you i'm going to be a genuine business woman, see if i'm not," she cried, after balancing her accounts one saturday evening. "why just think of it mumsey, dear, here are fifteen dollars over and above _all_ expenses for the week. if i continue like this i'll be a million_nairess_ before i know what has happened. how are you flourishing, nornie? are your pegasus ponies as profitable?" "not quite, but i'm hopeful," laughed eleanor. "some of them are spavined in their minds, i fear. at any rate they don't 'arrive' as quickly as i'd like to have them in spite of all my efforts. however, they are not going backward, and i dare say that ought to gratify me, especially when they are willing to pay me two dollars an hour for helping them to stand _still_. i can't make such a showing from driving my coach as you can make from wielding your big spoon, connie dear, but ten dollars added to your fifteen will keep the wolf from the door, won't it little mother?" ended eleanor, laying her hand upon her mother's shoulder. mrs. carruth rested her cheek upon it as she replied: "what should i do without my girls? i am _so_ proud of my girls! so proud!--yet i cannot realize it all." "you haven't got to do without us. we're here to be done _with_, aren't _we_, nornie?" cried constance, gayly. "we certainly _are_," was the hearty response. "then why don't you add my part?" demanded jean, who had faithfully made her journeys to the irving school each saturday morning, and upon each occasion returned triumphant with her candy box empty, but her little coin bag well filled with dimes, for her customers were always on the lookout for her. "i have, honey. it is all included in the amounts set down here," answered constance. "yes, but i want to know just which part of it is mine. how much did i sell last saturday and how much to-day?" persisted jean. "twenty-five packages last saturday and eighteen this. forty-three in all. four dollars and thirty cents in two weeks, and four dollars in your first two weeks. eight dollars and thirty cents all told, little girl. two dollars seven and a half cents a week. i call that pretty good for a ten-year-old business woman, don't you, mumsey, dear?" "i call it truly wonderful," was mrs. carruth's warm reply. "what do _you_ think of it, mammy?" cried constance. "aren't we here to be done with after that showing?" "done wid _what_?" promptly demanded mammy, who had no intention of committing herself before becoming fully informed of all the facts. "done _everything_ with. made use of. worked for all there is in us. made to pay for ourselves. isn't that right, mammy? say 'yes' right off. say 'yes' mammy, because that's why we are big, and young, and strong, and happy, and anxious to prove that we are the 'banginest chillern' that _ever_ were. you've said so hundreds of times, you know you have, so don't try to go back on it now. aren't we _just right_, mammy? successful business women and a firm of which you are proud to be a member? the carruth corporation, _bound_ to succeed because, unlike other corporations, it has a _soul_, yes, _four_ of 'em, and can prove that a corporation with four souls can outstrip any other ever associated. _mine's_ as light as a feather this minute, so let's prance," ended constance, springing toward mammy, to catch her hardened hands in her own warm ones, and give a beckoning nod to jean and eleanor, who were quick to take her hint. the next instant a circle was formed around mrs. carruth's chair, the girls singing in voices that made the room ring. "mammy, dear, listen here, isn't this a lark? every day, work and play, and each to do her part." while poor old mammy sputtered and protested as she pounded around with them willy-nilly. "bangin'est chillern! _bangin'est_ chillern! huh! i reckons you _is_! huh! let me go dis _minit_! miss jinny! miss jinny! please ma'am, make 'em quit. make 'em let loose ob me! dar! you hear dat? eben baltie heer yo'in' holler. bres gawd, i believes he's 'fronted kase he lef' outen de cop'ration. dat's hit! he's sure _is_. let me go dis minit, i say. he gotter be part ob it," and giving a final wrench from the detaining hands, mammy rushed away crying in answer to old baltie's neigh, which had reached her ears from his stable: "yas, yas, baltic hawse, mammy done heard yo' a-callin' an' she's a-comin'; comin' to passify yo' hurt feelin's case you's been left outen de cop'ration. comin', honey, comin'." about this book: original publication data: title: three little women, a story for girls author: gabrielle e. jackson publisher: john c. winston company copyright: , by john c. winston company 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, broadway. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , 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, and jacob street, n. y. [illustration: mop saves hal's life.--p. .] 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, part ii. the dogs meet once more, mop's tale, frisk's tale, part iii. dash sees a play, the death of poor jack, part iv. the conclusion of frisk's tale, part v. frisk finds a new home, 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. .] "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. .] "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. .] "'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. .] "'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. .] "'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. .] 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 added "period" after " " in "p. ". * pg added "closing quotation" to ending of "not a good dog?".] aileen aroon, a memoir with other tales of faithful friends and favourites by gordon stables published by s.w. partridge & co., paternoster row, london. this edition dated . 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 ]--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 . 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 : 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 ]. 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 . "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 --. 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 ]. 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 .] 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 . 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 .] "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 . 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, :-- "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, .' 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 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 th, :--many will be sorry to hear that the poor but interesting dog, greyfriars bobby, died on sunday evening, january th, . 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_, . "`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 st, ; may nd, ; february st, ; march nd, . "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 , this faithful dog followed the remains of his master to greyfriars churchyard, and lingered near the spot until his death in . old james brown died in the autumn of . 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 . 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 ] 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 . "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 ) came to me first, he was in great grief for the loss of his dear master [note ]. 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 . 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 ] 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 . 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 ]. 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 . author of "man and beast." two volumes. messrs. daldy and isbister. transcriber note text emphasis denoted by _italics_. whole and fractional parts of numbers as - / . [illustration: principio sedes apibus statioque petenda, ---- virgil.] humanity to honey-bees: or, _practical directions_ for the management of honey-bees upon an improved and humane plan, by which the lives of bees may be preserved, and abundance of honey of a superior quality may be obtained, by thomas nutt. ---- vos non vobis mellificatis apes: sic --------------------------------- virgil. second edition. wisbech: printed by h. and j. leach, for the author, of whom it may be had at moulton-chapel, or at , high holborn, london. sold also by longman and co. paternoster-row, london. _price ten shillings,_ . entered at stationers' hall. also may be had on application to my agent, mr. g. neighbour, , high holborn, near southampton street, london, honey taken on the principles here specified, with hives stocked with bees, or unstocked. all letters must be post paid to the author. dedication, by permission, to her most gracious majesty, queen adelaide may it please your majesty, to pen a dedication skilfully is generally the most difficult part of an author's task; but a dedication to royalty is so delicate a matter, that i almost tremble for the success of my undertaking--tremble lest i should fail to express myself dutifully, gratefully, properly; though i am not without hope that your majesty's goodness will graciously extend to the author that degree of indulgence of which he is sensible he stands so much in need, especially as nothing unbecoming a dutiful subject to write, or improper for a gracious sovereign to read, is intended to be here expressed. as, however, every colony of bees, wherever domiciled, whether in a box, or in a cottage-hive, in the roof of a house, or in the trunk of a hollow-tree, is under an admirable government, the presiding head and sovereign of which is a queen,--as no colony of bees, deprived of its queen, ever prospers, or long survives such loss,--as this insect government, or government of insects, exhibits to man the most perfect pattern of devoted attachment, and of true allegiance on the part of the subject bees to their sovereign, and of industry, ingenuity, prosperity, and apparently of general happiness in their well-ordered state,--and as these most curious and valuable little creatures have hitherto been most cruelly treated--have been, and still are, annually sacrificed by millions, for the sake of their sweet treasure; i do feel a pleasure, and think there is a sort of analogical propriety, in dedicating to your gracious majesty this work, the leading feature of which is--humanity to honey-bees. under your majesty's fostering and influential patronage, i cannot but anticipate that this object will be essentially promoted, and that the management of bees, in this country at least, will not hereafter reflect disgrace upon their owners. in this pleasing hope, i humbly beg to subscribe myself, your majesty's most dutiful and most grateful subject and servant, thomas nutt. moulton-chapel, lincolnshire, nov. th, . preface. could i disarm criticism as easily as i can deprive bees of their power to sting, this would be the proper place to do so; though i am doubtful whether it would be well-judged in me, or to my advantage, to stay the critics' pen. but, possessing no such talismanic power, i shall adventure my little book into the world, without any attempt to conciliate the critics' good-will, or to provoke their animosity, conscious that from _fair_ criticism i have nothing to fear. that i shall be attacked by those apiarians who are wedded to their own theories and systems, however faulty, is no more than i expect: of them, i trust, i have nowhere spoken disparagingly; towards none of them do i entertain unkindly feelings--far otherwise. their number, i am led to believe, is not formidable; and as gentlemen, and fellow-labourers in the same work of humanity, their more extensive learning will hardly be brought to bear against me with rancour and violence. should any one of them, or of any other class of writers, so far degrade himself, i shall have the advantage of the following preliminary observation, viz. that one set of my collateral-boxes, placed in a favourable situation, and _duly and properly attended to_, for one season only, will outweigh all the learning and arguments that can be adduced against my bee-practice,--will be proof positive, visible, tangible, that there is in my pretensions something more than empty boast. luckily for me, there are plenty of those proofs to be met with in the country, and there are some--several, not far from town; they are at blackheath, at kensington, at clapham, and at other places. as hundreds of the nobility and gentry of this country will recollect, there was one of these incontrovertible proofs of the truth of what i am stating, exhibited for several weeks at the national repository last autumn, where it was seen, examined, admired, and, i may without any exaggeration add, _universally approved_. practice, which has resulted from more than ten years' experience in the management of an apiary, and from innumerable experiments, carried on, and a hundred times repeated, during that period, is what i ground the utility of my discoveries upon. to theory i lay no claim. born and brought up in the fens of lincolnshire, where i have spent the greater part of my life amidst difficulties, misfortunes, and hardships, of which i will not here complain, though i am still smarting under the effects of some of them, my pretensions to learning are but small: for, though sent to the respectable grammar school at horncastle in my boyhood, my education was not extended beyond writing, arithmetic, and merchants' accompts. as soon as it was thought that i had acquired a competent knowledge of these useful branches of education, it was my lot to be bound apprentice to learn the trades and mysteries of grocer, draper, and tallow-chandler. whilst endeavouring to gain an honest livelihood as a grocer and draper, at moulton-chapel, in , i was afflicted with a severe illness, which, after long-protracted suffering, left me as helpless as a child, the natural use and strength of my limbs being gone; and, though supported by and tottering between my crutches, it was a long time before i was able to crawl into my garden. fatigued and exhausted with the exercise of journeying the length of a garden-walk of no great extent, it was my custom to rest my wearied limbs upon a bench placed near my bees. seated on that bench, i used to while away the lingering hours as best i could, ruminating now on this subject, now on that, just as my fancy chanced to fix. among other things my bees one day caught my attention: i watched their busy movements,--their activity pleased me,--their humming noise long-listened to became music to my ears, and i often fancied that i heard it afterwards when i was away from them. in short, i became fond of them and of their company, and visited them as often as the weather and my feebleness would permit. when kept from them a day or two, i felt uneasy, and less comfortable than when i could get to them. the swarming season arrived; and with it ideas took possession of my mind which had not until then possessed it:--i conceived that swarming was an act more of necessity than of choice,--that as such it was an evil; but how to provide a remedy for it--how to prevent it--was a problem that then puzzled me. i studied it for a long time, and to very little purpose. the old-fashioned method of eking did not by any means satisfy my mind; it might answer the purpose for one season, but how to proceed the next did not appear. then the time for taking honey was approaching: to get at that treasure without destroying my little friends that had collected it, and that had, moreover, so often soothed me in my sorrow and my sufferings, was another problem that long engaged my mind. after some years' unremitted attention to my bees, for i had formed a sort of attachment to them during the first stage of my convalescence, which never left me, an accident aided my studies by directing my attention to the effects of ventilation, as will be found related in the body of this work, and i began to make experiments, which being repeated, varied, improved, and then gone through again, have gradually led to the development of my improved mode of bee-management, attempted to be explained in the following pages. at the time i have been speaking of, i had not read one single book on bees; nor had i then one in my possession. whatever my practice may be, it has resulted from my own unaided experience and discoveries. to books i am not indebted for any part of it: nay, had i begun to attempt to improve the system of bee-management by books, i verily believe, i never should have improved it at all, nor have made one useful discovery. _the bees themselves have been my instructors._ after i had so far succeeded as to have from my apiary glasses and boxes of honey of a superior quality, to exhibit at the national repository, where, with grateful thanks to the managers of that institution for their kindness to me, i was encouraged to persevere, bee-books in profusion were presented to me, some of them by friends with names, some by friends whose names i have yet to learn. i have read them all: but nowhere find, in any of them, clear, practical directions, how honey of the very purest quality, and in more considerable quantity than by any of the plans heretofore proposed, may be taken from bees, without recourse to any suffocation whatever, or any other violent means;--how all the bees may be preserved uninjured;--and how swarming may be prevented. these are the grand features in my plan; and minute directions for the accomplishment of these most desirable objects are laid down in this book. i by no means maintain that my system of bee-management is incapable of improvement; but i do think that the principles upon which it is founded _are right_,--that the foundation is here properly laid,--and that every apiarian, who may hereafter conform to, or improve upon, my practice, will be instrumental in contributing a part towards raising the superstructure--namely--an asylum or sanctuary for honey-bees. i cannot close this preface without acknowledging myself to be under the greatest obligations to the rev. t. clark, of gedney-hill. but for his assistance the following work would not have made its appearance in its present form; if indeed it had appeared at all. he has revised, corrected, connected, and arranged the materials of which it is composed; and he has, moreover, gratuitously added much that is original and valuable from his own rich stores of knowledge. to him i am indebted for the selection of the latin mottos. as an apiarian he is one of my most improved and skilful pupils, and bids fair to become an ornament to the science of bee-management. as a mechanic he is ingenious enough to make his own bee-boxes, and has actually made some of the very best i have yet seen. to his knowledge of mechanics it is owing that the description and explanation of each of the different boxes, of all the other parts of my bee-machinery, and of my observatory-hive, in particular, are more detailed, clearer, and more intelligible than they would have been in my hands. as a scholar there are passages in the following work that afford no mean specimen of his abilities. i have only to regret that the reward for the pains he has taken with it must be my thanks--that it is not in my power to remunerate him for his kind labours more substantially than by this public acknowledgement of the obligations i am under, and of my sense of the debt of gratitude that is due to him. preface to the second edition. "out of print," though a somewhat laconic, might be a not inappropriate preface to this second edition, and of itself a quaint apology for its appearance. _out of print_ is certainly exhilarating news to the author anxious for the success of a work inculcating a new system of bee-management, in which not only is his reputation as an apiarian involved and evolved, but, it may be, the very means of his subsistence are _bound up_ in it; the oftener therefore he hears the bibliopolist expression--_out of print_--the more animating and welcome it becomes; because its reiteration can hardly fail to be considered by him an indication that the demand for his book continues.--that his system is progressing,--or, at any rate, that either curiosity respecting it, or some higher and more laudable motive, is still existent in the public mind. thus cheered on, thus, as it were, _encored_, it has become his duty to the public no less than to himself to proceed forthwith to the publication of a new edition. previously, however, to stating what alterations, emendations, &c. have been introduced in order to render the work, as far as i am yet able to render it, worthy a continuance of public patronage, i consider it to be my duty to record my grateful thanks for the success and encouragement i have already received. to the scientific and literary press, and to the several gentlemen of scientific attainments connected therewith, who, by their influence and kind professional assistance, and promptitude in the furtherance of my interest, have greatly contributed to my success, my best thanks are due, _and are hereby respectfully tendered:_ amongst these i have sincere pleasure in particularizing dr. birkbeck--the talented president of the london mechanics' institution,--dr. hancock--fellow of the medico-botanical society--a veteran of high and esteemed attainments,--and mr. booth--the popular lecturer on chemistry--a young man of first-rate abilities. to j. c. london--the erudite editor of the gardeners' magazine,--to e. j. robertson, esq.--the able and ingenious editor of the mechanics' magazine,--to richard newcomb--the editor and publisher of the stamford mercury,--and to the several editors of the metropolitan and provincial press, who have made favourable mention of my labours, my public thanks are justly due,--and particularly to the editor of the cambridge quarterly review, for a highly commendatory notice of my work, evidently written by a practical apiarian, and with competent knowledge of his subject, which appeared in no. of that review, published in march . also to my long-tried, worthy _friend_--george neighbour--it is gratifying to me to have this opportunity of offering my sincere thanks for his valuable services in my behalf;--and to the conductors of those excellent and useful institutions--the national gallery of practical science, adelaide street,--and the museum of national manufactures, leicester square, london, i gratefully acknowledge myself to be under no slight obligations for the advantageous opportunities which i have there possessed of extending the knowledge of my system, and of exhibiting, year after year, to thousands of visitors, the products of my apiary. with the view of making "the humane management of honey-bees" more interesting, the dialogue, which formed the introductory chapter in the first edition, has been withdrawn, and in its place have been substituted some valuable remarks of dr. birkbeck, dr. hancock, and mr. booth, respecting bees, honey, wax, &c. of course _the first chapter is new_; as is chapter x. giving an account of the apiary of the most noble the marquess of blandford, at delabere park, which can hardly fail of being interesting to every reader: it is principally from the able pen of mr. booth. chapter xviii. on apiarian societies, is new also. and, besides these three entire chapters, not short paragraphs merely, but whole pages of new matter have been introduced interspersedly by my most respected friend--the rev. t. clark, of gedney-hill, who has revised, corrected, and re-arranged the whole; and who has not only bestowed much time and pains upon the improvement of my work, but in the kindest and most disinterested manner has, in superintending this and the former edition through the press, actually travelled upwards of _eight hundred_ miles. the friendly performer of services so generous, so laborious, and so perseveringly attended to, without any stipulation for fee or reward, merits from me, and has from me, every expression of my gratitude, and, were it in my power, should have _one expression more_. table of contents. chapter page i. _introductory matters_ ii. _bee-boxes and management of bees in them_ iii. _ventilation_ iv. _thermometer_ v. _on driving bees_ vi. _inverted-hive_ vii. _observatory-hive_ ---- _mode of stocking an observatory-hive_ viii. _fumigation_ ix. _objections against piling boxes_ x. _apiary at delabere park_ xi. _honey-bees_ ---- _for the sting of a bee_ xii. _impregnation of the queen-bee_ xiii. _supernumerary queens_ xiv. _bee-feeding_ ---- _bee-food_ xv. _catalogue of bee-flowers, &c._ xvi. _honey-comb_ ---- _bees' wax_ xvii. _winter situation for bees_ xviii. _apiarian societies_ xix. _miscellaneous directions_ index to the engravings. frontispiece, to face title. page octagonal-cover for the pavilion collateral-boxes apart ditto closed. inverted-hive observatory-hive ditto with additions fumigator tower at delabere to face the three bees honey-comb management of bees. chapter i. introductory matters. the object of the generality of persons who keep bees, is--profit: and that profit might be indefinitely augmented were bees properly managed, and their lives preserved--were the still extensively-practised, cruel, and destructive system superseded by a conservative one. some few there may be in the higher ranks of life, who cultivate bees from motives of curiosity--for the gratification of witnessing and examining the formation and progress of their ingenious and most beautiful works, and with a view to study the instinct, habits, propensities, peculiarities, or, in one word, the nature, of these wonderful, little insects, in order to improve their condition, and to gain additional knowledge respecting their natural history, hitherto, it must be confessed, enveloped in much uncertainty, and very imperfectly understood. to this class of bee-masters and _bee-friends_ the system of management to be explained in the following pages, will, it is hoped, unfold discoveries and impart facilities and improvements hitherto unknown in apiarian science. and they, whose sole object in keeping bees is _profit_, may derive incalculable advantage from conforming to the mode of management, and strictly attending to the _practical directions_ hereinafter to be detailed: because as their profits are expected to arise principally from honey and wax, it evidently must be for their interest to know how to obtain those valuable bee-productions in their purest state and in the greatest quantity. the quantity obtained in a good honey-year (viz. ) from a well-stocked and exceedingly prosperous colony--still in existence, and still flourishing, (i. e. in ) was so considerable, and so far beyond anything ever realized from a common straw-hive colony, that my statements respecting it have been doubted by some, and totally discredited by others, unacquainted with my (i trust i may say) _improved_ system of bee-management. with respect to the purity of the honey taken according to my plan, and the general properties and medical virtues, and, of course, _value of honey when pure_, i have much pleasure in being enabled to submit to the reader the opinions of my scientific friends--dr. birkbeck, mr. abraham booth, lecturer on chemistry, and dr. hancock; because their opinions may safely be considered as unimpeachable authority on this subject, viz. the uses and medical virtues of _pure honey_. in some observations on the effect of the temperature of bee-hives on the quality of honey, published in a scientific journal, mr. booth observes--"notwithstanding the adequate justice which has been done to mr. nutt's improved and admirable system of bee-management, there is one point which does not appear to have elicited much attention--the superiority in quality both of the honey and the wax. it does not appear to me that the whole of this superiority consists in freedom from extraneous animal or vegetable matters, a point of very great importance, however, as its dietetic purposes are concerned; but that it greatly depends upon the modified degree of temperature at which the bees effect their labours, and which is insufficient to produce any chemical changes in the constitution of these substances; whereas under the old system, the continued high temperature of the hive is sufficient to induce those changes which impart the colour that so materially deteriorates the quality as well as the value of the products. _from mr. nutt's hives we obtain pure honey, as it is actually secreted by the bee_, which cannot be ensured by any other mode of management." to my very intelligent friend and patron, dr. birkbeck, whose uniform liberality and kindness, from the infancy of my pursuits, i have reason to appreciate, i am indebted for introducing this subject in a lecture[a] at the london institution, moorfields, on the application of the oxy-hydrogen light to illustrate the economy and structure of the insect world. in the course of his observations, on referring to the tongue of the bee, the learned doctor made copious allusions to my system, and the advantages which would in his view result from its general extension. he observed that "so small is the supply that we derive from the labours of bees in this country, that the production of wax does not even more than equal its consumption in the simple article of lip-salve. under this improved system, we may however hope that the advantages of bee-management may be more generally diffused throughout the kingdom,--that bee-hives will be multiplied, and that the choicest flowers of the field and forest will no longer 'waste their sweetness in the desert air.' in a dietetic point of view, it is of great importance that a saccharine, secreted by one of the most beautiful processes of nature, should be substituted for one produced by the most imperfect and complicated process of art, whilst the more salutary properties of the former would recommend it as far more eligible for use. he could not but hope that, in this view the system would soon receive that extension in practice to which its merits fitted it."[b] [footnote a: delivered april d .] [footnote b: dr. birkbeck related the following instance of the power of recognition possessed by bees to myself and mr. booth, which i cannot suffer to pass unnoticed. when a boy, he was accustomed to cover his hand with honey, and go to the front of one of the hives in his father's garden. his hand was soon covered by the bees, banquetting on the proffered sweets, and the whole of it was speedily removed. the bees appeared to recognize the learned doctor ever afterwards when he appeared in the garden, his hand being always surrounded by them in expectation of there finding their accustomed boon.] some very important observations on honey, in a medical point of view, are those which were contained in a paper written by my very learned and valued friend, dr. hancock, and read before the medico-botanical society at their sitting november th .[c] [footnote c: for a copy of the first edition of this work, with specimens of honey, &c. the author received the thanks of the society; and he has since been honoured with a diploma, which constitutes him a corresponding member thereof.] an abstract of this important paper[d] i shall communicate for the information of my readers. [footnote d: an abstract of the paper was published in the lancet and several other journals.] "the great objects which recommend mr. nutt's plan, consist in the great improvement in quality and augmentation of honey produced, and that without destroying the bees--a discovery equally creditable to mr. nutt, as a man of benevolent mind, and to his industry and indefatigable research. "the cultivation of honey-bees is of remote antiquity. the bee was regarded as the emblem of royalty with the ancient egyptians, and bees have been held in the highest esteem by all nations, whether barbarous or civilized; yet the united experience of ancients and moderns has never hitherto led to the happy results, which, by a connected series of experiments, patient research, and logical induction, have in twelve years been achieved by mr. nutt. in the course of his observation he saw, not only that the destruction of the bees was barbarous in the extreme, but that this cruelty was equally subversive of the crops of honey; his inquiries were hence directed to find how this destructive system could be exchanged for a conservative one. in this he has completely succeeded, and by preserving the bees has been enabled to increase their produce many-fold, and that too, in a far more salutary and improved quality. it is equal even to the samples usually obtained from young hives called virgin honey, which is scarce, dear, and seldom to be had genuine. "owing to the want of knowledge on the subject, the consequent impurities, and the great price of foreign honey, together with the adulterations practised, the use of this valuable article has been nearly abandoned in this country, whether as an article of the materia medica or of domestic economy; and for the reasons just stated, the preparations of honey have even been expunged from the edinburgh pharmacopeia. from the recent improvement, however, by the gentleman just mentioned, we have reason to hope its use will be restored in a condition vastly improved, and that at a great reduction in price, the facilities of production being greatly enhanced, and such as to render it in time available to all classes of society. "pure honey was justly considered by the ancients to possess the most valuable balsamic and pectoral properties--as a lenitive, ecoprotic, and detergent; and it is well-known to dissolve viscid phlegm and promote expectoration. as a medium for other remedies, it is in its pure state far superior to sirups, as being less liable to run into the acetous fermentation. it appears that honey procured on mr. nutt's plan is not excelled by the finest and most costly samples from the continent, as that of minorca, narbonne, or montpelier. the various impurities and extraneous matter usually contained in honey, cause it in many cases to produce griping pains, or uneasy sensations in the stomach and bowels; this however has no such effect, unless it be taken to an imprudent extent. "pure honey, though in its ultimate elements similar to refined sugar, yet differs considerably in its physiological effects on the body, being a _lenitive_, _aperient_ or gentle laxative, and hence incomparably more beneficial in costive habits. it has in a dietetic or medicinal point of view been recommended in gravel or calculous complaints; of this however i have no knowledge, but its utility in asthma i have experienced in my own person as well as in others;--as also as an efficacious remedy in hooping cough, taken with antimonial wine, camphor, arid opium. for sedentary persons and those troubled with constipation of the bowels, there is no dietetic or medicinal substance so useful as pure honey, whether taken in drink or with bread and butter, &c. it is well-known as a detergent of foul sores, and i have often found it to succeed in healing deep-seated sinuous or fistulous ulcers, and thus to obviate the necessity of surgical operations. "in south america and amongst the spaniards, honey is considered as one of the best detergents for sloughing sores and foul ulcerations; so it was formerly in europe. its uses in a surgical point of view have in this country long been lost sight of. its detergent power is such, that it was formerly denominated a _vegetable soap_, as we may see in the older writers. it is still made the basis of _cosmetics_, and this empirical practice goes to prove its efficacy--to those at least who have experienced its effects in cleansing and healing sinuous ulcers, its stimulating property producing withal the sanitary adhesive inflammation. a species of wine made from honey, called metheglin and mead--the _mulsum_ of the ancients--was formerly much in use in this country, and most deservedly so from its pleasant taste and salutary properties. by the perfection of honey, this may now be obtained no doubt of equal excellence here, and a rich mellifluous species of wine of the most wholesome kind will be acquired, and open a new source of national industry. "it has been said, that where the air is clear and hot, honey is better than where it is variable and cold, and this seems to have served as an apology for the inferiority of much of the honey contained in this country. it is a position, which i am persuaded is not well founded; for the honey in hot climates, notwithstanding the fragrance of the flowers, is mostly inferior to the commonest samples produced here. this inferiority, however, may be entirely owing to the difference in the bees--for i speak here of the wild or native honey--and it is probable that the _apis mellifica_ might, in south america, on mr. nutt's plan, produce the best of honey, and in very great abundance, because it would there work all the year, and the product therefore would be greatly increased. "i have seen honey taken in the forests of south america from several different species of bees; they were always destitute of a sting, although entomologists consider it as one of the generic characters of _apis_. it is also singular that their wax is always _black_, or dark brown, although the pollen of the flowers, which is said to give colour, is equally yellow as in this country. bees obtain honey from most kinds of flowers, but appear in general to prefer the labiati or lip flowers, as those of sage, marjoram, mint, thyme, lavender, &c. "mr. nutt, in the course of his observation, has noticed the curious fact, that the nectar or honey obtained from different plants is carefully deposited by the bees in separate cells, or at least that the nectar from different _genera_ of plants is kept distinct. it appears indeed, that the produce of the flowers is classed by them, and arranged with a precision not inferior to that of the most accurate botanist. what but a hand divine could guide these little insects thus to mock the boasted power of human reason! this consideration too, coupled with our own interests, should operate as a powerful argument in favour of mr. nutt's new conservative system of management, and against the reckless destruction of the bees. mr. nutt has already been patronised by the royal family and several of the nobility, and no doubt his plan will be adopted by all persons of intelligence, who engage in this pursuit, whether for profit or the most rational amusement." when i first entered into my apiarian pursuits, i felt convinced of the great and profitable extent to which they might be carried; and of this i have been all along since confirmed as success has crowned my efforts. if i could demonstrate--and i have repeatedly demonstrated--how much honey might be increased in quantity, its superior quality also struck me as a point of no less importance; and in this i am now most satisfactorily confirmed by the sanction of those scientific friends whose valuable opinions have been above quoted. with alacrity and pleasure i will therefore proceed, without further introduction, to give a description of my bee-boxes, and other hives, and of all my bee-machinery,--and directions for the proper construction of them,--and also for the proper ordering and management of bees in them. chapter ii. bee-boxes and management of bees in them. the schemes and contrivances, and ways and means, to which apiarians have had recourse, in order to deprive bees of their honey, without at the same time destroying their lives, have been various, and some of them ingenious; but hitherto not one of them has been crowned with the desired success. the leaf-hives of dunbar and of huber--huish's hive with cross-bars,--the piling of hive upon hive, or box upon box, (called storifying), and several other contrivances, have all had this great object in view,--have all had their patrons and admirers,--have all had fair trials,--but have, notwithstanding, all failed of fully accomplishing it. whether my inventions may merit and may meet with a similar or with a better fate, it is not for me to predict,--time will show. i feel warranted, however, in asserting of my collateral-box-hive, which i am now about to explain,--of my inverted-hive, and of my observatory-hive, of which in their proper places minute descriptions will be given,--i feel, i say, warranted in asserting that these--my inventions--possess such conveniences and accommodations both for bees and bee-masters, that the pure treasure stored in them by those industrious, little insects may at any time be abstracted from them, not only without destroying the bees, but without injuring them in the least, or even incommoding their labours by the operation;--that they afford accommodations to the bees which greatly accelerate the progress of their labours in the summer-season;--and that the bees never leave them in disgust, as it were, as they not unfrequently _do leave_ other hives, after being deprived of their stores; but, as if nothing had happened to them, continue day by day to accumulate fresh treasures, the quantity of which has astonished the beholders, and not only the quantity, but the quality also. that my boxes do not, admit of improvement is more than i assert; but having worked them most successfully for many years, and knowing that several other persons, following my directions, have succeeded with them as well as myself, and far beyond their most sanguine expectations, i do flatter myself that the principle of managing bees after my plan is right. [illustration] [illustration] the plates here presented to my readers exhibit a set of my collateral bee-boxes open, and every compartment exposed to view, especially to the view and for the examination of experienced workmen. i make use of the word _experienced_, because the better the boxes are made, the more certain will the apiarian be of success in the management of his bees in them. there has been some difference of opinion as to the most suitable dimensions for bee-boxes. i approve of and recommend those which are from eleven to twelve inches square inside, and nine or ten inches deep in the clear. the best wood for them is by some said to be red cedar; the chief grounds of preference of which wood are--its effects in keeping moths out of the boxes, and its being a bad conductor of heat. but of whatever kind of wood bee-boxes are made, it should be well seasoned, perfectly sound, and free from what carpenters term _shakes_. good, sound, red deal answers the purpose very well, and is the sort of wood of which most of my boxes have been made hitherto. the sides of the boxes, particularly the front sides, should be at the least an inch and a half in thickness; for the ends, top, and back-part, good deal one inch thick is sufficiently substantial; the ends, that form the interior divisions and openings, must be of half-inch stuff, well dressed off, so that, when the boxes and the dividing-tins are closed, that is, when they are all placed together, the two adjoining ends should not exceed five-eighths of an inch in thickness. these communication-ends, the bars of which should be exactly parallel with each other, form a communication, or a division, as the case may require, which is very important to the bees, and by which the said boxes can be immediately divided without injuring any part of the combs, or deluging the bees with the liquid honey, which so frequently annoys them, by extracting their sweets from the piled or storified boxes. this is not the only advantage my boxes possess: the receptacles or frame-work for the ventilators, which appear upon each of the end-boxes,--the one with the cover off, the other with it on--must be four inches square, with a perforated, flat tin of nearly the same size, and in the middle of that tin must be a round hole, to correspond with the hole through the top of the box, and in the centre of the frame-work just mentioned, an inch in diameter, to admit the perforated, cylinder, tin ventilator, nine inches long. this flat tin must have a smooth piece of wood well-made to fit it closely, and to cover the frame-work just mentioned, so as to carry the wet off it, then placing this cover over the square, perforated tin, your box will be secure from the action of wind and rain. the perforated cylinder serves both for a ventilator, and also for a secure and convenient receptacle for a thermometer, at any time when it is necessary to ascertain the temperature of the box into which the cylinder is inserted. within this frame-work, and so that the perforated, flat tin already described may completely cover them, at each corner make a hole with a three-eighths centre-bit through the top of the box. these four small holes materially assist the ventilation, and are, in fact, an essential part of it. we next come to the long floor, on which the three square bee-boxes, (a. c. c.), which constitute _a set_, stand collaterally. this floor is the strong top of a long, shallow box, made for the express purpose of supporting the three bee-boxes, and must, of course, be superficially of such dimensions as those boxes, when placed collaterally, require; or, if the bee-boxes project the eighth part of an inch over the ends and back of this floor-box, so much the better; because in that case the rain or wet, that may at any time fall upon them, will drain off completely. for ornament, as much as for use, this floor is made to project about two inches in front; but this projection must be sloped, or made an inclined plane, so as to carry off the wet from the front of the boxes. to the centre of this projecting front, and on a plane with the edge of the part cut away for the entrance of the bees into the pavilion, is attached the alighting-board, which consists of a piece of planed board, six inches by three, having the two outward corners rounded off a little. the passage from this alighting-board into the pavilion, (not seen in the plate, it being at the centre of the side not shown) is cut, not out of the edge of the box, _but out of the floor-board_, and should be not less than four inches in length, and about half an inch in depth; or so as to make a clear half-inch-way under the edge of the box for the bee-passage. i recommend this as preferable to a cut in the edge of the box,--because, being upon an inclined plane, if at any time the wet should be driven into the pavilion by a stormy wind, it would soon drain out, and the floor become dry; whereas, if the entrance-passage be cut out of the box, the rain that may, and at times will, be drifted in, will be kept in, and the floor be wet for days, and perhaps for weeks, and be very detrimental to the bees. in depth the floor-box, measured from outside to outside, should be four inches, so that, if made of three-fourths inch-deal, there may be left for the depth of the box-part full two inches and a half. internally it is divided into three equal compartments, being one for each bee-box: admission to these compartments, or under-boxes, is by the drawer and drawer-fronts, or blocks, which will be described presently. the bottom, or open edge of each of the boxes, (a. c. c.) should be well planed, and made so even and square that they will sit closely and firmly upon the aforesaid floor, and be as air-tight as a good workman can make them, or, technically expressed, _be a dead fit_ all round. in the floor-board are made three small openings, i. e. one near the back of each box. these openings are of a semi-lunar shape, (though any other shape would do as well) the straight side of which should not exceed three inches in length, and will be most convenient if made parallel with the back-edge of the box, and about an inch from it. they are covered by perforated, or by close tin-slides, as the circumstances of your apiary may require. the drawer (g.) the front of which appears under the middle-box, is of great importance, because it affords one of the greatest accommodations to the bees in the boxes. in this drawer is placed, if necessity require it, a tin made to fit it, and in that tin, another thin frame covered with book-muslin, or other fine strainer, which floats on the liquid deposited for the sustenance of the bees. here, then, you have a feeder, containing the prepared sweet, in the immediate vicinity of the mother-hive, and without admitting the cold or the robbers to annoy the bees. when you close the drawer thus prepared with bee-food, you must draw out the tin placed over the semi-lunar aperture, which will open to the bees a way to their food in the drawer beneath. the heat of the hive follows the bees into the feeding apartment, which soon becomes the temperature of their native-hive. here the bees banquet on the proffered boon in the utmost security, and in the temperature of their native domicile. under such favourable circumstances it is an idle excuse, not to say--a want of humanity, to suffer your bees to die for want of attention to proper feeding. i now come to notice the use of the block-fronts on each side of the feeding-drawer, marked g. these two block-fronts answer many good purposes, and furnish the apiarian with several practical advantages: first, in the facility they afford of adding numbers to the establishment, as occasion may require, which is done without the least inconvenience or trouble to the apiarian, and without the least resentment from the native bees; second, in affording to the bees a place of egress when you are about to take from them one of the end-boxes; third, in the effectual and beautiful guard they furnish against robbers: for instead of the solid block, seen in the plate, a safety-block (of which a description will be given presently) may be substituted, which is so contrived that ten thousand bees can with ease leave their prison and their sweets in the possession of the humane apiarian, without the possible chance of a single intruder forcing its entrance to rob the magazine or to annoy the apiarian. perhaps this is the most pleasing part, and the most happy convenience attached to the boxes. its origin was this: whilst explaining to some scientific gentlemen at the national repository the method to be pursued in the management of bees in a set of collateral-boxes,--and, in particular, the manner of taking off a box of honey, it was objected--that, on removing the block-front and withdrawing the tin that opens a communication into the box above, though a passage would thereby be opened for the imprisoned bees to get away, it would at the same time afford an opening and an opportunity--nay, be a sort of invitation for the bees of other hives,--for strange bees and robbers to get in, annoy, and destroy the native bees, then subdued by having been imprisoned, and to plunder and carry away their treasures. this objection, to persons unskilled in bee-matters, may, i grant, appear to be plausible--nay, reasonable: but every _practical apiarian_, who has taken off two or three end-boxes of honey, knows very well that there is not the least danger to be apprehended from robbers or marauders during the short time that the liberated, native bees are hurrying away as fast as they can get. i have never witnessed any thing like an attempt to besiege and rob a box so situated. were, however, the communication to be left open for any considerable time after the bees have departed, i have no doubt that, if not discovered by bees belonging to other hives, it (the vacated box) would be re-entered by its own bees, and by them be soon entirely emptied of its honey. nothing, however, but down-right carelessness on the part of the operator will ever subject a box of honey to a visitation of this description. but, notwithstanding the conviction in _my_ mind that the above-stated objection is _in fact_ groundless, i set my wits to work to answer it in a way more satisfactory to the highly respectable persons who raised it, and, if by any means i could, to obviate it entirely. it did not cost me much mental labour to invent--_a safety-block_,--nor does it require much manual labour to make one. a safety-block must be made to fit the place of the common block, and may be cut out of a piece of half-inch deal board, having one side planed off so as to leave the bottom-edge less than one-fourth of an inch in thickness; then with a three-eighths-inch centre-bit cut as near the lower, that is--the thin edge, as you can, a row of holes. ten holes in a length of six inches will allow a convenient space between each hole. next, over each of these small holes, suspend a piece of talc, cut of a proper size for the purpose, by a thread of silk, and make that thread fast round a tiny brass nail above. the talc, which is a mineral substance as transparent as glass, and much lighter, and on that account much better than glass, thus suspended over each hole, is easily lifted and passed by bees from within, but is heavy enough to fall again as soon as a bee has made its exit, and forms an effectual bar or block against the entrance of bees from the outside. a block of this description may be had for a trifling expense, and is recommended to all such inexperienced and timid--timid because inexperienced---apiarians, as are apprehensive of being annoyed by intruders when they are taking off a box of honey. though this safety-block rather impedes the escape of the bees, it has nevertheless a pretty appearance when it is neatly made,--and it is amusing enough to see the beautiful, little creatures pushing open first one little trap-door and then another, popping out their heads, and then winging their flight to the entrance of the pavilion. after all, though it certainly is a complete _safety-block_, and was invented to obviate a groundless objection, it is more an article of curiosity than of real usefulness. lastly, i have to notice the security which the under-box or frame gives to the stability of the three upper boxes,--the firmness with which it supports them,--and the dry and comfortable way in which the bees by it are enabled to discharge their dead, and other superfluities of the colony, without their being exposed to the cold atmosphere of an autumn or a spring morning. the octagon-box, marked h, is a covering for the bell-glass, marked b, which is placed on the middle-box, or seat of nature. it matters not of what shape this covering is, because any covering over the glass will answer the same purpose, provided the under-board of it is wide enough to cover the divisional openings, and to throw off the wet. i choose an octagon because of the neatness of its appearance. in endeavouring to recommend these bee-boxes as worthy of general adoption, in order to succeed in my object, it is undoubtedly necessary that the parts and construction of them, and of every thing pertaining to them, be fully explained and clearly understood: i therefore proceed to give another view of them. in the former plate they are exhibited as open, or detached and apart from each other: in the following one they are represented as closed and standing together, as when stocked with bees, and in full operation in an apiary: in both it is the back of the boxes that is presented. with the exception of the alighting-board, the front is quite plain, being without window-shutters in the boxes, and without drawer and block-fronts in the under-board. [illustration] in this plate the engraver has made the floor-box to extend beyond the ends of the c. c. boxes; but, as has already been observed, and for the reason before given, it is better that the floor-box be made so that those (c. c.) boxes project a little over the ends and also over the back of the floor. explanation of the references to the different parts of a set of collateral-boxes. a. is the pavilion, or middle-box, which may be most easily stocked by a swarm of bees, just as a cottage-hive is stocked. b. is the bell-glass in the first plate,--in the second, it only points to the place where the glass stands. c. c. are the collateral, or two end-boxes. d. d. are neat mouldings, about three inches wide, made of three-fourths-inch deal, and are so fastened to the middle-box in front, (i. e. the side not here shown) as well as at the back, that an inch and a half of each may project beyond each corner of that box, and form a cover and protection for the edges of the dividing-tins, and also for the four seams, or joints, necessarily made by placing the end-boxes against the middle one. e. e. are the frame-work and covers of the ventilation and thermometer. f. f. are the block-fronts } g. is the feeding-drawer } already described. h. is the octagon-cover } i. i. i. are the window-shutters, five inches by four, or larger or smaller, as fancy may direct: these shutters open as so many little doors by means of small brass-joints, and are kept fast, when closed, by a brass-button set on the box. , , , , are so many tin-slides, to cut off, or to open, as the case may require, the communications between the pavilion and the bell-glass, between the pavilion and the feeding-drawer, and between the end-boxes and their under-boxes. for a bee-passage between the pavilion and the bell-glass, is cut, in the centre of the top of the pavilion, a circular hole, an inch in diameter, and from the edge of that circular hole are cut four or six passages, just wide enough to allow the bees space to pass and re-pass. these lineal cuts must of course terminate within the circumference of the circle formed by the edge of the bell-glass that is placed over them. perhaps it may be said,--in fact, it has been said--that these boxes are in reality nothing more than a common cottage-hive. be it so: but it is an _improved_ cottage-hive, made convenient by being divisible, and by having its parts well arranged. the middle-box, or department, marked a, is, however, square, and not round, like the common straw-hive. but beyond this one box the comparison cannot easily be carried; the common straw-hive possesses no such conveniences and accommodations as those afforded both to bees and bee-masters by the end-boxes of my hive. in the middle-box the bees are to be first placed: in it first they skilfully construct their beautiful combs,--and, under the prerogative of one sovereign--the mother of the hive--carry on their curious works, and display their astonishing, architectural ingenuity. in this box the regina of the colony, surrounded by her industrious, happy, humming subjects, carries on the propagation of her species,--deposits in the cells prepared for the purpose by the other bees, thousands upon thousands of her eggs, though she deposits no more than one egg in a cell at one time: these eggs are hatched and nursed up into a numerous progeny by the other inhabitants of the hive. it is at this time, viz. when hundreds of young bees are daily coming into existence, that my collateral-boxes are of the utmost importance to the bees domiciled in them: for when the young larvæ are perfected upon the cottage plan, a swarm is the necessary consequence. the queen, with thousands of her bee-subjects, leaves the colony, and seeks another place in which to carry on her astonishing labours. but as swarming may, by proper precaution and attention to my mode of management, generally be prevented, it is manifestly a good thing to do so; for the time necessarily required to establish another colony, even supposing the cottager succeeds in saving the swarm, would otherwise be employed in collecting the pure sweets, and in enriching the old hive. here, then, is one of the advantages of my plan, viz. _the prevention of swarming_. when symptoms of swarming begin to present themselves, and which may be known by an unusual noise in the hive or box (for it is of bees in boxes that i am now treating), and by the appearance of more than common activity among the bees; when these symptoms are apparent, then the bee-master may conclude that more space is required. at this period, therefore, he should draw out the sliding-tin, marked , from under the bell-glass, which simple operation will immediately open to the bees a new room--a palace--which they will adorn, and fill with their sweets as pure as the crystal stream. but if by mistake the manager should draw up either of the collateral-slides, which divide the end-boxes from the pavilion, the bees in that case will refuse to go up into the glass, and will commence their works in the collateral-box opened to them, in preference to the elevated glass; so well aware are these matchless insects of the inconvenience attending the carrying of their treasures into an upper room, when a more convenient store-house is to be had in a lower one. the natural movements of bees have demonstrated to me this fact by more than a thousand trials: year after year i have made this experiment to my entire satisfaction. the natural movements of the bees also suggested to me the idea of the utility of ventilation, and that by its influence their works might be both divided and purified; and that a place of safety might still be preserved for the queen in the pavilion. she wants a certain situation in which to carry on the work of propagating her species. like the fowls of the air, she will not, if she can avoid it, propagate her young whilst under the observation and influence of man: she, therefore, prefers the middle-box for her work of propagation; as well on account of its privacy, as because the ventilation of the end-boxes so cools their temperature, that they are not the situation nature requires to bring the young larvæ to perfection; yet they can be kept at such a temperature as to make them desirable store-rooms for the bees' treasures. by this mode of management we prevent the necessity of swarming; and behold the grandest chemists in the world, and stores after stores of their pure treasure, unadulterated by the necessary gathering of immense quantities of farina for the young larvæ, which we see in the piling system, as well as in the common cottage-hive; but this is all carried into the immediate vicinity of the seat of nature, the place where it is wanted. when the glass is nearly filled, which in a good season will be in a very short space of time, the bees will again want accommodation. previously, however, to drawing up the tin-slide to enlarge their crowded house, the manager should take off the empty end-box he intends to open to them, and smear or dress the inside of it with a little liquid honey. thus prepared, he must return the box to its proper situation, and then withdraw the sliding-tin between it and the pavilion, or middle-box, and thereby enlarge the bees' dominion, by opening an end-box to them, which will produce the greatest harmony in the hive. the bees will immediately commence their operations in this new apartment. this simple operation, _done at a proper time_, effectually prevents swarming; and by it the queen gains a vast addition to her dominions, and consequently additional space for the population of her enlarged domicile. there is now no want of store-house room, nor of employment, for our indefatigable labourers. and while the subjects are employed in collecting, and manufacturing (if i may so say) their various materials, the regina is engaged in carrying on the great, first principle of nature--the propagation of her species. this she does in the department (a.) re-filling with her eggs the cells which have been vacated by the young larvæ. when, however, her next new progeny are about to be brought into life, the bee-master must draw out the other tin-slide, and thereby open a communication to the other empty apartment, and so make a further addition to the queen's realm; which the new, and even veteran labourers, will presently occupy, and set about improving and enriching their again enlarged commonwealth. no sooner have the bees finished their operations in the several compartments of their box-hive, which may be ascertained by looking through the little windows at the back and ends of the boxes, than the bee-master gently puts in the tin-slide ( .) lifts up the lid of the octagon-box or cover (h.) and takes off the bell-glass, filled with the purest and most perfect honey. before, however, he endeavours to take away the glass, it is necessary that he should cut through between the bell-glass and the box, with a fine wire, in order that the tin may the more easily slide under the full glass of honey; when this is done, he may take off the full glass and replace it with an empty one. he must then draw out the tin-slide ( .) and so on for even the operation of taking off a glass, or a box, of honey, may be best performed in the middle of a fine, sunny day; and in taking off a glass, the operator, having put in the tin-slide ( .) as already directed, should wait a few minutes, to see whether the bees made prisoners in the glass manifest any symptoms of uneasiness; because, if they do not, it may be concluded that the queen-bee is amongst them; and in that case it is advisable to withdraw the slide ( .) and to re-commence the operation another day. but if, as it generally happens, the prisoners in the glass should run about in confusion and restlessness, and manifest signs of great uneasiness, _then_ the operator may conclude that all is right, and, having taken off the octagon-cover, may envelope the glass in a silk handkerchief, or dark cloth, so as to exclude the light, remove it with a steady hand, and place it on one side, or so that the bees may have egress from it, in some shady place, ten or fifteen yards from the boxes, and the bees that were imprisoned in it will in a few minutes effect their escape, and return with eagerness to the pavilion and their comrades. and what may be done with b, may also be done with either of the c. c. boxes, as occasion requires. it may not, however, be amiss to be more explanatory of the mode of taking away the treasures of the bees in the side-boxes. it will be necessary to examine minutely the state of your boxes, particularly when the whole of your colony is full of the bees' works. when the tin is put down to divide an end-box from the mother-hive, you, no doubt, make many prisoners; to prevent which, the night before separating an end-box from a middle one, lay open the ventilator, which will not only lower the heat of the box, but will admit the atmospheric air, which naturally causes the bees to leave that apartment, and to draw themselves into the middle-box--their native climate; when this is done, you may put down the tin-slide (d.) as already directed, and let your bees remain fifteen or twenty minutes in total darkness: then open the windows of the box you are about to take off, and if the queen-bee is not within that box, the bees that are in it will show a great desire to be liberated from their disagreeable confinement, by running about in the most hurried, agitated, and restless manner. but should the queen-bee be there, you will then find the bees show no desire to leave her;--the commotion will appear in the middle-box. under such circumstances, which sometimes happen, you must act with caution; for were you to open the egress from the box, that is, the block (f.) and tin-slide ( . or . as the case may be) to permit their departure, very shortly would the whole of the working bees join their sovereign in the box you intended to take; and this would be a great disappointment and complete puzzle to the bee-master, not thoroughly acquainted with the moves of, or proper mode of managing, his valuable hive. to me such an occurrence would be a repetition only of a demonstration of facts--of pleasures unspeakable, in beholding the grand works of nature, the noble influence of her majesty--the queen of the bees. when, however, you do find the queen in the box you are about to take off, is it not easy to draw the tin-slide up again? certainly it is easy to draw up the dividing-tin. do so, then, and that done, the queen-bee will readily embrace the opportunity of leaving the place of her confinement; and then, having put down the dividing-tin, you will presently be in a situation to accomplish your object. you will soon see the bees running to and fro upon the windows in the box you are about to take off, and when you thus find them anxious to leave your box of honey, close the windows, and you have then only to open an egress by withdrawing the tin, no. . or . as your box may require; the bees finding an aperture, with light to direct their departure, will immediately embrace the opportunity of regaining their liberty, will fly away from their prison, and join their fellow-labourers at the entrance of the mother-hive. in a few minutes you will be in possession of a box of honey, and all your bees will be in safety and harmonizing with their beloved parent--the queen of the hive. take from them the box your humanity entitles you to, minding that the tin-slide is safe to the middle-box. you will then empty the full box, and return it empty to its former place; then draw up your tin, and you again enlarge their domicil, having gained a rich reward for your operation, at the expense of their labour. a child of twelve years of age may be taught to do this without the least danger; there need no bee-dresses,--there needs no fumigation of any sort. it is a natural movement for the welfare of these worthies, that prevents their swarming, and at once secures to the sovereign queen of bees her rightful throne. reader, this declaration is founded on facts,--on the practical experience of many years. and that you may adopt this principle and mode of managing honey-bees, that is, of taking from them their superabundance of treasure, and preserving your bees uninjured, and, if you can contrive it, improve upon the instructions here given you, and upon the example here set you, is my hearty wish, for my country's welfare, and for the welfare of my admired, nay, my _beloved_ bees. should it, however, so happen, as it sometimes may, owing to a variety of causes, such, for instance, as the negligence, or unskilfulness, or unavoidable absence of the bee-master at a critical time, or from any other cause, should it, i say, so happen that the pavilion, or middle-box, should swarm, take such swarm into one of the end-boxes, prepared for such an event, by merely making an entrance to it, at or as near as possible to the corner farthest from the entrance into the middle-box; and before this new entrance fix a small alighting board. the swarm will thus become a family of itself, and as much a stock pro tempore, as if it were placed on a separate stand, provided the dividing-tin, which separates the middle-box from that in which the swarm is put, be carefully adjusted, and made perfectly tight and secure, so that a bee cannot pass from one box to the other. to this material point the apiarian will necessarily attend when he first removes the end-box in order to put the swarm into it. in the evening place the box containing the swarm on its floor, just where and as it was before it was taken off. let the bees thus managed work two or three weeks, or as the nature of the season may require,--i mean--until the end-box appears to be pretty well filled with combs. then close up the exterior entrance of the collateral-box containing the swarm of bees, and draw out the sliding-tin which hitherto has separated the two families or colonies, and the bees will unite, and become one family. the apiarian will likewise witness with pleasure the effect of ventilation in the hive; for as soon as the bees have deposed one of the queens, and the end-box has been cooled by means of the cylinder-ventilator, he will discover that the combs will be presently emptied of every material necessary for the support of the young larvæ; so that the combs, that had been so recently constructed for a seat of nature, soon become receptacles for pure honey, and the numerous bees become the subjects of one sovereign in the middle-box. this is a neat method of re-uniting a swarm to its parent-stock; and the operation is so easy that the most unpractised apiarian may perform it without subjecting himself to the slightest danger of being stung by the bees. it can however only be practised with bees in boxes. another and a more prompt method of returning a swarm to its parent-stock, and which is practicable with swarms from cottage-hives, as well as with those from boxes, is the following. after the swarm has been taken in the usual way into an empty box, or into a straw-hive, and suffered to settle and cluster therein for an hour or two, gently and with a steady hand take the box or hive, and, having a tub of clean water placed ready and conveniently for the purpose, with a sudden jerk dislodge the bees from the box or hive and immerse them in the water. let them remain therein two or three minutes: then drain it off through a sieve, or other strainer, and spread the now harmless bees--harmless, because apparently half-drowned, upon a dry towel or table-cloth, and search for and _secure the queen_. this done, and which may very easily be done, place a board or two in a slanting direction from the entrance of the parent-hive to the ground; upon this lay the cloth on which are your immersed bees, and spread them thinly over it, in order that they may the sooner become dry; and, as they become dry, you will with pleasure see them return to their native-hive, which they will be permitted to enter without the slightest opposition from the bees already therein. by this operation not only are the immersed bees cooled, but their re-union with those already in the hive cools them also, and considerably lowers the temperature of the whole stock. with a late swarm from any sort of hive, as well as with an accidental swarm from boxes, this is a good method to be adopted; and, if the apiarian possess sufficient coolness and dexterity to perform it cleverly, it is a practice i would recommend whenever it is advisable to return a swarm to its native-hive. when a swarm has thus been returned to a cottage-hive an eke should be added forthwith. before i further explain the nature of my collateral bee-boxes, i shall briefly express my desire that my readers will attend particularly to the discovery of the effects of ventilation. i have been asked--"of what use is ventilation in the domicil of bees?" i answer--one of its uses has already been described, and much more of its use, i may say, of its necessity, in the humane management of bees will be told presently. many treatises on the management of these valuable insects have appeared, but in none of them do i find any allusion to this important point--important in my practice at least, and essentially necessary in it. therefore-- to works of nature join the works of man, to show, by art improved, what nature can. nature's great efforts can no further tend, here fix'd her pillars, all her labours end. dryden. perhaps the divided labour of the honey-bees was anticipated by the author of these lines: but, be that as it might, i, in my turn, will ask--how can we preserve the bees uninjured, divide their works, and take away their superabundant treasure, without the influence of ventilation? i think it is impossible. a lesson, a true lesson from nature, has demonstrated this fact to me, and twelve years' constant labour and attention to this important subject have put into operation my plans for the welfare of that wonderful insect--the sovereign queen of bees. well might dr. bevan say-- first of the throng, and foremost of the whole, one stands confess'd the sovereign and the soul. curious facts respecting this extraordinary creature are before me, which have been ascertained and proved by means of my observatory-hive. this hive is unknown in any work hitherto published on the interesting subject of bee-management: and with reference to it i may observe--that when a new principle is discovered by studying nature, such principle will seldom fail to produce effects beneficial in proportion to its being understood and skilfully applied. so simple and so rational (if i may so say) is my observatory-hive, that it cannot but be approved, when it is once understood, by the followers of my apiarian practice. be my humble theory what it may, it hath truth for its foundation; and by perseverance and industry i flatter myself i shall materially improve, if not bring to perfection, the cultivation and management of honey-bees, merely by pointing out _how_ the produce of their labour may be divided, _how_ a part thereof may be taken away, a sufficiency be left for the sustenance of the stock, and _how_ their lives may be preserved notwithstanding. much has been said against the probable results of this practice: but facts are stubborn things; and luckily for me and my mode of bee-management, i have an abundance of the most incontrovertible facts to adduce, which will, i think and hope, convince all those who have heretofore entertained doubts upon the subject. the first movement in my apiarian practice commences with the pavilion of nature. this pavilion, which is equivalent to a cottage-hive, is the subject of my present observations and explanation. i say, then,---disturb not this hive--this pavilion of nature: weaken not its population; but support its influence, and extend to it those accommodations which no practice, except my own, has yet put into operation, or made any adequate provision for. this humane practice partakes not of the driving, nor of the fumigating, nor of the robbing system. it is a liberal principle of bee-cultivation founded on humanity. and it is by such practice that we must succeed, if we hope to be benefited by the culture of honey-bees. chapter iii. ventilation. to ascertain the degree of heat in a colony of bees, and to regulate it by means of ventilation, as circumstances may require, recourse must be had to the use of the thermometer, as will be explained presently. but here i would ask my worthy bee-keepers, whether, in the course of their experience, they have at any time beheld a honey-comb suspended beneath the pedestal of any of their hives--a circumstance that not unfrequently occurs under old stools? the beautiful appearance of a comb suspended in such a situation is, as it were, the very finger of providence, pointing out the effects of ventilation, and teaching us by an example the necessity there is for it in a crowded, busy hive. behold the purity of such a comb; examine the cause of that purity, and you will find that it is owing--solely and undoubtedly owing--to the powerful influence of ventilation. an occurrence of this description, i mean--the discovery of a beautiful comb suspended, as just described, having excited my curiosity and my admiration, led me to inquire into the cause of it, and to study to discover, if by any means i could, why my skilful, little bees should have constructed their combs in such a situation. my observations soon satisfied me that one of these two causes, viz. either a want of room in the hive,--or a disagreeable and oppressive heat in it,--or most probably, a combination of these two causes, had rendered it necessary for them, if they continued working at all, to carry on their work in that singular manner. my next step was to endeavour to prove the truth of my reasonings and conclusions, in which, i flatter myself, i have fully succeeded, after no inconsiderable labour, and many contrivances to accommodate the bees with additional room, as they have had occasion for it, and after repeated experiments to keep such room, when added, at a temperature agreeable to them by means of ventilation. in short, my collateral-boxes and ventilation are the results of my studies and experiments on this point of apiarian science. there are few persons, who are managers of honey-bees under the old hive system, who, if they have not seen a comb constructed and suspended in the manner just described, have not, however, beheld these little creatures, when oppressed with the internal heat of their crowded domicil, and straitened for want of room in it, unhappily clustering and hanging at the door, or from and under the floor-board of their hive, in a ball frequently as large as a man's head, and sometimes covering all the front part of it, for sixteen or twenty days together; and this, be it remarked, at the season of the year which is the most profitable for their labours in the fields and among the flowers. during this distress of the bees in, or belonging to, such a hive, their labours are of necessity suspended,--their gathering of honey ceases,--ceases too at the very time that that saccharine substance is most plentifully secreted by the vegetable world. and---why? because they want an enlargement of their domicil,--an extension of the dominion, or (if it may be so termed) of the territory of the queen; by which enlargement swarming is superseded, and the royal insect relieved from the necessity of abdicating her throne, retains it, continues and extends the propagation of her species, and of course increases the busy labours of her innumerable subjects. _this accommodation is provided for bees in my collateral-boxes._ ancient as well as modern bee-keepers have frequently adopted the plan of eking, that is--placing three or four rounds of a straw-hive (called an eke) under their hives. this method of enlarging a hive does in many instances prevent swarming during that one season. notwithstanding, from all that i can see in it, it tends only to put off the evil day, and to accumulate greater numbers of bees for destruction the following year. this is certain, because on minute examination of the pavilion of nature, we find an increase of wealth, as well as an increase of numbers in the state; but there is no provision or contrivance in the common hive for dividing the wealthy produce of the labours of those numbers: eking will not do it,--eking enlarges the hive, and that is all it does; consequently to get at their honey, the necessity for destroying the bees follows, and the suffocating fumes of brimstone at length bring these worthies to the ground--to the deadly pit in which they are first suffocated, then buried, and are, alas, no more! a few minutes close the existence of thousands that had laboured for their ungrateful masters; and their once happy domicil becomes a scene of murder, of plunder, and of devastation, which is a disgrace to bee-masters, and ought by all means to be discountenanced and discontinued. assuredly bees are given to us by the gracious giver of all good things for a better purpose than that of being destroyed by thousands and by millions. are we not instructed by the sacred writings to go to the bee and to the ant, and learn wisdom? we are not told, neither are we warranted, by this language, to go and destroy them and their works,---to disobey the commands of their, no less than of our maker, who has given bees to us for our edification and comfort, and not wantonly to commit a species of murder, in order to procure their delicious treasure. nor is there the slightest necessity for destroying bees in this cruel manner, when an act of humanity will obtain for us their purest honey, and secure to us their lives for future and profitable labour. surely, then, an act of humanity to bees cannot be displeasing to any one, especially when we are taught by the beneficial results of our experience, that their lives _may be preserved_, and their labours for us thereby continued. apiarian reader, take this subject into thy serious consideration: in the busy hive behold the curious works of god's creatures--the bees; misuse riot, then, the works of his hands; but improve upon this lesson from nature: and for a moment pause before thou lightest the deadly match,--before thou appliest it with murderous intent to the congregated thousands in thy hive. it's he who feels no rev'rence for god's sacred name, that lights the sulphur up to cause the dreadful flame: alas! i think, viewing the monster's busy hand taking the dreadful match, i see a murderer stand. these insects' indefatigable labours alone should humanize our feelings for them, and induce us to spare their lives, for the rich treasures which they first collect, and then unresistingly yield up to us when operated upon by the healthy influence of ventilation. why should we lay the axe to the root of the tree that produces such good fruit? rather let us gather from its pure branches, and let the root live. examine the nature and effects of my bee-machinery, and you will discover its utility and its value in the management of bees. by the proper application of that machinery you may instantaneously divide the treasures of the bees, even in the most vigorous part of their gathering season, without the least danger to the operator, and frequently without the destruction of a single bee. is not this, then, a rational and humane practice? i trust it wants only to be properly understood in order to be universally adopted. again: does not she that is a kind mother know the wants and desires of her children? take the lovely offspring from its mother's care and protection, and imprison it before her eyes, and will she not impatiently cry aloud for its release and restoration to liberty? and will not the child's screams show its affection for its fond parent? and when its liberty is restored, does not consolation quickly follow? the lost child being once more under its mother's care, both mother and child are happy. similar facts are exemplified by the mother of the hive, who loves her multitudinous offspring, and lives in harmony and affection with them. she evidently dislikes a separation from her subjects, who seem to be, and doubtless are, most devotedly attached to her. and when, on taking off a glass or a box, they are divided only for a few minutes, we witness their sorrow, and hear their lamentations in the hive,--the queen-mother calling for her children, anxious on their part to be released; and as soon as an opportunity is afforded them of effecting their escape, they embrace it,--the moment they feel their liberty, they gladly take advantage of it, and return to the pavilion in multitudes, so that in a short time tranquillity is restored, and peace and happiness are again enjoyed by the previously unhappy mother of the hive,--her subjects crowd round her, and the place that had lately been their prison soon becomes their palace, and a magazine for future treasure, which the humane apiarian will again be entitled to. much has been said on the piling or storifying mode of managing bees; and i admit that there are advantages in it which we do not meet with in the cottage-hive system. it is, notwithstanding, imperfect in the design,--it is founded in error,--in practice it is liable to many difficulties,--and it is particularly disadvantageous to the labours of these valuable insects, as will be more fully shown when i come to state my objections to it. we have only to study the nature and habits of bees, and to watch particularly the desires of these indefatigable creatures. they alone will teach us the lesson. but follow them through their movements during a summer's day, and you will behold them, as it were, pitifully asking for the assistance of man, according to the varying state of the thermometer. chapter iv. thermometer. as i have been frequently asked to explain the utility of ventilation in a hive or colony of bees, so have i as frequently been asked, sometimes with civility and politeness, sometimes jeeringly and in contempt,--"what has the thermometer to do with bees?" i answer--we shall see presently; and i trust, see enough to convince the veriest sceptic on the subject, that the thermometer is an instrument that is indispensably necessary in the management of bees according to my plan. such inquirers might as reasonably ask what the mainspring of a watch has to do with the movements of that machine? without the mainspring the watch would not work at all; and without the thermometer we cannot ascertain with any degree of accuracy the interior temperature of the hive; the knowledge of which temperature is of the utmost consequence in the humane management of honey-bees. the thermometer is the safest, if not the sole guide to a scientific knowledge of their state and works. to ventilate an apiary or colony of bees, when their interior temperature is under degrees, would be ruinous to them,--because contrary to the prosperous progress of their natural labours. from upwards of fifteen hundred observations in the summer of , i am fully satisfied on this point. their nature is to keep up at least that, and sometimes a much higher, degree of temperature by their indefatigable labours; and as the temperature of the hive rises, so does it invigorate and encourage an increase of population, as well as an increase of their treasured sweets. as the hive fills, so will the thermometer rise to and even to degrees, before these worthies will by over-heat be forced to leave their wealthy home. when the thermometer is at the above height, these wealthy colonists will have arrived at the highest state of perfection,--wealthy indeed, every store-house being filled nearly to suffocation with their abundant treasures, and they, as it were, petitioning the observer of their too-limited store-house for a fresh room. thus circumstanced then give them a fresh room,--accommodate them with such a store-house as either of my collateral-boxes will and is intended to afford them. _force them not to warm:_ an emigration from a prosperous colony of half its population cannot fail of being very disadvantageous, both to those that emigrate, who must necessarily be poor, and to those that remain, be they ever so industrious, or ever so wealthy. when you discover your thermometer rising rapidly, and, instead of standing, as it generally does in a well-stocked colony, at about degrees, rising in a few hours to , and perhaps to , or even to , you may conclude that ventilation is _then_ highly necessary. the more you ventilate, when their temperature gets to this oppressive and dangerous height, the more you benefit the bees labouring under it; for when they find a comfortable temperature within, they enjoy it, and will proceed to fill every vacant comb. nature has provided the queen of bees with the power of multiplying her species, and of providing against any casualty which in so numerous a state may frequently happen. that all-seeing eye that neither slumbers nor sleeps, but constantly superintends alike the affairs of insects and of men, has, doubtless, long beheld the shameful neglect of man, which is the main cause of the distress of the hive, and which _forces_ it to swarm. let man, then, remedy the distress and mischief which he occasions, by _preventing it_. it is the queen-bee that emigrates; were she not to lead, none would lead; nor would any follow were another than the queen to lead, to seek and to settle in some place more congenial to them than an over-heated, over-stocked, though rich hive. she well knows she cannot live in a state subjected to a suffocating heat, amidst an overgrown population. so she leaves the royal cradle, impregnated with the royal larva, and withdraws from the hive, reluctantly, one may suppose, though accompanied by thousands of her subjects. the queen-bee leads the swarm to seek a place of comfort, and to establish another home, where not one cell nor drop of honey exists. to establish the truth of these assertions, and to prove the utility of ventilation and of the thermometer, in regulating the degree of ventilation in the management of bees, i will now give my reader an account of some interesting experiments that i made in , and then add a few extracts from my thermometrical journal of that summer; which in fact guided me in those experiments, for without the assistance of my thermometer i could not have made them; from which, taken together, it will, i think, be sufficiently evident that ventilation and the thermometer are highly necessary,--are alike important,--in short, are _indispensable_ in the humane management of honey-bees. on the th of june , i suffered a colony of bees to swarm, in order to prove the truth of the foregoing statements. it was a very fine colony: the thermometer had been standing at for six days previously, in one of the collateral end-boxes; on the eighth day it rose suddenly to . i was then forcing my bees to leave their home; i could have lowered their temperature, and by so doing, i could have retained my worthies in their native boxes: but i was then about to prove a fact of the greatest moment to apiarians. on the ninth day, at half-past twelve o'clock, the finest swarm i ever beheld towered above my head, and literally darkened the atmosphere in the front of my apiary. after remaining about five minutes in the open air, the queen perched herself upon a tree in my garden, where she was exposed to the rays of a scorching sun; but her loyal subjects quickly surrounded her, and screened her from its influence. i immediately did what i could to assist my grand prize, by hanging a sheet before it, to ward off the intense heat of the sun. i allowed the bees to hang in this situation until the evening. during the absence of the swarm from the colony, my full employment was to watch the parent-stock, in order that i might, in the evening, return the bees of this beautiful swarm to their native-hive, which they had been forced to leave. curiosity and a desire to solve a doubtful problem, for the good of future apiarians, led me to act as already related, at the expense of much inconvenience to the bees. the remaining honey-bees continued labouring during the remainder of the day; and in the evening of that same day, the thermometer was standing at degrees in the old stock; so that the absence of the swarm had lowered the temperature of the pavilion degrees, and i was quite sure i could reduce it in the collateral end-box to that of the exterior atmosphere, which, after the sun had gone down, was only . to effect this, i resolved at once to take off a fine top-glass filled with honey. i did so: its weight was fourteen pounds. this operation reduced the interior heat of the colony to . but looking at my grand swarm, and intent as i was upon re-uniting it to the parent-stock, i thought it impossible for the vacant space conveniently to hold all the bees. i had one, and only one, alternative left,--and that was to take from my colony a collateral-box. i therefore took it; and a most beautiful box it was: its weight was fifty pounds. i immediately placed an empty box in the situation the full one had occupied. i then drew from the side of the pavilion the dividing tin-slide, and the whole of the colony was shortly at the desired temperature of , that being the exterior heat of the evening. i was now fully convinced of the propriety of returning the swarm. i commenced operations for accomplishing that object at ten o'clock in the evening, by constructing a temporary stage near the mouth of the parent-stock. i then procured a white sheet, and laid it upon the table or temporary stage, and in a moment struck the swarm from the hive into which the bees had been taken from the bough in the evening. my next difficulty was to imprison the sovereign of the swarm: but with a little labour i succeeded in discovering her, and made her my captive. no sooner was she my prisoner than the bees seemed to be acquainted with her absence. but so near were they placed to the mouth of the parent-stock that they soon caught the odour of the hive, and in the space of about fifteen minutes the whole swarm, save only her majesty, were under the roof of their parent-home. the following morning increased my anxiety about the welfare of my stock. fearful lest my carious anticipations should meet with a disappointment, at sun-rise in the morning i released from her imprisonment the captive queen. i placed her on the front-board, near the entrance of her hive, to ascertain, if possible, whether there was within the state one greater than herself. but no visible sign of such being the case presented itself. the influence of the cheery sun soon caused her to move her majestic body to the entrance of her native domicil, where she was met, surrounded, and no doubt welcomed, by thousands of her subjects, who soon conducted her into the hive, and, it may be presumed, re-instated her on the throne, which a few hours before she had been compelled to abdicate. the bees afterwards sallied forthwith extraordinary alacrity and regularity, and, beyond my most sanguine expectations, filled a large glass with honey in the short space of six days. that glass of honey was exhibited at the national repository, with a model of my apiary, and was much admired by many of the members and visitors of that noble institution. i have now to remark, that during the nine days after the swarm had been returned to the parent-stock, the thermometer continued rising until it reached the temperature of within the collateral-box; and on the tenth day, at five o'clock in the morning, i witnessed the grand secret,--i viewed with unutterable delight the extraordinary fact i had been endeavouring to ascertain,--viz.--_two royal nymphs laid prostrate on the alighting-board_, near the exterior entrance of the hive. this circumstance alone convinced me that no more swarming was necessary. i have further to notice, that on the third day afterwards the bees commenced their destruction of the drones,--which was a satisfactory proof that i had gained my point. that colony has never swarmed since the period i thus first satisfactorily established the utility of ventilation. and on minutely attending to the extraordinary movements of this my favourite colony, it was not uncommon to notice the most infant appearance of the royal brood lying upon the front-board of the pavilion. so that i am well satisfied that the royal larva is always in existence in the hive, independently of the reigning queen. let me not be misunderstood; i do not mean by this expression to assert--that the royal larva exists in the hive without the instrumentality or agency of the reigning queen;--far from it; for no common bees can make a sovereign bee without the egg from the royal body: what i do mean is--that the royal larva is always in existence in a colony of bees, notwithstanding the existence and presence of a reigning queen--that the queen is there, and that the royal larva is there at the same time. in this the wisdom of providence is manifest; for nature has _thus_ provided that the royal cradle should contain the royal brood, that in case any accident, misfortune, casualty, or necessity, should occasion the absence of the reigning queen, another may be brought forth. this larva in reserve, as it were, is protected and reared by the inhabitants with the utmost care, nay, in the absence of the queen, it is almost worshipped, until it becomes sufficiently matured to take the office and fulfil the duties of its royal predecessor; of course it then reigns supreme,--it is then queen absolute. on this point i not only coincide in opinion with thorley, but have seen enough in the course of my experience among bees to confirm the truth of what i have now stated. as, however, the further discussion of this nice point belongs to the natural history of the bee rather than to the explanation and inculcation of my practical mode of bee-management, i refrain from saying more upon it, lest by so doing i should inadvertently excite criticism and controversy. i therefore proceed with my proper subject. the following thermometrical observations are from the journal before mentioned. the first column gives the day of the month,--the second shows the hour of the day when the thermometer was examined,--and the third is its height at those several times in the colony of bees upon which my experiments were so successfully made. . at this state of the thermometer april hour ther. it is highly necessary to remove your bees to their summer stand. a great decrease -- of wealth in the hive will appear daily under this temperature; -- and feeding should be resorted to until it rise to : and if -- _moderate feeding_ be continued until the interior temperature reach , it will materially strengthen and invigorate your bees. and as the thermometer continues to rise, you will find -- your hive improve. it will soon be in a good state for the spring. considerable improvements in the combs, and immense gathering -- of farina, appear to occupy the bees at this time. -- the enemies of bees are numerous and active in this month. as much as possible guard against their attacks, and be careful to defend your bees against them. at all times keep their floor-boards clean; and now withdraw the dead bees, if there should appear to be any lying on the floor-boards or other stands. this will save the live bees much labour, and may be done very easily. may hour ther. swarming may be expected in this month if the hives be rich -- and the season favourable. to -- prevent which enlarge your hives, by adding three or four -- rounds, i. e. an eke, to the -- bottom of each of them. -- if you have the collateral-box hives, you need only draw up the tin-slides, or one of them, -- as occasion may require. by this means you enlarge the bees' -- domicil, without admitting the atmospheric air. this move so pleases these indefatigable creatures, that you will behold at once the utility and humanity of this mode of management. -- -- -- should the weather be seasonable, the boxes will now be filled rapidly, and the thermometer will rise quickly. at this period -- ventilation will demonstrate what has hitherto been a secret -- of nature;--viz. many young sovereigns in various states of -- perfection will be seen daily cast -- out of the hives: and the waxen cells will be extended to the -- remotest corners of their domicil. -- riches are now rapidly accumulated: -- and the glasses filled -- with the purest sweets. small glasses may be taken off from -- the inverted-hives, if the weather -- prove fine. -- mem.--a glass of honey, weighing -- lbs. and a collateral-box, -- weighing lbs. taken. -- after taking the above treasure -- from the collateral-hive, -- and placing an empty glass and -- an empty box in the places of those taken off, the interior -- temperature was reduced to -- degrees, while the atmosphere -- was at twelve o'clock at -- night. -- -- the pure honey taken was -- about one-fourth of the weight -- of the hive, and it will be -- observed that the heat shows a decrease in the temperature of -- one fourth. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- june hour ther. -- -- -- mem.--a collateral-box of -- honey, weighing lbs. and a -- glass on the th, weighing - / lbs. taken. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- mem.--a collateral-box, -- weighing lbs. and -- another, weighing lbs. taken. -- -- -- -- -------------------------- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- july hour ther. if the pasturage for bees begin -- to fail in your neighbourhood -- at this time, it is advisable, if -- it be practicable, to remove your colonies to a better and a more -- profitable situation. you will be -- richly rewarded for this attention -- to the prosperity of your apiary. -- -- -- -------------------------------- -- july hour ther. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- summary of memorandums of the several deprivations or takings of honey from one set of boxes this season: may . glass and box lbs. june . box .. ---- . glass - / .. ---- . box .. ---- . ditto .. collateral-box .. -------- - / lbs. did i deem it necessary, i could, from the letters of a variety of highly respectable correspondents, show that the mode of managing bees in the way, and upon the principles, now explained, has been adopted, and _has succeeded_ even beyond the most sanguine expectations of many of my worthy friends and patrons; but i will content myself at present with giving the two following letters, which i have just received from a gentleman in this neighbourhood, whose very name, to all who have any knowledge of or acquaintance with him, will be a sufficient guarantee that his statements are facts. besides, his letters are a condensed, and i must say--clever epitome of my practical directions for the management of bees in my boxes, and may be useful on that account; and moreover, i have, as will be seen presently, his unsolicited authority to make them public, and therefore run no risk of being called to order for so doing. "gedney-hill, th july, . "dear sir, "you will, i am persuaded, excuse me for troubling you with the information that i yesterday took off a fine glass of honey from one of my bee-colonies. i went to work secundum artem, that is, in one word, _scientifically_, or in four words, _according to your directions_; and i have the satisfaction, nay more,--i have the pleasure to add that i succeeded--i had almost said _completely_, but i must qualify that expression by saying, that _i succeeded all but completely_; for one luckless bee had the misfortune to be caught between the edges of the dividing-tin and the glass, and to be crushed to death in consequence. excepting that accident, i believe that not one bee was injured, nor lost. they left the glass, as soon as i gave them the opportunity of leaving it, in the most peaceable manner; in a subdued and plaintive tone they hummed round me,--settled upon me,--crept over me in all directions,--but not one of them stung me; in short, they returned to their home without manifesting the slightest symptoms of resentment, and in less than half an hour from the commencement of the operation, _there was not a single bee left in the glass_. in my eye it is a very handsome glass of honey; it weighs exactly lbs, and it has not one brood-cell in it. i intend to close it up,--to label it,--and to keep it, at least until i get another as handsome. it is a _rich_ curiosity to exhibit to one's friends, especially to those who have never seen such a thing. "on the other side, i send you a fortnight's register of the heights and variations of a thermometer, placed in the colony from which i have taken the glass, and also, of one placed in the shade, and apart from all bees; from which register you will know, in a moment, whether i have managed my bees properly. i am willing to flatter myself that i have, and that you will say i have been very attentive indeed. ther. ther. ther. ther. . in the in the . in the in the july hour colony shade july hour colony shade -------------------------------- ------------------------------- .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. "in addition to this i could, time and space permitting, tell you from what point the wind blew on each of these days, when it came full in front of my boxes, and when it came upon them in any other direction, when it was high, and when it was otherwise, on what days the bees were able to get abroad, and also when they were kept at home by rain, or by any other cause. from these observations of the wind and weather, and particularly from the manner in which the wind is directed towards, or into the ventilators in the boxes, in conjunction with the movements of the bees, i think i can account pretty satisfactorily for what may appear, at first sight, to be a little contradictory, viz. for the rising of the thermometer in the boxes sometimes when it was falling in the shade; and vice versa, for its sometimes rising in the shade when it was falling in the boxes. but instead of writing you a dissertation on these subjects, or on any of them, i choose rather to put you into possession of the whole of my bee-practice, by submitting to your notice a copy, or as nearly as i can make it a copy, of a letter i took the liberty of addressing to the editor of 'the voice of humanity,' in october last, after the appearance in no. v. of that publication, of a representation and _imperfect_ explanation of your boxes. i was encouraged to write that letter by the following announcement in an article in that no.--'a due regard of rational humanity towards the bee, though but an insect, we shall feel a pleasure in promoting in the future as well as the present pages of our publication. this subject has, moreover, a very strong claim, inasmuch as it also exemplifies the grand principle upon which the voice of humanity is founded--the true _prevention of cruelty_ to animals, by substituting a practical, an _improved system_, in the place of one which is defective; this, in reference to the present subject, &c, _is true prevention of cruelty_, not only to units, but to thousands and tens of thousands of animals.' notwithstanding this very _rational_ announcement, and the prompt acknowledgment of the receipt of my letter, it did not appear in either of the next two numbers, nor am i aware that it is in the last, but i have not yet seen the last no. of that publication, therefore must not be positive. but this is not all: in no. , the conductors of that work express i sincere pleasure' in inserting an article which, they say, c forms an admirable addition to that on mr. nutt's bee-hive;' and that 'the plan which it developes, in addition to its humanity, has the recommendation of being more simple and practicable than even the excellent improvements of mr. nutt.' now what do you suppose this _admirable_ addition to your bee-hive,---this plan recommended on account of its _humanity_, as well as on other accounts--is? it is no other than that most cruel and destructive one of depriving bees of their honey _and of every thing else_, by 'driving them out of a full hive into an empty one, so early in the season as to afford the bees sufficient time to provide themselves with another stock of winter food before the bad weather begins.' very considerate this, certainly! but who can tell how soon the bad weather may begin? of all the methods ever resorted to of getting their honey from bees, this, in my humble opinion, is the most cruel and _inhuman_: suffocating the bees and destroying them at once is far preferable to this (i had hoped) exploded mode of robbing them. if practised, it will, however, soon cure itself: but is it not a strange practice for 'the voice of humanity' to revive? either the utterers of that sweet voice are unacquainted with the humane management of bees upon your plan, or they are unaware of the mischievous and destructive consequences attendant on the driving mode of deprivation, or they have little claim to the title they bear on the score of their humanity to bees. i believe the former to be the case with them: and therefore, in addition to the reason already given for troubling you herewith, and in order to set them right on this _vital_ subject, i give you full power to do what you please with these letters. if they will be of any use to you in your projected publication, give them a place in it, and welcome: only do not garble them, _give them entire, if you give them at all_. i am decidedly opposed to the driving scheme; and i as decidedly approve of yours, which is, if properly attended to, at once simple, practicable, profitable, admirable, and truly humane. accept me, dear sir, yours very truly, thomas clark." "mr. editor, "since the publication of the last no. of 'the voice of humanity,' in which you treated your readers with some interesting particulars explanatory of the construction and different parts of mr. nutt's bee-boxes, and also of the mode of managing the bees in them, so far at least as regards the taking away a box when stored with the delicious sweet (i. e. with honey), it has been suggested to me, that a plain, simple history of a colony of bees in my possession, and managed according to mr. nutt's excellent plan, may not be altogether unacceptable to the general readers and friends of 'the voice of humanity' and may be even _a treat_ to amateur apiarians, who may be unacquainted with the merits of mr. nutt's plan; or who, if partially acquainted therewith, may have their doubts as to its practicability, or, at least, as to its advantages, i. e. superiority over other plans. as far, then, as the voice of humanity' can make them (the merits of mr. nutt's plan) known, i trust it will be as music to that voice to publish the following facts. "having had a complete set of mr. nutt's boxes presented to me, i, though comparatively a novice in apiarian science, and not at that time particularly attached to it, could not, in compliment to the donor, do less than endeavour to work them, that was--get them stocked. that was done with a swarm on the th of may ; and the middle-box, or pavilion of nature, as mr. nutt calls it, into which the said swarm was taken just in the same way it would have been if put into a common straw-hive, was conveyed a distance of nearly four miles and placed in my garden in the evening of the same day. the next day being fine, i observed that the bees were very busy constructing comb, and had, within twenty-four hours of their being domiciled in their new abode, actually made a progress in that most curious work that astonished me: they were passing and re-passing, and literally all alive; many were visibly loaded with materials for their ingenious work. my curiosity was excited, and so much was i pleased with my multitudinous labourers that i visited them daily, and many times in the course of each day, when the weather was favourable for their getting abroad. their combs were rapidly advanced; but to my great mortification they very soon obstructed my view of their interior works, by bringing a fine comb quite over the only little window at the back of the pavilion, at the distance of about half an inch from the glass. i was not, however, without the means of ascertaining that they were filling the pavilion with their treasures, and consequently that they would soon be in want of more room. i, therefore, at the end of a fortnight admitted them into the large bell-glass by withdrawing the slide, which, when closed, cuts oft' the communication between the pavilion and the said glass. they (the bees) immediately reconnoitred it, as it were, and examined it round and round, and presently took possession of it in great numbers; and in the course of the second day afterwards i could perceive that they began to continue their work upwards from and upon the combs in the box. here i was again inexpressibly gratified by daily observing the progress of their beautiful work, and by the busy thousands in perpetual motion. when they had about half-filled the glass, and before i was aware that there was any occasion for their admission into either of the collateral-boxes, they suddenly threw off a swarm. that event i attribute partly to my own inexperience in apiarian matters, and partly--principally to the want of a thermometer by which to ascertain and regulate the temperature of the crowded pavilion, so as to keep the bees _at the working, and below the swarming point of heat_. mr. nutt assures me that a barn would not contain a colony of bees if its temperature were raised above a certain degree. what that precise degree of heat is i leave to mr. nutt to determine and explain: at present it is enough to state that i am convinced it is possible, nay, quite easy, to keep bees at work, and to prevent their swarming, by giving them plenty of room, and by proper ventilation. after my bees had thrown off the swarm, as above mentioned, the work in the glass progressed but slowly, indeed it was for some time almost deserted, owing, i presume, to the room made in the pavilion by the absence of the thousands that had left it: for, whenever the weather was such that they could get abroad, they were always busy. the season, however, it is well-known, was so wet as to be very unfavourable for bees:--the summer of was not by any means what is called a bee-year; and early in the autumn i could see that, instead of adding to their store, they were under the necessity of living upon it. they were, however, abundantly provided for the winter, and lived through it almost to a bee. in the spring of this year ( ) they appeared to be strong and in excellent condition. as early as the middle of may they had replenished the emptied combs in the glass, and, it may be presumed, in the pavilion too. in the first week of june, the glass was completely filled in the most beautiful manner. i therefore opened the communication to one of the end or collateral-boxes, and two or three days afterwards, viz. on the th of june, i took off the glass and replaced it with another. so rapidly did those industrious little insects proceed with their work, that in about six weeks they completely filled the end-box. i then opened the way to the empty box at the other end of the pavilion: and a few days afterwards had the full box taken off by mr. nutt himself (who happened to call upon me, and who handsomely volunteered his services on the occasion), without any stifling of any sort--without the destruction, or the loss, of--scarcely a bee,--as nearly in the manner described in your last no. as circumstances would permit; for the queen-bee being in the box taken off made it necessary for mr. nutt to vary the operation a little;--not a person was stung, though ladies, very timid ladies, and children too, were among the admiring lookers on; only, in returning the queen-bee, found in the box, to the pavilion, i myself was stung, owing to my over-anxiety to see how she would be received by the bees in the pavilion. her majesty's presence in that box (the box taken off) at that time might probably have puzzled me; but to mr. nutt it presented no difficulty; and to witness his operation was to me a most instructive lesson, and would have delighted any friend of humanity. it was performed in the middle of a fine day. that box contained, as nearly as we could estimate, about lbs. of honey, incomparably purer and finer than any i ever saw, except from mr. nutt's boxes. the glass beforementioned contained lbs.--so that i have this year taken _forty-seven pounds_ of the very finest honey from one stock of bees;--i have all my bees alive--and they are at this time abundantly provided for the ensuing winter; nay, without impoverishing them, i believe, i might take or lbs. more; but i have already had enough; and, if my bees have more than enough for their winter's consumption, they will not waste it;--it will be found next year. "the preservation of the bees unhurt, uninjured, very many of them undisturbed at all,--the quantity of honey that may be had,--and the very superior quality of that honey, are advantages of mr. nutt's mode of bee-management, over the barbarous, stifling system, that cannot fail to recommend it to the adoption of every friend of humanity,--to every lover of the delicious sweet,--and to every apiarian who has nothing beyond self-interest in view. "one word more, and i have done. there are, i observe with pleasure, persons of considerable influence among your subscribers, and probably there may be persons of still greater influence among your readers. to such i would most respectfully suggest the propriety of doing something to reward mr. nutt for the services he has already rendered the honey-bee and the cause of humanity. i--an obscure, country clergyman, know not how to set about procuring it; but a _premium was never more richly deserved_. "though longer than i intended, when i sat down to write, i hope you will find no difficulty in giving the foregoing communication a place in your pages; and, in this hope, i beg to subscribe myself, your humble servant, thomas clark. "gedney-hill, near wisbech, october th, ." chapter v. on driving bees. as my reverend correspondent has introduced the subject of _driving_ bees from their full hive into an empty one, in order that they may be deprived of their honey and wax, and has animadverted upon that practice with some severity, i will take the opportunity of here stating my objections to it. mr. huish, in his treatise on bees, has twice described the manner in which "_driving a hive_" may be performed; but nowhere, that i can find, has he once recommended it. in a note (in page ) he says---that "by _driving a hive_ may be understood the act of obliging the bees to leave their own domicil, and take refuge in another. this is performed by placing the full hive under an empty one, (or he might have said, by placing an empty hive upon the full one inverted) and by gently tapping the lower hive the bees will ascend into the upper, and the lower one then remains vacant for experiments, or the purpose of deprivation." he afterwards (in page ) gives a more detailed account of the manner of performing this operation; and having done so, he presently observes that "by the driving of the bees a number is unavoidably killed." i do not find that mr. huish himself practises it further than for the purpose of making experiments; and that, having made those experiments, he returns the driven bees to their hives and to their treasures in them. in short, he describes it to his readers because they may wish to be acquainted with it, and not because he approves of it. i mention this because i consider mr. huish to be respectable authority on such a subject. now, were there nothing in a hive but bees and honey, driving them into an empty hive (were it as easy in practice as it seems to be upon paper, though i presume it is not) in order to rob them of their all, would be a most arbitrary and unjust method of treating them: but, besides bees and honey, there are other substances in a prosperous hive which ought not to be disturbed. there are the future inhabitants of the colony in every stage of existence, from the egg to the perfect bee, and these in a driven hive are all totally destroyed--eggs, larvæ, nymphs, in one word, _the brood_, in whatever state, is all destroyed, when the bees are driven from it and not suffered to return. and is it not an unnatural operation that thus destroys many thousands of lives in embryo, over and above the "_number unavoidably killed_" thereby? as painful must it be for the queen--the mother of the colony, and to all the other bees, to be _forcibly expelled_ from a hive and home of plenty and prosperity, as it is for an industrious man and his thriving family to be rudely ejected from a comfortable house and home, without the least notice of, or preparation for, so calamitous an event, and forced by lawless marauders to take shelter in an empty house, and left there destitute, to subsist as best they can, or to starve, as probably they may, their spirits being cast down by the violent deprivations and desperate robbery they have experienced, and it may be, the winds, and the weather, and the elements of heaven, are warring, as it were, against them at the same time. and, comparatively speaking, is it not so with _driven_ bees? they are turned topsy-turvy, and in that strange, unnatural position their fears are operated upon, or excited, by unusual, and to them, no doubt, terrible sounds made by even "gently tapping" their inverted-hive--their house turned upside down. though no advocate for suffocating bees, but the contrary--a decided opponent to it, i agree in opinion with my correspondent that suffocation at once is preferable to the very reprehensible practice of "driving a hive," inasmuch as an instantaneous death is preferable to a lingering and unnatural one by starvation, which, whatever may befal the driven bees, is the hard, untimely fate of the brood and young larvæ of a hive when the queen and commoners are driven from them into a new and empty domicil. they leave, because they are forced to leave behind them, and to perish, thousands of the young brood in a state of helplessness. their mother and their nurses are driven into banishment and pauperism, while her offspring are doomed to perish for the want of their aid and support. if driving be practised early in the season, that is in june or july, all the brood then in the driven hive must inevitably perish; if later, it is hardly to be expected that the surviving bees will or can prosper. can the bee-master for a moment think that when bees are so driven from their old hive, they will work in their new one, as if they had swarmed voluntarily and then been put into it: it is some considerable time before bees thus treated will work vigorously; and during that time of lingering and irresolution the honey-season fast declines,--the bees' difficulties multiply,--and they become paupers at a time they should be rich. nine times out of ten the hive so treated perishes by famine, and like the young brood, dies the worst of deaths,--the whole hive becomes a melancholy wreck, and is absolutely sacrificed to the mistaken notions of the speculating, or experiment-making proprietor. it is a practice of which _i disapprove altogether_: and i am surprised that any one could so far misunderstand the principles and nature of my practice as to recommend the driving of bees out of a full hive into an empty one as an admirable addition to my bee-hive--that is--to my bee-boxes. i have the satisfaction, however, to state that in the management of bees in my boxes _no driving is necessary, nor even possible_: by them _driving_ and _suffocation_ are both superseded, and rendered as useless to operators as they have long been destructive to bees,--and, i cannot but say--disgraceful to apiarians. what i have already said (in page ) i will here repeat with as much emphasis as i am able, because that passage comprehends the very essence of my directions relative to the management of bees in the middle-box,--and because those directions are utterly incompatible with _driving_. "i say, then, disturb not this hive--this pavilion of nature: weaken not its population; rut support its influence, and extend to it those accommodations which no practice, except my own, has yet put into operation, or made any adequate provision for. "this humane practice partakes not of the _driving_, nor of the _fumigating_, nor of the _robbing_ system. it is a _liberal principle_ of bee-cultivation, founded on _humanity_. and it is by such practice that we must succeed, if we hope to be benefited in the culture of honey-bees." chapter vi. inverted-hive. many useful discoveries have been made by accident;--and to some of the greatest and grandest of those discoveries even philosophers and men of science have been led by accidents apparently the most trifling and insignificant. to the playful tricks of some little children that astonishing and most scientific instrument--the telescope, it is said, owes its origin; and it is said also that that great and good man--sir isaac newton was led to investigate the laws of gravitation by accidentally observing an apple topple to the ground from the twig that had borne it. one of the sweetest of our poets, however, informs us--that all nature is but art, unknown to thee, all chance, direction, which thou canst not see. if, therefore, a beautifully delicate honey-comb suspended from the stool of a hive first led me to discover the utility of ventilation in a colony of bees, though there may be nothing very surprising, there is, i trust,--nay, i am convinced, and therefore i assert--there is something very useful in it: and if an accident of another description induced me to endeavour to turn it to advantage, there is nothing to be greatly wondered at. so, however, it happened; and here follows the account of it. on rising early one morning in july , and walking into my apiary, as my custom then was, and still is, i discovered that some malicious wretch had been there before me, and had overturned a fine colony of bees. the reader may judge how much my indignation was aroused by that dastardly act of outrage against my unoffending bees. my feelings of vexation soon, however, subsided into those of pity for my poor bees; and fortunately for them, no less than for me, their overturned domicil, which consisted of a hive eked or enlarged by a square box upon which i had placed it some weeks previously, was so shaded from or towards the east by a thick fence, that the rays of the sun had not reached it;--this compound-hive, and the countless thousands that were clustering around it, were prostrate in the shade. i viewed my distressed bees for a considerable time, and studied and planned what i might best do to relieve them, and, if possibly i could, rescue them from the deplorable situation into which they had been thrown. at length i determined to reverse the whole, which i effected by first carefully drawing the box as closely as i was able to the edge of the hive, and then placing the hive upon its crown, so that, in fact, the whole domicil was inverted. i shaded, protected, shored-up, and supported the bees, their exposed works, and their hive, in the best way i could, and afterwards reluctantly left them for the day, being under the necessity of going from home a distance of almost twenty miles, viz. to wisbech. on my return in the evening i could discern evident proofs of the willingness of the bees to repair the sore injury they had sustained; and on the third day afterwards i was highly pleased to witness the progress their united efforts had made to rescue their dilapidated habitation from the ruin that had threatened it and them too, and which, i confess, i had anticipated. i was particularly attentive to their movements. i assisted them by every means i could devise. they gradually surmounted all the difficulties to which they had been exposed. in short, they prospered; and from that malicious trick of some miscreant or other i first caught the idea of an _inverted-hive_, which i have since studied and greatly improved. every bee-master will have had opportunities of observing--that this curious, i may say--intelligent, little insect--the bee, is ever alive to the most ready methods of extricating itself from difficulties, and of bettering the condition of the state, whenever accident or misfortune has placed it in jeopardy: and, i will add--that the timely assistance of the bee-master will frequently save a stock from that ruin, or at least from that trouble and inconvenience, which apparently trivial circumstances, such for instance as uncleanliness, excessive heat in summer, intense severity of winter, too contracted an entrance at one season, a too extended and open one at another, or wet lodged on and retained by the floor-board, may, and very often do occasion. the subjoined cut is a representation of an inverted-hive fixed in its frame, trellised, roofed, completely fitted up, and just as it appears when placed in an apiary and stocked with bees. [illustration] explanation of an inverted-hive. a. is a stout octagon-box, in which is to be placed an _inverted cottage-hive_ containing the bees. its diameter within the wood, i mean its _clear diameter_, is seventeen inches, and its depth, or rather its height, is fifteen or sixteen inches, or just sufficient to reach to, and be level with, the edge of the inverted cottage-hive, when placed within it: in fact, the octagon-box (a.) is a strong case or cover for the inverted-hive; and, if made an inch or two deeper than the hive to be placed in it, it is an easy matter to pack the bottom, so that the edge of the hive and the top-edge of the octagon-box (a.) may be exactly on a level. fitted and fastened to this is a top or floor, made of three-fourths-inch deal, which top should sit closely upon the edge of the hive all round. the centre of this top is cut out circularly to within an inch and a half of the inner circumference or edge of the hive upon and over which it is placed. upon this floor is a box, made of inch or inch-and-quarter deal, seventeen inches square within, and four inches deep. this i call the ventilation-box, because through two of its opposite sides are introduced horizontally two cylinder ventilating-tubes, made of tin, thickly perforated, and in all respects similar to those described in page . the top of this box is the floor upon which nine glasses are placed for the reception of honey, namely--a large bell-glass in the centre, and eight smaller ones around it. by a _large_ bell-glass i mean--one capable of containing twelve or fourteen pounds of honey, and by _smaller_ ones--such as will hold about four pounds. the bees of an inverted-hive in a good situation will work well in glasses of these sizes, and soon fill some or all of them: but, if in an unfavourable situation, lesser glasses, down to one-half the abovementioned sizes, will be more suitable. situation, season, and strength of the stock,--strength, i mean, as respects the number of bees, must, after all, guide the apiarian in this matter. the floor abovementioned should be made of three-fourths-inch deal. of course proper apertures must be cut through this floor under each of the glasses to admit the bees into them from the box beneath. around and over the glasses is placed another neat box or case, made like the ventilation-box, upon which it rests or stands. the lid of this box is made to open and shut. it is represented in the foregoing cut as opened at b. an inch or two, and may be so retained at pleasure by a proper weight attached to a cord passed over a pulley fixed in the inside of the roof (c.) and fastened to the edge of the lid above b. the depth of the box or cover for the glasses must of course be regulated according to their different sizes. the alighting-board is on the front-side, directly opposite to the latticed doors, and on a level with the upper-side of the first floor; so that the entrance for the bees must be cut through the lower edge of the ventilation-box; and is made there most conveniently for them to pass either into the inverted pavilion below, or into the glasses above such entrance, as their inclinations may direct. the octagon-cover placed upon the pavilion-hive, as represented in the view of the closed boxes (in page ) if _inverted_, would be a tolerably good model of part a. of the inverted-hive. i advise that every part be well-made--the floors and the boxes particularly so; and that the whole exterior be well painted too, previously to being exposed to the sun and to the weather. this advice has reference to all my boxes and hives, collateral as well as inverted. the stocking of this hive may be effected in the following manner. having made choice of a good, healthy, well-stocked, cottage-hive, you may, at any time between the beginning of march and the end of october, _carefully invert and place it in the octagon below the ventilation-box_, that is, in the apartment (a.) then fasten the floor with four short screws to the top of the octagon, taking especial care that this floor sits upon the edge of the inverted-hive all round. it will be necessary to keep the bees from annoying you whilst adjusting this floor and the other parts of the hive, by putting a sheet of tin over the open circular space in the floor; by which tin every bee may be kept in the hive below. when the boxes, ventilators, glasses, and all things, are duly adjusted, the dividing-tin may be withdrawn; and the operation of stocking will be then completed. another method of accomplishing the same object, i. e. of stocking an inverted-hive, is this: take the floor that is to rest upon, and be fastened to, the top of the octagon a. and that is to rest also upon the hive when inverted, and with a sheet of tin cover and securely close the circular space made by cutting out its centre: then invert it, that is--let the tinned side be undermost, and place upon this floor, thus prepared, the hive you intend to be inverted. return it to, and suffer it to occupy, its usual place in your apiary; and _there_ for two or three weeks let it work in which time the bees will have fastened the hive to their new board with propolis. then, early in the morning, or late in the evening, when all the bees are in the hive, make up the entrance, and, having two doors made in opposite panels or sides of the octagon (a.) ten inches by six, or sufficiently commodious for the admission of your hands, _steadily invert_ your hive and prepared board upon which it has been standing, and, without sundering from the hive the board that will now be at its top, _carefully_ place them in the octagon; which, with the help of an assistant, and by the facility afforded by the two little doors in the panels of the octagon for staying and properly supporting and adjusting the hive and its attached floor, may be performed without the escape of a single bee. as soon as this, which is properly the inversion of the hive, is completed, proceed with the ventilation-box, glasses, &c. as before directed; and, lastly, be careful to liberate the bees by withdrawing the tin that has kept them prisoners since the entrance was closed. in inverting a hive by this method an expert apiarian need not confine the bees five minutes. the bees will commence their labour by filling the square box between the pavilion and the glasses; they will then extend their beautiful combs into the glasses above. the appearance of their most curious works in this stage of their labour is highly interesting--nay, gratifying, to the apiarian observer; and, moreover, proves the extraordinary influence and utility of ventilation in the domicil, or, rather let me say, in the store-house apartment of bees; for in the pavilion, or breeding and nursing apartment, it is seldom wanted. the method of taking off the glasses, whether large ones or small ones, when stored with honey, is in every respect the same as that of which a particular account has been already given, (in pages and ): to that account, therefore, i beg to refer the reader, instead of here repeating it. chapter vii. observatory-hive. having now given such a description and explanation of my _collateral box-hives_, and of my _inverted-hive_, as will, by referring to the plates or cuts that accompany them, make both of those hives, and every thing pertaining to them, to be clearly understood; i proceed to explain, in the next place, my observatory-hive. with the help of the subjoined representative figures or cuts, i hope to succeed in my endeavour to make the reader thoroughly acquainted with every part of it, novel, though it be, and, as far as i know, unlike any hive hitherto invented. at first sight it may probably appear to be a piece of complicate machinery, but upon examination it will be found to be otherwise--i may say--simple and easy. a little curiosity and a little patient attention are all the requisites that i entreat my apiarian friends to bring with them to the studying of this _grand hive_. i call it _grand_, not because it is my own invention, but because it is admirably adapted for advancing, and perhaps for perfecting, our knowledge of the habits and economy of honey-bees. with the variation of one short word, the following passage from evans' delightful poem on bees is so applicable to my observatory-hive that i am tempted to adopt it as a motto. by this bless'd hive our ravish'd eyes behold the singing masons build their roofs of gold; and mingling multitudes perplex the view, yet all in order apt their tasks pursue; still happier they, whose favour'd ken hath seen pace slow and silent round, the state's fair queen. [illustration] the observatory-hive, as here exhibited in fig. , consists of two apartments--an upper one and a lower one. the upper one, (marked a. b. c. d. e. e.) is properly the observatory-hive, and may be called the summer-pavilion; the lower one, (marked g.) may be termed the winter-pavilion. of this winter-pavilion but little need be said, except that it is an octagonal box, in size, in substance, and in every respect, similar to the octagon-part of the _inverted-hive_ described in the last chapter; save only that its top must not be cut away, as is there directed to be done. at present let us suppose this top to be a perfect plane--an entire surface, without any aperture of any sort to form a passage for the bees from and through it down into the pavilion below; farther let us suppose an alighting-board of the usual size to be fixed in front, and on a level with this floor or top; then the quære will be--how, from the same front-entrance, the bees are to have a passage both into the observatory-hive above, and into the winter-pavilion below? the difficulty is--to get a convenient passage into the summer-pavilion, because the whole of that pavilion is made to turn round on the shoulder of an upright shaft, through which shaft the passage for the bees must of necessity be made, and which does not admit of a bore of above an inch in diameter. as, however, this narrow, perpendicular passage is of no great length, (it need not be more than three inches) many thousands of bees will, in the course of a few minutes, if necessary, make their egress and regress through it without incommoding one another. that this rather intricate part--the construction of this passage-work--may be fully comprehended, i will endeavour to illustrate it by references to a well-known article, now standing on the table, on which i am writing. it is a telescopic candlestick, the pedestal of which covers a square space upon my table, each side of which superficial square is three inches. now suppose this candlestick was screwed or glued to the centre of the plain, tabular top of the octagon (g.) having one of its sides parallel to that side of the floor to which the alighting-board is attached. next, suppose _that_ side of the candlestick to be cut away so as to form an entrance into the interior of the pedestal, two inches in front and half an inch in height; and let there be a covered-way of this height, from the opened side of the pedestal to the front-entrance of the hive: then, if the front-entrance be six inches wide, the bees on coming in will enter this covered-way, which from six inches narrows to three at the part where they enter the pedestal, and begin to ascend the perpendicular passage which leads through it and through the upright shaft of the candlestick into the--at present--_supposed_ apartment above. the top-part of a telescopic candlestick may be turned round at pleasure; consequently, if the pedestal be fixed and made immoveable, the top, and whatever may be upon that top and fastened to it, may be moved round notwithstanding: this is what we particularly want in the construction of an observatory-hive, and must, therefore, be particularly attended to. a piece of clean, close-grained wood--beech, elder, mahogany, or any other firm wood--made much in the shape of our telescopic candlestick, but of not more than two inches and a half in height, with a bore through it of an inch in diameter, and turned, that is, wrought in a lathe, so that an inch of the top-part may enter into, and neatly fit, the cap fixed round the inch bore at the centre of the bottom-frame of the upper pavilion (fig ), and which cap is represented by the moveable top of the candlestick, is, as well as i can describe it, the pedestal to support the observatory-hive,--is, with the cap just mentioned, the compound, or double-hinge upon which that hive is turned round,--and is also the bee-way into that hive. the way into the winter-pavilion, or octagon (g.) is made by cutting a circular hole through the very centre of the plane top, an inch in diameter, directly under the upward passage; so that the bees, whether their way be into the summer-pavilion above, or into the winter-pavilion below, lies through the pedestal, and the only difference is, that one passage leads upwards and the other downwards. the covered-way which has been so often mentioned, may easily be made by taking out of the under-side of the bottom-board of the paneled and roofed box, made to secure the observatory-hive, and which is placed upon the top of the winter-pavilion, just as much as will allow a sufficient space for that way. having completed the passages, my next business is--to describe the novel apartment into which the passage through the pedestal leads--that is, the real observatory-hive. figure shows the upper glass-frame of this hive with two small circular openings through the top of each arm, over which openings are placed small glasses, (at e. e.) in both figures, for receptacles for honey, and are intended to answer the same purpose as those do which are placed upon the inverted-hive. a line drawn from one extremity of any one of these arms or wings, to the extremity of the arm or wing directly opposite to it, is twenty-three inches; and the distance between the dotted lines, which are intended to mark the glass-way, or, in joiners' phrase, the _rebate_ to receive the edges of the glass, is exactly one inch and three-fourths. the lower glass-frame, which (in fig. ) is placed upon f. the shaft of the pedestal already described, is the exact counterpart of the upper frame, with the exception of its not having any perforations for honey-glasses: the only perforation in this frame is that at its centre; which must be made to correspond with that of the shaft, and be a continuation of the bee-passage into the hive. these two frames are connected and made one by four upright pieces, or ends, (marked a. b. c. d. in fig. ,) these upright, end-pieces must be rebated, or channeled, to receive the ends of the glass-plates. eight squares of glass, each ten inches and a half by ten inches, fastened with putty into this frame-work,--that is, two squares into each wing, will complete the glass-hive; which, when placed upon the top of the pedestal, and made steady by an axis fixed at the central point of the upper frame, and turning in a socket under the ball, constitutes _an observatory-hive_. confined as is the space between the glass-plates in each wing, they being but an inch and three-fourths apart, there is, nevertheless, room enough for the construction of one comb; and space for more than one comb would spoil it as an observatory-hive: and, though each wing may appear to be but small, there are upwards of cubic inches of clear space in the hive. it is so constructed that plenty of light and the utmost transparency are afforded for observing and minutely examining the bees and the works of the bees in all their stages. indeed the grand object of this contrivance is--to expose to view the labours of the bees in the inside of their hive; and as the machine may be moved round at pleasure, not a bee can enter it, without being observed, nor can a single cell be constructed in secret. i will only add--that the appearance of the bees in this hive is beautiful, and excites admiration and surprise,--nay, is capable of enlivening the drooping spirits of the most desponding apiarian; for who can view the queen of the hive constantly laying her eggs, and, by so doing, constantly propagating her species, and her thousands of loyal subjects, whose indefatigable labour in all its parts is so conspicuous, without experiencing sensations of the purest pleasure,--nay, more of gratitude to god for his goodness to man! it has been suggested to me by some ingenious friends--that a couple of magnifying glasses set in the doors, and some mechanical contrivance to open a part of the roof by simply pulling a cord, and to throw a proper light upon the four wings of the hive, would be a great improvement; because, by these means, or by some such means as these, the opening and shutting of the doors would be rendered unnecessary,--and, because the bees and their curious works would be more interesting by being viewed through magnifying glasses,--and because the exterior appearance of the whole concern would be more handsome. without the slightest hesitation i admit--that, to those persons to whom expense is no object, the mode of examining the observatory-hive would be improved by some such arrangements as those just mentioned; but _the hive itself would not be improved in the least_,--it would remain just as it was before these costly additions, whether ornamental, or useful, or both, were made to its covering only--_not to the hive_. the following cut will, in some degree, represent and tacitly explain an observatory-hive, fitted up in this way. [illustration] the mode of stocking an observatory-hive. this operation may be performed in various ways, and almost at any time during the summer months, by an experienced apiarian. i will content myself with describing _how_ it may be done most easily, if not most scientifically, by any person possessed of courage enough to operate at all among bees. it is as follows: when your bees swarm from a cottage-hive, take it (the swarm) into a common hive in the usual way place it in a cool, shaded situation, and let it remain there until the evening; and even then attempt no further operation, unless the bees be all settled and quite still. when they are all within their hive, peaceable, and retired, as it were, for the night, you may suddenly strike them from their hive upon a clean, white sheet, spread over a table prepared and ready for the purpose, and within the space occupied, or rather--enclosed, by four bricks placed edgewise. upon these bricks place your glass-hive as expeditiously as possible with its entrance just over the bees. then envelope your hive with a cloth so as to darken its interior, and, lastly, throw the corners of the sheet over the whole. this done, the bees will presently ascend into the wings of the hive. when they are all safely lodged in it, you may carefully remove the sheet and the other coverings; and, having securely made up the entrance into the winter-pavilion, then place the stocked hive upon its pedestal, and the bees will be ready to commence their labour the next day. at the latter end of august invert the parent-hive from which the swarm issued, and place it in the octagon-box (g.) below the summer-pavilion. take out the plug that is between the two hives, that is--open the passage into the winter-hive, and you will have accomplished the union of the two families: they will join or unite, and thenceforward continue to labour as one family. by this movement you give to your bees a winter-residence, secure from all enemies, which are numerous at this season. and so well-stocked will the winter-hive be, that an early swarm from it, for the observatory-hive, the following season may reasonably be expected. the honey may be taken from the e. e. glasses, placed upon the arms of the summer-pavilion so easily, by turning round the loose boards under the glasses, that further explanation is unnecessary. the machine itself will point out to the perfect stranger the proper method of doing it. chapter viii. fumigation. fumigation is a rather portentous word; but, as soon as i shall have explained for what purposes, and in what manner, i occasionally make use of it, it will be totally divested of all deadly signification. in my practice it is not a bee-destroyer, but a bee-preserver;--when resorted to by me it is never carried, nor intended to be carried, to suffocation: but, in the operation of uniting weak swarms or poor stocks with more wealthy and prosperous ones--which i consider to be a meritorious and most humane practice,--when it is necessary to examine the state and condition of even a populous colony, should unfavourable symptoms as to its healthiness or its prosperity manifest themselves,--when it is known, or but suspected, that there are wax-moths, mice, spiders, or other bee-enemies lodged in a hive, which the bees of themselves cannot dislodge nor get rid of; and which, if not got rid of by man's assistance, would soon destroy almost any colony,--when bees and their works (for i never transfer the former without transferring an ample sufficiency of the latter at the same time) are to be taken out of a decayed straw-hive, in order to be put into a more substantial one, or into collateral-boxes, which i hold to be the best of all hives,--and on innumerable other occasions, it is absolutely necessary _to subdue bees_ so far as to render them incapable of using that formidable, venomous, little weapon, with which providence has armed them, and which generally dreaded little weapon they can use so dexterously, before we can operate upon them for their own good. by means of a very simple apparatus, which may be called _a fumigator_, and which is a contrivance as novel and as useful in the management of bees, as any of my hives or other inventions, _bees may be totally subdued without being injured in the slightest degree, and dealt with as if they had neither stings nor wings_. i beg, however, to re-state distinctly--that, in taking off a box or a glass of honey, _no fumigation whatever is necessary_, or ever practised by me. it is only in cases such as those just enumerated that i have recourse to it; but in no case for the destruction of bees. fumigation, therefore, in my practice, is not suffocation. the following figure is a representation of a fumigator, which a brief explanation will render intelligible. [illustration] this useful article consists of a square top-board upon which is placed a straw-hive (e.) so as to show an open, circular space under the hive and through the square board into the bag below. i need hardly observe--that the straw-hive is no part of the fumigator, but is here represented as standing upon it in order to exemplify its use. the top-board is of inch-deal, and is nineteen or twenty inches square. a round piece is cut out of its centre of not more than thirteen inches in diameter--that being something near to, or perhaps rather more than, the inside diameter of a common hive--so that a hive will stand upon the wooden circumference of the part left, without there being any ledge inside, that is--any part so enclosed by the hive as to catch and detain the falling bees. from the upper-edge of this circle is suspended a bag, a yard in length, made of glazed calico, the bottom-part of which draws round the rim of a shallow, funnel-shaped, tin bee-receiver, which bee-receiver is about ten inches across at the top, and its lower part, or neck (d. or f.) is three inches and a half in length, and its throat (if i may so term it) is nearly three inches in width. to fit this neck, which is thickly perforated for the purpose of admitting fresh air, when fresh air may be required, is a close lid, just like that of a common, tin canister, to hold up the fumigated bees, and also to stop the ventilation when not wanted. c. is the fumigating-lamp with a perforated top through which the fume ascends, and is made conical, so that a fumigated bee in its fall cannot rest upon it and be thereby scorched or injured, as would inevitably be the case were this top flat. the tie (b.) closes the bag and keeps every bee above until the lamp and every thing below be adjusted, and it is _then_ to be untied. the fumigator is here represented as standing upon three legs made fast to the top-board by small bolts, as at a.; but it is quite as convenient in practice, and more portable, if, instead of these legs, it be made like a common scale with a cord from each corner, which may be gathered into a small iron-hook, and thereby suspended from the branch of a tree, or from any other convenient place, when used. the lower part of the bag is represented as being transparent, but that is done purposely to show how the lamp is placed inside when prepared for operation. by persons inexperienced in such matters it may be thought to be an extraordinary feat to unite the bees of one hive with those of another---to bind, as it were, the legs and wings, and pro tempore, to render useless the sting of every individual bee, until such union be effected. nothing, however, is more easy; nor is any part of apiarian practice attended with more pleasing consequences to the operator, or with more important and beneficial ones to the bees themselves. when in a state of temporary intoxication from the fume made to ascend through the perforated tin (c.) into their hive, these beautiful insects are perfectly manageable,--perfectly harmless. this intoxicating fume is caused by introducing into the fumigating-lamp a piece of ignited vegetable substance, called puck, puckball, or frog-cheese, or, most commonly, _fuzzball_. it is a species of fungus, or mushroom, and is plentiful enough in the autumn in rank pastures and in rich edishes. shepherds, milk-maids, or country-school boys are well acquainted with them,--know very well where to find them,--and for a mere trifle will easily pick up as many of them as will supply the demands of twenty apiarians. they are frequently as large as a man's head, or larger. in i had an unripe, white puckball, which weighed ten pounds. when ripe they are internally of a brown colour, and turning spongy and powdery become exceedingly light, and are then properly _fuzzballs_. for the substance of the following directions respecting the preparation of fuzzballs for bee-fumigation, and for its application to that occasionally necessary purpose, i have no hesitation in acknowledging myself to be indebted to thorley's treatise on bees--no mean authority on such a subject. when you have procured one of these pucks, put it into a large piece of stout paper,--press it down therein to two-thirds, or, if you can, to one-half, of its original size, and then tie it up closely,--and, lastly, put it into an oven sometime after the household bread has been drawn, that is, when the oven is nearly cool, and let it remain there all night, or, until it will hold fire and smother away like touch-wood, i. e. burn without kindling into flame. in this state it is fit for the fumigating-lamp, and may be used in the manner following, when the union of two stocks is the apiarian's object. take a piece of this prepared fungus, as large as a hen's egg, (it is better to have too much of it than too little to begin with) ignite one end of it with a candle, and then put it into the fumigating-lamp,--next fix the lamp in its socket over the bee-receiver, and place the whole inside the bag, as shown in the plate, and untie b--the fastening round the middle. in a very short space of time the bees in the hive placed upon the top-board (which is necessarily the first thing to be attended to in every operation of this kind) will be totally under your control. the operator should be particularly careful to close every vacancy, however small, that there may happen to be between the top-board and the edge of the hive, by tying a cloth round it--the hive--as soon as ever it is placed upon the board. this precaution will prevent the escape of any of the fume, and will also prevent the bees from annoying the operator during the time he is making the arrangements necessary previously to every fumigating process. in the course of a minute or very little more you will hear the bees dropping like hail into their receiver, at the bottom of the fumigating apparatus. when the major part of them are down, and you hear but few fall, gently beat the top of the hive with your hands, in order to get as many down as you can. then, having loosened the cloth, lift the hive off and set it upon a table, or upon a broad board, prepared for the purpose, and knocking the hive against it several times, many more bees will fall down, and perhaps the queen amongst the rest; for, as she generally lodges near the crown of the hive, or is driven thither by the fume, and surrounded and protected there by the other bees to the very last, and as long ever they have the power loyally to cling round her, she often falls one of the last. if the queen is not among the bees on the table, search for her among the main body in the bee-receiver; first, however, putting them upon the table, if you discover her not before lying among the uppermost bees therein. during this search for the queen, or with as little delay as possible, you, or some one for you, should be proceeding in a similar manner with the bees in the other hive, with which those already fumigated are to be united. as soon as the bees of the hive last fumigated are all composed and quiet, and you have found and secured one of the queens, you may put the bees of both hives together into an empty one, for the purpose of mingling them thoroughly together, and of sprinkling them at the same time with a little ale and sugar; this done, put them and _one only_ of the two queens among the combs of the hive you intend them to inhabit, and gently shake them down into it. when you have thus got all the bees of your two hives into one, cover it with a cloth and closely bind the corners of that cloth about it, and let them stand during that night and the next day, shut or closed up in this manner, so that a bee may not get out; but not so close as to smother them for want of air. in the evening of the following day, having previously removed the hive, containing your united-stock, to its proper stand, viz. that which it had occupied before the operation, loose the corners of the cloth and remove it from the mouth of the hive, and the bees will, with a great noise, immediately sally forth; but being too late to take wing, they will presently go in again; and remain satisfied in and with their new abode--new at least, to one-half of them, and new to the other half also when transferred into a fresh hive, or into boxes. but in taking away the cloth discretion and caution must be used, because the bees will for some time resent the affront put upon them by such to them, no doubt, offensive treatment. the best time of the year for unions of weak stocks with strong ones is in autumn, after the young brood are all out--in the latter part of august, or any time during september: but for removals of stocks from straw-hives into boxes, the best time is early in the spring before the eggs of the queen have changed and quickened into larvæ,--i will say--in the month of march; and if the weather is cold, it is advisable to perform the operation in a room where the temperature is about degrees. for if bees are displaced, that is--taken from their hive, in a cold atmosphere, it is but rarely that they recover from the effects of the fume so as to marshal themselves into working order in a box or new hive. but this they can do, and will do most effectually, under this agreeable temperature. as twelve hours are sufficient for the bees to regain their former independency in their new domicil, you may place them at the end of that period on their summer stool, and they will work, as soon as the weather will permit them, as if they had never been removed from their former hive, nor in any way disturbed. the great number of operations of this kind, which i have performed before hundreds of admiring and gratified spectators, chiefly of the higher ranks of society, renders it almost unnecessary for me to observe--that once being present at and witnessing it, will convey a more perfect idea of the whole performance than any written description of it can give. if, however, any gentleman, or other apiarian friend, who has not yet seen the performance of this operation, should be desirous of witnessing it, the author will freely undertake that, or any other bee-service in his power, by which he can oblige, assist, or instruct him. the same degree of precaution is not necessary on the removing of the bees of a cottage-hive on my principle; it is only requisite in the particular case of joining or uniting two or more hives together, that such nice management need be observed. and certainly the more expeditiously the whole is performed, the more pleasing will be the result of the operation, and the more certain of success. i will conclude this subject with an anecdote:--in the year , i was engaged by the honourable lady gifford, of roehampton, to unite the bees of two hives; and as the operation was novel to the spectators, who on that occasion consisted principally of the branches of that worthy family,--when i had drawn the bees from the cottage-hive and they were all spread on a white cloth, and every eye was anxiously intent upon discovering the queen-bee, there was some trouble in finding that particular bee; even i myself--an old practitioner--had overlooked her; and having occasion to leave the table and my fumigated bees surrounded by my young lord and lady gifford, and by the rest of her ladyship's family, her infant son, in the arms of his nurse, eagerly called out--"mamma, mamma, what is that?" hearing the child's animated expression, i returned to the table, and instantly beheld and caught the queen of the bees,--and her actually pointed out by an infant not three years of age. is there any excuse then for not knowing the queen-bee? and, as a true description of this bee and of the office she fulfils in the hive, will be given in the course of this work, accompanied with a plate of her and also of the other bees, i trust my bee-friends will not hereafter allow a child of only three years of age (although that child was the son of a late attorney-general,) to excel them in this particular point of apiarian knowledge, which is not only highly interesting, but very useful to the operator, when uniting stocks, or transferring bees from one domicil to another. never shall i forget the look of satisfaction that beamed on the countenance of the affectionate mother. to see each of her eight amiable children around the table with her ladyship, minutely searching every little cluster of bees, in order to give the first information of the queen, was a lovely sight; but to hear her infant son proclaim, as it were, the queen of the bees, by pointing his little, delicate finger to the object of his curiosity, and exclaim--"mamma, mamma, what is that?" was most gratifying even to me. well might the little naturalist inquire--"what is that?" when he was in the presence of royalty, and pointing to one of the most extraordinary monarchs in the world, while i myself--an old practitioner, had not previously observed her. be it so, i acknowledge my oversight in this instance, and feel it incumbent on me to give the merit of the discovery to him, to whom on that occasion it was so justly due. chapter ix. objections against piling boxes. having gone through the explanation of my different hives, and of all my bee-machinery, i will, previously to entering upon other matters, here state my objections to the piling of bee-boxes one upon another, which is sometimes, and not improperly, called--_storifying_. it is also termed super-hiving, nadir-hiving, or centre-hiving, according to the place occupied by the added box: if an empty box be placed upon a stocked one, it is _super-hiving_;--if put _under_ such box, it is _nadir-hiving_;--and if introduced _between_ two boxes, it is _centre-hiving_. but with whatever term dignified--not to say--mystified, it amounts to, and in effect is--_storifying_. from an old book in my possession i find--that in a patent was granted to john gedde, to secure to him for a term of fourteen years the advantages of his invention of boxes for storifying; so that it is at least of a hundred and sixty years' standing. after gedde it was successively adopted and encouraged by rusden, warder, and thorley, and has been the fashionable or fancy practice down to the present day; for it is a mode of managing bees that has been recommended by some modern authors,--principally, if i mistake not, by dr. bevan; and it is practised by some bee-masters, who, i am told, consider it to be the most humane mode, and the only humane mode of managing honey-bees. i have no wish to depreciate the inventions and labours of others, nor to offend any man, and particularly that man who has exerted himself so much to better the condition of the honey-bee. if he has been mistaken in the means to be employed to gain so desirable an end, and in my humble opinion he certainly has been mistaken, every praise is due to him for his good intentions. my first objection to the piling system is--because it occasions a great deal of extra trouble, labour, and inconvenience to the bees, and consequently prevents their collecting so great a quantity of honey and wax as they will do where they are not subjected to these drawbacks. and where, i would fain know, is the humanity in increasing and obstructing the labours of these indefatigable, little insects? is it not inhumanity to force them to deposit their treasures in a garret, two or three stories high, when a far more convenient store-room may be provided for them on the first floor? let not, then, the piling advocate of the present day any longer recommend this faulty practice, nor erroneously contend that the elevating of boxes one upon another, is the best and only way of ensuring an abundance of honey and wax. but fairly to get at the merits--not to say--demerits of this practice, i will examine it a little in detail. first, then, the piling practitioner puts a swarm of bees into a box, which i will call box a. this box, if prosperous, of course soon becomes a pavilion of nature,--that is, it soon contains quantities of brood-comb, young brood, larvæ, and embryo bees in various stages of existence. it is allowed to stand alone until it be filled, or nearly filled, with the bees' works. it requires no great skill to know that the contents of box a. at this period are as just described. when nearly full it is placed upon another box (b.) to prevent what is called the maiden-swarm. this box, like box a. is quickly filled with combs: the queen too follows her labourers and progressively lays her eggs even to the lowest edges of the combs. of course box b, like box a. soon contains quantities of brood. the second box (b.) gets full just as the first did, and as a cottage-hive does--not with pure honey, but with brood, pollen or farina, and other substances, as well as with honey; in short, there is no provision for, nor means of, dividing the works of the working bees from the works of the queen-bee; consequently they become, as _of necessity_ they must become--one promiscuous mass. the brood continues to increase and occupies that part of the box which should be of pure honey and wax. this goes on until more room is wanted; and _then_ it is that the two full boxes (a. and b.) are exalted and placed upon the third and last box (c.) this, however, does not mend the matter; but, as will be seen presently, it does occasion a great deal of additional labour and inconvenience to the bees. in the meantime they carry on their works of nature and of art--they construct new combs and store some of the cells with honey, and the queen lays her eggs in others, just as in the other boxes. the fact is--the three boxes soon become as one: they soon become and continue to be of one temperature,--the same compound of the old hive,--the brood-cells are intermixed with those containing honey,--wreaths of pollen are: in every pile,--and animated nature is everywhere peeping from the waxen cells, in which nothing but pure honey should have been deposited. but this is not all, nor the worst part; though bad enough, if _purity of honey_ be any consideration. it is a fact known by me and by every one at all experienced in the management of an apiary, that no sooner are the combs in box cl got into a state of forwardness--it would be saying rather too much to say--completed, than numbers of working bees are, as it were, struck off their work there, and set about removing all superfluities and nuisances from the combs lately filled with young brood in the uppermost box a. every cell in those combs that has been the nest and nursery of a young bee they cleanse thoroughly and repair, where repairs are needed, preparatory to its being made a receptacle for honey, or for the other treasures brought from the field. at this time, that is--as soon as the combs are free from the first brood, the uppermost box is nearly empty, instead of being full: it contains _empty combs and bees, but little or no honey_. here then the bees are subjected to that extra labour and inconvenience which form my first objection to the piling-plan. from the entrance into box c. through box b. and up into box a. the way, to a loaded bee, is neither short nor pleasant; it is a labyrinth beset with difficulties and obstructions, in surmounting which much of that time is occupied which would otherwise be more profitably, and we may suppose--far more agreeably employed, in passing from flower to flower, and in culling their various sweets. any person, it may be presumed, would rather set down a heavy load on the ground-floor than have to tug it up two or three long flights of stairs, and through intricate, winding passages, and be jostled and impeded and pushed about, and perhaps backward every now and then, by countless crowds of busy men, unceasingly hurrying up and down and passing and re-passing the burdened man in every direction. and is it not comparatively the same with bees going through boxes c. and b. up into box a.? i maintain that it is so,--and that bees in piled-boxes lose much time in performing the unnecessary, climbing labour, imposed upon them by their unskilful masters. the natural consequence of this--i repeat--_unnecessary_ waste of their time, must not be placed to the account, or laid to the instinct of the bees; for of all creatures in the world, bees perhaps work with the most extraordinary celerity. the beautiful piles of honey, and _when unobstructed_, the regular movements of these wonderful insects, are admirably scientific and correct. the consequence, namely, a deficiency in the quantity of honey and wax, is chargeable solely to the account of the unskilful manager. at length the time arrives when the three piled-boxes are, or are supposed to be, well stored,--and when a part of the bees' treasure is to be taken as a remuneration for the _care_ and trouble of the proprietor. let him then put on his grotesque bee-dress, and booted up to the middle and gloved to the very elbows, let him proceed to take the uppermost box. he divides it from that on which it stands, that is--from box b. by a slide or a divider of some sort prepared for such an operation, or in any way he pleases, for that i leave to him. well, he succeeds in getting off his prize; not, however, without the destruction of a considerable number of bees: for _to presume_ that he is acquainted with my easy mode of taking away a box, would be to presume too much; i therefore allow him a bee-dress at once, and have accoutered him in the best way i can for his arduous undertaking. the box, then, is off. he turns it up and examines it, and to his great disappointment, he finds that the combs are discoloured, that each pile of the expected treasure contains parts of the young larvæ, and that there is much pollen commingled with the other substances in the box; in short, he finds that the whole is dirty and filthy in appearance; and that he has destroyed a part of the most valuable brood for another year. and, if instead of box a. he take box b. he will fare little, if any better; nay, he will in all probability destroy a greater quantity of brood: and in box c. he cannot expect to find more than half-filled cells, or empty combs. such are the fruits and profits of the piling system of bee-management. there are bee-masters resident within twenty miles of the good town of spalding, and in many other places that might be mentioned, who know that the foregoing account is true, _lamentably true_: but, until such practitioners are sensible of the faultiness of their system of bee-management, it would be folly in me to appeal more directly to any of them for a confirmation of what _i know_ to be the truth. how, i would ask, can the bees' sweet treasures be divided from their other work, if there be no means of varying and regulating the temperature in their hive? without the aid of ventilation it is, in my opinion, impossible; but with it, it is perfectly easy, perfectly safe, and not at all distressing nor even unpleasant to the bees. before i take my leave of the piling or storifying practitioner, whom i consider, as perhaps he may consider me, to be very, very imperfect in the management of bees, i feel it to be my duty to my readers, and of course to the piling bee-master, if he should vouchsafe to me a reading, to record a few other facts that bear strongly against the piling practice--facts derived from long and attentive observation of the nature and habits of honey-bees. twelve years' steady practice and constant attention to the movements of these ingenious insects are the foundations i have to build upon. besides i have proofs, well-authenticated, indisputable proofs, of the abundant produce of honey having been taken from collateral-boxes, and that of very superior quality too; which honey i take from the bees as being a superabundant store, and not as a part, the taking away of which has any tendency to weaken, or in any way to injure, the prosperity of the colony from which it is taken. but what do we behold when a box is taken from a storied pile?--what that in the least deserves to be termed humanity? do not a thousand murders stare us in the face? why should the operator be veiled and muffled up and made sting-proof, if no conflict was expected--if no deeds of violence were anticipated? but violence is anticipated, and practised too, to such an extent that it is no uncommon occurrence for the bees that escape destruction to desert the other boxes altogether. this ends one part of the business. and these objections against the practice of storifying boxes will, i trust, induce the reflecting, ingenuous reader to turn his attention to the importance of ventilation in collateral-boxes. by regulating the interior temperature of the hive, suitable and generative heat is confined to the pavilion, that is--to the mother-hive, which heat causes the queen to propagate her young in the pavilion--this being the middle-box, and near the entrance, a great advantage is thereby afforded to all the bees passing in and out, that fully demonstrates the necessity of their labours being assisted in the breeding-season, _and not obstructed_. it is the heat which causes the working-bees to deposit their pollen in the immediate vicinity of the seat of nature. this pollen, which is called by some writers bee-bread, is gathered and deposited for the special purpose of supporting the young larvæ, while helpless insects, or babies, as it were, in the hive. combined with heat, it is this material which discolours the much admired works of the bees; it is this which also makes the wax and honey yellow: besides where this pollen is deposited by the bees, there, or in that part of the hive, will the queen lay her eggs,--and there of course propagate her species. and as animal nature advances to perfection, so rises the interior temperature of the hive, until an almost suffocating heat obliges the bees to leave their home. this heat extends itself to the most remote parts of their domicil; and were it not for the influence of ventilation in the end-boxes, a discolouration of their beautiful works would also be extended through the hive, and the queen would lay her eggs promiscuously as she does in the cottage-hive. but this mischief is corrected by ventilation: can then any reasonable man deny its powerful and useful effects in the management of bees? the queen-bee is but seldom seen by the most acute observer; she loves to propagate her young in secrecy, at the regular temperature of the hive at her own birth. if she can possibly avoid it, she will not lay her eggs where man can overlook and examine her movements; consequently the ventilation in the side-boxes prevents her extending her works of nature beyond the limits of her native hive. as soon as she feels a cooling change of temperature, she immediately withdraws to her native clime, and leaves her working subjects to store the beautifully white combs with the purest crystal sweet. bat, were the queen permitted, as she is in the piling system, as well as in the cottage-hive, to follow her subjects through the whole hive, with one and the same temperature throughout, she would most certainly propagate her young just as she does in the piled-boxes. in that case there would be no advantage derivable from the purity of the honey. again, on my plan, the middle-box is so situated that the queen in it is placed conveniently to superintend her labourers; her eye can behold them in the throngest of their labour, being so near the well fortified entrance of her pavilion. in such a favourable situation, she can view the movements of her subjects, and not a moment need be lost, because all their streets and passages are short. the direct ascent to the top of one of my boxes is not quite eleven inches, and with a middle-sized bell-glass superadded, it does not exceed eighteen inches; so that in one day, when the honey-dew is plentiful, ten thousand bees will gather more treasure than three times that number on the piling system, in which the bees are compelled to mount up to the babylonian height of thorley's fourth box. these (partly repetitions of what has been stated before, i am aware,) are conveniences which collateral-boxes possess, and which _do not belong to piled-boxes_. in piled-boxes bees are subjected to unnecessary labour, which is so far a waste of time. from piled-boxes not nearly the quantity of honey and wax is procured, that may be procured from collateral-boxes,--nor is that deficient quantity of a quality at all comparable with the other. in managing piled-boxes many bees are destroyed. these are my objections to that system of bee-management; and i put it to every person who has practised storifying to say whether they are not well-founded. [illustration: l. bennett and co. typ. , guilford place, spa-fields, london. the apiary at the most noble the marquis of blandford's, delabere park, pangbourn, (near reading,) berkshire. ] chapter x. apiary at delabere park. having stated (in page ) that "i have well-authenticated, indisputable proofs of the abundant produce of honey having been taken from collateral-boxes, and that of very superior quality too," i could, in support of this statement refer the reader to a great number of my apiarian friends, a bare catalogue of whose names would fill several pages of this book. but as the best proofs of the merits, advantages, and practicability of anew system, are in its established success, i will select one instance, and have great pleasure in referring to that of the apiary established on my principles, at the seat of my noble patron--the marquess of blandford, at delabere park, near reading. situated in a part of the country most abundantly favoured by nature,--effete with every variety of bee-herbage, and with every local advantage combined in its favour, the noble marquess has prosecuted his apiarian pursuits with a spirit of liberality and enterprize redounding to his credit, and well meriting the success which has equalled my own as it has his most sanguine expectations. i do not consider that i can introduce this better to the notice of my readers, than by transcribing the account of a visit, that was paid to it by my intelligent friend mr. booth, the lecturer on chemistry, and which appeared in the _stamford mercury_ of july th, . it is as follows:-- "to the editor of the mercury. "sir, "from the interest you appear to take in whatever relates to the extension of mr. nutt's invaluable system of bee-management, and the prompt attention you have given to former communications on the subject, i am induced to detail the successful results of that system in the hands of the marquess of blandford, who has gone most extensively into the subject, and with an ardour and enthusiasm second only to that of the intelligent inventor. as i had the permission of the noble marquess to make my observations, so i am enabled to make reference to his lordship for the accuracy of my statements, and i am only fulfilling' the wishes of the noble lord, in making these details as extensively public as possible, for the information of those who are interested in this most important, though long neglected branch of rural economy. "his lordship's park is most pleasantly situated near the beautiful and romantic village of pangbourn, in berkshire, and the choice of situation for the apiary is most excellent. it is at the top of a tower[e] forty-six feet high, situated in the midst of a wood, and commanding a most extensive view of the surrounding country, including hampshire, berkshire, wiltshire, and oxfordshire, the face of nature being clad in an almost endless variety of fertility, and old father thames gently meandering through the valley, formed by the distant hills which bound the scene, affording but few prospective traces of the immense physical developments of his powers, which render him, truly, the monarch of rivers. at the top of this tower his lordship possesses four colonies in collateral-hives, and one inverted-hive, all of which have been started since april . in the collateral-hives the labours of the bees have been highly successful. from one colony has already been taken a box containing thirty pounds of honey; whilst another box and three small glasses, which cannot together contain less than forty pounds, are quite ready for taking, and which will afford the sum of seventy pounds, and this without infringing on the quantity necessary for the winter support of the bees. the thermometer in the collateral-boxes did not exceed degrees, whilst in the air it was at . a most remarkable contrast was afforded by the superior quality of the honey in the end-box and that of the 'pavilion of nature:' the superiority of the former was most evident. mr. smith, the keeper, who quite follows in the steps of mr. nutt, informed me that the average quantity of honey produced from a cottage-hive, upon the old principles, does not exceed from thirty to forty pounds; whilst, but in one case, did he ever obtain from a hive, enlarged by eking, the amount of fifty pounds. it is extremely satisfactory and fortunate, that, for the sake of reference, mr. nutt's system has fallen into such good hands, as both his lordship and the keeper appear as devoted to the subject, as they have been happy in their results. for young beginners the results reflect great credit. [footnote e: vide, plate at the head of this chapter.] "i am not able to speak much regarding the progress of the inverted-hives, of which his lordship possesses two; the one being at the top of the tower and the other situate on the lawn, at the back of the house; the former containing twenty-three glasses and the latter thirty-three. the latter is really a magnificent construction--an ornamental appendage such as the gardens of few noblemen can boast. the bees had, in each, filled all the intermediate parts betwixt the hive and the glasses, and were just then commencing their labours in the latter. next summer his lordship will, i anticipate, reap a glorious harvest both from these, and his collateral-hives, which are getting into prime condition for the winter. "i have troubled you with these details because they relate to facts, and a publication of such facts is all that is required to introduce this admirable system of bee-management into universal practice. to what extension it may be brought, it is impossible to state, but these results most strongly impress upon others of the nobility to 'go and do likewise.' the mantle of the warrior has indeed fallen upon the philanthropist in the person of the heir to the title and fortunes of a marlborough; and let the example but be extended, and the practice inculcated amongst our rural population, and, whilst it will greatly conduce to their advantage, we need no longer look to france or italy for a supply of treasures, which our own country and peasantry can so efficiently produce. nothing could possibly more advance these objects, than the formation of an apiarian society, which should offer premiums and prizes to the most successful competitors; and i do hope that for the sake of humanity as well as philanthropy, and when i see the long and noble list of names which dignify mr. nutt's patronage, i shall not be deceived in my anticipations of the speedy formation of a society, established for such laudable purposes. yours, &c. abraham booth, lecturer on chemistry. "reading, july d, ." to the above very able and explicit description, and which is to me the more interesting because not written by a _practical_ apiarian, i have nothing to add, but that it has met the cordial approbation of his lordship, whose still more recent and continuous success has confirmed him in the practicability and value of my system. the sketch which precedes this account was taken for the purpose by his amiable countess, whose kind solicitude for the welfare of the industrious and valuable little insects, to which so much of my attention has been devoted, and approbation of my exertions, have not been amongst the least valued of my rewards and consolations. chapter xi. honey-bees. that branch of natural history which treats of insects is called entomology. and linnæus, the celebrated naturalist and botanist, and the father of the classification of animated and vegetable nature, has divided insects into seven orders; the fifth of which is termed hymenoptera, and includes all those insects that have four membranous, gauze-like wings, and that are furnished with a sting, or with a process resembling one. to this class the honey-bee belongs. it has, however, been so repeatedly described by naturalists and by apiarian authors, that it would be difficult to say any thing respecting it as an insect merely that has not been said before. it is, moreover, so universally known, that it may seem to be a superfluous undertaking to attempt to describe it at all. as, however, my little work might be deemed to be imperfect without some account of it, i will present to my readers the substance of what appears to me to be a condensed, well-written article on the bee. it is from watkins' cyclopædia. there are, he says, and i believe it, fifty-five species of bees. the general characteristics of the bee are these:--its mouth has two jaws and a proboscis enfolded in a double sheath; its wings are four, the lower or under pair of which is smaller than the upper pair; in the anus of the female and working bees is a concealed sting. of the fifty-five species the honey-bee--classically, or at any rate entomologically--apis mellifica, is the most interesting and important, and that with which i am directly concerned. of this bee there are three kinds--the queen, the drone, and the working bee; it is no more than justice to the draughtsman and to the engraver to say, the following are beautiful representations, except the head of the working bee, which is too round. [illustration] fig. . represents a drone. -- . ---------- a working bee. -- . ---------- a queen bee. the _drones_ are larger than the others; their heads are round, eyes foil, and their tongues short; they are also much darker and differ in the form of the belly; they have no sting, and they make a greater noise in flying than the common bees. generally speaking, they are found in hives from the beginning of may to the middle or latter end of july: sometimes they may be seen earlier, especially in good stocks; and sometimes their destruction does not take place till the middle of august, or even later. they neither collect honey nor wax. it has been supposed that their office is to impregnate the eggs of the queen _after_ they are deposited in the cells; but according to mr. bonner this _supposition_ is a mistake. in this i agree with him, and beg to remark--that in no case is a supposition a proof. bonner says that the queen lays eggs which produce young bees without any communication with the drones. he supports this position by the statement of several very exact experiments. in this opinion he is supported by the respectable evidence of schirach. on the mysterious subject of the queen's impregnation i am inclined to coincide in opinion with huber, whose multiplied observations, and various and curious experiments, do render it highly probable that the queen is impregnated by the drone, not whilst in the hive, but whilst flying in the air: but of this debatable subject more by and by. the queen-bee is easily distinguished from other bees by the form, size, and colour of her body. she is larger, longer at least, and her wings are shorter in proportion to her size than those of other bees. the wings of drones and of common working bees cover their bodies, but those of the queen scarcely reach beyond the middle. her hinder part tapers more than the corresponding part of other bees, and is admirably adapted for the purpose of being introduced into the cells to deposit her eggs, which she does without being incommoded by her wings, as she no doubt would be, were they long in proportion to the length of her body. considering then the office she has to perform, the shortness of her wings and the length and tapering of her body are alike conveniences to her; her belly and legs are yellower, and her upper parts darker than those of other bees. though furnished with a sting, she very rarely uses it, and will bear being handled without being provoked. a young queen is smaller than a full grown one. when three or four days old she is quick in her motions; but when impregnated she becomes heavy. the common or working bees have the faculty or instinctive power of raising a queen-bee, when they are in want of one, from an egg in a common cell. to do this, they choose a common cell in which is an egg, and inject a thick, white, liquid matter from their proboscis, they then build on the edges of that particular cell and enlarge it; on the fifth day the royal maggot appears in the form of a semicircle, in which form it swims in the midst of the matter in the cell; and on the seventh day it is sealed up. during which period the embryo queen undergoes various metamorphoses. on the fourteenth or fifteenth day afterwards it comes forth a perfect queen-bee. schirach has discovered a method of multiplying queen-bees to almost any extent, and consequently of making artificial stocks. this can only be successfully accomplished when there are in a hive eggs, nymphs, and little maggots two or three days out of the cell, that is, when there is in a hive young brood in these three different stages of existence. when a queen dies and the bees are left without the means of raising another, that is--when there are no eggs nor young brood of a proper age in the hive, the bees cease working, consume the honey, fly about at random, and if not supplied with another queen, soon dwindle away; but if supplied with a new queen, they revive, and exercise their labour with new and increased activity. the queen is, as it were, the very soul of the hive. it has been computed that the ovary of the queen contains above eggs at once, and that in the space of two months she may produce or , bees. i am inclined to think that this computation is too-limited: from what i have witnessed in my observatory-hive this summer ( ), i am led to conclude that a fertile queen is capable of laying far more than the beforementioned number of eggs in the space of two months. the _working bees_ are considerably smaller than either the drones or the queen. they, like the others, have four wings, which enable them to fly with heavy loads. they have six legs, of which the two foremost are the shortest, and with these they discharge themselves of their loads. the two last or hindmost are the largest, and on the outside of the middle joint of these is a cavity in which the bees collect the materials for wax, which materials they carry home to their hives; this hollow is peculiar to the working bee. each foot terminates in two hooks. the honey-bladder is of the size of a small pea, and very transparent. the sting is horny and hollow, through which the poison is ejected. the wound inflicted by it is mortal to many insects; and instances are not wanting of horses and cows having been stung to death by bees. when the sting is left in the wound, and being barbed it commonly is left there, the bee that loses it dies in consequence. with regard to the age of bees, the drones have a short life, being destroyed annually by the working bees; these--the workers--are supposed by some to live but one year, but others are of opinion that they live several years: those of them that escape a premature death will live, if i mistake not, three or four years, or even longer. i once clipped one of the wings of a queen so that i could identify her, in case i should ever meet with her again: i then returned her to her hive, and had the good fortune to see her several times afterwards during three successive years. of course she lived more than three years. what became of her at last i do not know; nor whether she may not still survive i do not know. if, however, working bees be as long-lived as queen-bees, and i think it will be difficult to assign a good reason why they should not, they may live to be three or four years of age, and perhaps more than that. the ample provision they make for life seems to me to be a _natural_ indication that they expect at least to live to have occasion for it. sometimes fierce, destructive battles take place between the bees of different hives in an apiary, and when the queen of one hive is killed, the war ceases, and the surviving bees of the two hives unite and become one peaceable stock. some apiarians have obtained an extraordinary command over bees, particularly mr. wildman, who could entice a whole swarm to settle just where he pleased--on his chin, on his head, on his hand, or on any particular branch of a tree; but these feats, so surprising to the beholders, he effected, as any other dexterous person may, by getting possession of the queen-bee, and placing her where he intended the bees should settle; for it is a well-ascertained fact, that such is the attachment of bees to their queen, that they will congregate around her, and, as far as they can, protect her in whatever situation they find her. were the attachment and _allegiance_ of all subjects to their legitimate sovereigns thus true and powerful, it would, as sterne says, be something! in working the bees are said by some, whose sayings are perhaps more fanciful than correct, in the following instance at least;--it has, however, been _said_--that in working the bees form themselves into four companies, one of which roves the fields in search of materials for the hive, another is employed in laying out the bottoms and partitions of the cells, the third in smoothing the inside from the corners and angles, and the fourth in bringing food for the rest. according to this account some are labourers, others are builders, others finishers, and others purveyors. as there is no difference in the formation of the workers, i see no reason for assigning them any particular task or sort of work, nor do i think the allotment of labour just mentioned rests upon any other foundation than that of vague conjecture. their diligence, however, and activity, are so great, that in a favourable day they will make cells which lie on each other, sufficient to contain some thousands of bees. to keep their habitations--their hives, close and tight, they make use of a resinous gum, which the ancients called, and which is still called--_propolis_. this substance is at first soft and pliable, but becomes firmer every day; when it has acquired its proper consistency, it is harder than wax and is an excellent cement. they guard against the entrance of ants and other inimical insects into their hive, by gluing or filling up with this propolis the smallest inlets; and with it they fasten the edge of their hive to its floor in a very secure manner. some bees stand as sentinels, and mount guard, as it were, to prevent the intrusion of strangers and enemies. but if a snail, or other reptile, or any large insect, forces its way into the hive, they first kill it, and then coat it over with propolis, to prevent being annoyed by the noisome smell, or by the maggots which might proceed from its putrefaction, if left to putrefy. bees can perceive the approach of bad weather; for when black clouds are in the sky indicating rain, they immediately hurry home with the greatest speed; and when to the eye of man there is no visible token of a sudden shower or other immediate change from fine weather to foul, bees are aware of it, and by their sudden, hurried return to their hives, are the first to prognosticate a change as near; nor, often as i have observed them, have i ever found them wrong in this respect. the manner in which bees rest when they settle, after having swarmed, and frequently in the hive also, is by collecting themselves into a cluster and hanging to each other by the hooks of their feet. when the weather has been warm i have frequently seen them, presently after being admitted into an end-box, hang in catkins or ropes: this they no doubt do to cool themselves the more. to view the bees suspended from one another in these single ropes is a natural curiosity well worth attention. the flight of bees when swarming is singularly rapid and most extraordinary: during some minutes after having risen into the air, they dart across each other in every conceivable direction, wheel round and shoot through the merry crowd again, again wheel round and again dart through; and notwithstanding the very limited space within which they confine their gambols on these occasions, they never seem to come in contact or to clash with each other; though animated and excited to a degree of apparently frantic ovation, i never have observed one bee fall foul of another, and this it is that strikes me as being wonderful. the balls attached to the legs of bees returning to the hives, consist of a powder gathered from the stamina of flowers, not yet brought to the state of wax. the bee, when it enters the cup of the flower, rolls itself till its whole body is covered with the yellow farina that is therein. it then brushes off this powdery farina with its hind legs, and kneads it into two balls or small pellets, loaded with which it returns to the hive. bees powdered all over with farina may frequently be seen entering their hive: the bees thus covered carry their loads upon their whole bodies, without the labour of packing them upon their thighs. probably when farina is collected in the immediate vicinity of their hives, bees may have the wisdom (i know not what else it can be properly called) to save themselves the labour of brushing and making it into pellets. some authors hold that this substance is eaten by degrees, and being digested in the body of the bee, that it becomes wax,--or that by some peculiar process it certainly is converted into wax,--and that when there is a superfluous quantity of this undigested, or unmanufactured matter, it is laid up in store, and is called _bee-bread_. for my part i am of opinion that farina is stored up purely as bee-bread and food for the young brood, and that _it enters not into the composition of wax_. the material of which wax is formed i take to be quite distinct from farina--a material of a different nature. the following account of a working bee appeared in the farmers' journal some time ago, i subjoin it, because, in some respects, it is more particular than that just given; but in one thing it is deficient--it makes no mention of the eyes--the two luminaries or lights of the body. the eyes of bees are of an oblong figure, black like jet, transparent and immoveable. bee, says the farmers' journal, a small and well-known insect, famous for its industry. this useful and laborious insect is divided by two ligaments into three parts or portions,--the head, the breast, and the belly. the head is armed with two jaws and a trunk, the former of which play like two jaws, opening and shutting to the right and left; the trunk is long and tapering, and at the same time extremely pliant and flexible, being destined by nature for the insect to probe to the bottom of the flowers, through all the impediments of their chives and foliage, and drain them of their treasured sweets: but were this trunk to be always extended, it would prove incommodious, and be liable to be injured by a thousand accidents; it is therefore of such a structure, that after the performance of its necessary functions, it may be contracted, or rather folded up; and besides this, it is fortified against all injuries by four strong scales, two of which closely sheath it, and the two others, whose cavities and dimensions are larger, encompass the whole. from the middle-part or breast of the bee grow the legs, which are six in number; and at the extremity of the paws are two little hooks, discernible by the microscope, which appear like sickles, with their points opposite to each other. the wings are four, two greater and two smaller, which not only serve to transport them through the air, but, by the noise they make, to give notice of their departure and arrival, and to animate them mutually to their labours. the hairs, with which the whole body is covered, are of singular use in retaining the small dust that falls from the chives of the flowers. the belly of the bee consists of six rings, which slide over one another, and may therefore be lengthened or contracted at pleasure; and the inside of this part of the body contains the intestines,--the bag of honey,--the bag of poison,--and the sting. the office of the intestines is the same as in other animals. the bag of honey is transparent as crystal, containing the sweet juices extracted from the flowers, which the bee discharges into the cells of the magazine for the support of the community in w inter. the bag of poison hangs at the root of the sting, through the cavity of which, as through a pipe, the bee ejects some drops of this venomous liquor into the wound made by the sting, and so renders the pain more excessive. the mechanism of the sting is admirable, being composed of two darts, inclosed within a sheath that tapers into a fine point, near which is an opening to let out the poison; the two darts are ejected through another aperture, which being armed with several sharp beards, like those of fish-hooks, are not easily drawn back again by the bee; and indeed she never disengages them if the wounded party happens to start and put her in confusion; but if, when stung, one can have patience to continue calm and unmoved, the stinging bee clinches those lateral points round the shaft of the dart, by which means she recovers her weapon, and gives less pain to the person stung. for the sting of a bee. the poisonous liquor which the stinging bee infuses into the wound causes a fermentation, attended with a swelling, which continues sometimes several days; but that may be prevented by immediately pulling out the sting, and enlarging the puncture, to let the venomous matter have room to escape. many nostrums have been recommended as cures--_infallible cures_, of course--for the sting of a bee, a few of which i will just mention; premising, however, that i myself never make use of any of them; for, if by chance a bee happens to sting me, which is very rarely indeed the case, though i never so much as cover my face, nor even put on a pair of gloves, when operating among thousands and tens of thousands of bees, i extract the sting instanter, and never afterwards experience the least pain, nor suffer the slightest inconvenience. but, if the sting be suffered to remain in the flesh, during a few seconds only, it is not very easy to stop the inflammation and to allay the pain. an onion cut horizontally into thin slices, and pressed closely to the wounded part, and renewed at short intervals, has been accounted a good application. if the part stung be first well-rubbed with one of those slices, that would perhaps have a soothing effect. the juice of the plantain is also said to be a specific; olive oil is another; so is common salt; so is laudanum; so is spirits of hartshorn; so is a solution of sal ammoniac; and so is chalk or whitening. the doctor (and who so likely to prescribe properly for the case as the doctor?) says[f] "common whitening proves an effectual remedy against the effects of the sting of a bee or wasp. the whitening is to be moistened with cold water, and immediately applied. it may be washed off in a few minutes, when neither pain nor swelling will ensue." [footnote f: see "the doctor," page .] in "the apiarian's guide, by j. h. payne," published since the first edition of this work, i find the following novel mode of treatment recommended as "almost a perfect cure," and which is said to be "as immediate as it is effectual." "the method i (j. h. payne, esq.) have of late adopted, by which the pain is instantly removed, and both the swelling and inflammation prevented, is to pull out the sting as soon as possible, and take a piece of iron and heat it in the fire, or for want of that, take a live coal, (if of wood the better, because it lasts longer) and hold it as near to the place as i can possibly endure it, for five minutes; if from this application a sensation of heart (quere heat) should be occasioned, a little oil of turpentine or goulard cerate must be applied. "i have found the quicker the application, the more effectual the cure."[g] [footnote g: see the apiarian's guide, pp. , .] pressure with the hollowed end of a small key, or with a pencil-case, is practised by some unfortunates, and is said to check the circulation of the poison. this last mode of treatment--i. e. pressure with a small key, or pencil-case--the smaller the better--is the simplest, and, if _immediately_ adopted, is i believe the very best: but its efficacy depends upon the instant application of the key or pencil-case to the part stung, by which the poisonous matter is not only prevented from being absorbed into the system, but the puncture is laid open, and the virus thereby expressed and entirely got rid of more readily than by any other means. accidents may sometimes happen, and the most cautious and humane apiarian may occasionally receive a sting; but gentle treatment does not irritate bees; and when not irritated they have no disposition to use their stings. chapter xii. impregnation of the queen-bee. notwithstanding the most persevering attention of huber and of other ingenious apiarians, and notwithstanding the experiments and expedients had recourse to, to discover the secret, it is still doubtful--it is still undiscovered, in what precise way the queen-bee becomes impregnated. no one has ever yet witnessed the fact of her copulation with a drone, either in the hive or elsewhere,--in all probability no one ever will be witness to it; consequently the contradictory conclusions apiarians have come to on this subject are unsatisfactory, because unsupported by sufficient and convincing proofs. huber, after having made a variety of observations and tried numberless experiments to get at the fact, gives it as his opinion--that the impregnation of the queen is accomplished by her intercourse with the drone during a flight in the open atmosphere; but modestly states that he never witnessed the act of copulation. on this last point i entirely coincide with him, and firmly believe that no man ever yet has been present to confirm the supposed fact; neither can any person deny the possibility--not to say--the probability of such an union. on the other hand, mr. huish is an advocate for the drones in another way, stating them to be the male bees, and that they fecundate--_not the queen_, but all the eggs of the queen, produced by her, the year in which the drones are brought into existence. but mr. huish has nowhere stated, in his much admired treatise on bees, what fecundates those eggs of the queen which are produced by her in the absence of the drones. it is well-known that those eggs do well and come to perfection, long after the drones have ceased to exist in the hive. _eggs are laid and matured into bees when there is not one drone in the hive._ this, therefore, is an argument in favour of mr. huber's opinion--namely--that the queen once impregnated remains so during her life,--and that, as the queen lives some years, the drones are called into being to fecundate the young queens, brought into existence for purposes that will be noticed in the next chapter. neither should we overlook the singular services of the short-lived drones in other circumstances of the colony; for most essential is their presence in the hive during the months of may, june, and july. do we not in those months behold the extraordinary rapidity with which the working bees leave their hive in search of materials for their various works? so indefatigable are these admired insects, after enriching their commonwealth, that in the time of honey-dews, scarcely a mechanical labourer is left in the hive. now, were it not for the drones--those large bodied bees--what would become of the young larvæ then in existence? it would undoubtedly perish. no sooner, however, is this busy season at an end, than the total destruction of the drones takes place; but not until the animal heat which the drones impart to the hive has accelerated the production of the young bees, and added thousands of them to the mother hive. it is not possible that the drones can influence the impregnation of the queen's eggs, particularly those eggs which are produced after the total destruction of the drones, which generally takes place in august, and sometimes in the latter end of july. these later eggs are hatched, and brought to a state of perfection by the crowded population of the hive at that period: for a sufficient number of common bees, that is--a well-populated hive, will always bring to perfection the queen's eggs that have been deposited in the cells, after the total destruction of the drones. this seems to prove, that there is some probable truth in huber's opinion respecting the agency of the drones in the procreation of bees, by their sexual union with the queen. though i was once inclined to differ in opinion with huber on this subject, and even went so far as to venture to say with huish, and in huish's own words--that the queen knows not coition, and that she is both virgin and mother,[h] from what i have seen in my observatory-hive this summer ( ) i am led to doubt the accuracy of that remark, and am disposed to lean to huber's doctrine, and to think, that there _may be_ more truth in his experiments than has hitherto been awarded to them: in short, i see no objection to huber's theory, although there is no direct proof of the copulation of the queens with the drones. all apiarians allow that there are male and female in a hive or stock of bees;--all admit--indeed, it is impossible to deny---that bees _do increase and multiply_ at a prodigious rate, and so fulfil the divine injunction; the only question to be solved is this--_how_ is the queen-bee impregnated? this secret in nature--if those matters, or natural operations which we cannot clearly explain, which, though in themselves sensible and gross, may, nevertheless, be too subtile, too refined, for our obtuse understandings to comprehend, and for our dull faculties to investigate,--if these may be called secrets in nature, there is a secret of this description respecting the sexual union of queen and drone bees, or, at any rate, respecting the manner of the impregnation of the queen-bee. i condemn no man who differs from me on this nice subject, as i have no direct proof, either that huber is right, or that huish is wrong, in their surmises relative to this disputable matter. individually they are men deserving the highest respect; their labours and perseverance to throw light upon this mystic branch of apiarian science deserve the utmost praise; as also do the labours of the learned and ingenious dr. bevan, whose treatise on bees i have read with much pleasure; and have occasionally referred to, and shall again make use of it, in this my humble attempt. we have all exerted our best abilities to become the favourites of our patrons and friends. how much each of us deserves the honours conferred on us, is best known to those who have been most benefited by our unceasing endeavours to improve and extend apiarian science. my great object is--not to dispute with the naturalist, the philosopher, or with the apiarian, _how_ the queen-bee becomes impregnated: because, be that as it may, it is, no doubt, consistent with the law of nature,--it is, no doubt, a part of that all-prevailing law; and though hitherto undiscovered,--hitherto "one of nature's gambols with the human mind," i do cherish strong hopes that the observatory-hive i have constructed, will on some auspicious, future day, disclose such facts as will set the matter at rest for ever: my great object at present is--to endeavour to improve the culture of honey-bees, and to lay before my readers _practical_ instructions for the more humane, and more profitable management of those interesting, little insects. [footnote h: see huish on bees, page .] chapter xiii. supernumerary queens. in the last chapter we were at sea without a compass by which to steer our course aright,--with two pilots on board, 'tis true; one of them a foreigner, _experienced_ beyond most other men, though aged, and infirm, and defective in his eyesight, but willing, nevertheless, nay--anxious to conduct us to our wished-for haven; the other, though not inexperienced, less practised, it is thought, in voyages of discovery, and more venturesome than his senior in the office, contending that the respectable, old gentleman had put us on a wrong tack,--that we were in a wrong latitude,--that our reckoning was incorrect, and even making merry with the old man's infirmities. perplexed, and doubting in whom it is most reasonable and safest to confide, we seize the helm ourselves and make to the nearest shore, and luckily land on terra firma--terra cognita, and are now approaching a _field_ with every corner of which we are thoroughly acquainted. but metaphor apart, lest we should not properly sustain it. there is but one reigning queen in a colony of bees at one time: but previously to swarming, royal-cells are constructed, and provision made, for ensuring a successor to the queen that leads the swarm and emigrates, when the too-crowded population, and over-heated temperature of the hive, render such emigration necessary. that it is the old queen that leaves the hive with a swarm i am well convinced, notwithstanding what some apiarians assert to the contrary. to satisfy myself on this point, i have sometimes in the evening of the day on which a hive has swarmed, at other times on the second, and at others on the third day after that event, put the parent-stock under, or rather, i may say--_over_ fumigation, dissected and examined the combs and queen-cells minutely, and the bees also, and whenever i did find a queen, she was invariably a young one; but, instead of a queen, i have more frequently found a royal-cell just ready to give birth, as it were, to a successor to that that had left the hive; and in general there are several of these royal-cells containing embryo queens, in different states of forwardness: so that it seems, bees have an instinctive foresight which leads them to provide against casualties, for they are generally provided with the means of bringing forth _supernumerary queens_, that in case the first that comes forth should prove steril, should be defective, or in any way unfortunate, or unfitted to assume the sovereignty of the hive, there may be others ready to burst into being, and remedy the misfortune that would ensue, were there but one chance of a successor, and were that one chance to prove abortive. but no sooner is a young queen enthroned, as it were, and established in the government of the hive than the supernumerary ones, in whatever stage of existence, are all discarded, and cast out of the colony, mr. porter, of cowbit, has this year ( ) picked up eight of those discarded, virgin queens, together with the old queen, which last was sorely mutilated, _but not killed_--she alone was cast out alive, the others had been killed: these nine supernumerary queens were all cast out of one fine colony of bees in the course of two successive days. that colony is a remarkably prosperous one, _and has not swarmed_. i myself have observed no fewer than twenty-four supernumerary, virgin queens that were cast out of one of my stocks; and that stock is flourishing, and _has not swarmed:_ and my respected friend, mr. salmon, of stokeferry, informs me that he once collected upwards of thirty of these young queens; whether his stock swarmed or not i am unable to state positively, but presume it did not; for, generally speaking, when supernumerary, virgin queens are cast out of a colony, it may be considered as an indication that that colony is not only prosperous, but that swarming is not contemplated--in fact, is abandoned for that season. the question then is--how are bees to be managed, in order that they may be induced to rid themselves of these supernumeraries? the relation of the following practical lesson will both answer the question, and exemplify and confirm the foregoing remarks. it has already been related (in pages - ) that in i forced a colony of bees to swarm,--that i returned that swarm to its parent-stock, and managed so as to prevent its swarming in future,--and that two royal nymphs were cast out on that occasion. to prove whether i could not accomplish the same object, and prevent swarming altogether, i had recourse to the following experiment. on the th of june, , at one o'clock p.m. the thermometer, in one of my colonies of bees, suddenly rose to . the progressive rise and constantly high temperature in that colony, during the evening and night, together with the extraordinary weight of the hive, induced me to suspect that swarming, if not prevented, would shortly take place. not, however, perceiving any of the symptoms that usually precede the immediate act of swarming, i suffered matters to go on until the th of july, on which day the thermometer stood at . the drones came out and sung their merry tune; and during the whole night the temperature of the colony continued to increase. on the next day unequivocal symptoms of swarming presented themselves. these urged me to push my experiment to the highest pitch of proof; i therefore went on narrowly watching and ventilating this stock, until the th of july, when, in spite of my endeavours to keep down the temperature by _merely ventilating_ the thermometer was standing at , consequently i concluded that it was high time to lay this prosperous colony under contribution; and in the evening of that day, i took from it a beautifully finished glass of honey, as pure as the crystal stream; its weight was sixteen pounds. i continued ventilating the side-boxes, and placed an empty bell-glass upon the middle one, from which i had just before taken the full one, i then withdrew the dividing-slide, and the bees immediately entered the glass, and began their works in it, and in four days filled it with comb, and partly filled the cells with honey. on the sixth day after those operations had been performed, a continuance of the former temperature demonstrated to me the necessity of taking away a side-box. i did so, and found its weight to be no less than sixty-five pounds. on removing the box of honey, i replaced it with an empty one; and on drawing up the tin-slide, in order to admit the bees into the empty box, to my great gratification i found the thermometer standing at in that box, and in the space of five minutes the other collateral-box was under the same agreeable temperature. by this continued ventilation, within the short space of twenty-four hours afterwards, i ascertained the following important fact,--viz.--that no sooner did the queen-bee feel the agreeable change that had taken place in the interior of her domicil, than the royal nymph was dislodged from its cell, and by the bees brought out of the pavilion, and laid lifeless on the front-board. this fact taught me by experiment, that the reigning queen would very soon, from real necessity, have been compelled to leave the now discarded nymph to take possession of the hive. the queen, owing to the excessive and daily increasing heat of the hive, would have left her wealthy colony--would have been compelled to leave it--had not the ventilation, and the enlargement of her domicil, prevented the painful necessity of her so doing. this, i think, proves the truth of the observation--that it is the old queen which leaves, when bees are compelled to swarm; but, if not, the following experimental operations have demonstrated the fact. i have united many swarms, and every sovereign bee i have been under the necessity of making a captive, has invariably been an old one. on the th of june, , i took up a parent-stock, four days after it had thrown off a swarm, and there found only the royal nymph within its cradle--_there was no queen left in that stock, save the one in embryo_--the old queen had gone with the swarm. this lesson caused me to carry my experiments farther. having taken up the parent-stock, as just stated, i united all the working bees of that stock to those of the swarm already mentioned, and i also put the young larvæ found in the parent-stock, to the now united-stock; i then placed the intended royal species--the nymph already mentioned--with the remainder of the young brood, in one of the collateral-boxes, and immediately let the odour of the stock through the communicating slide. to my great satisfaction i discovered the willingness of the old bees to bring to perfection the young they had been compelled to leave in their former domicil. the royal nymph, however, was an exception; she alone was instantly dragged from her cell, and cast out of the hive. this confirmed the proof of the important fact gained the preceding year,--namely--that ventilation and the means of dividing the treasures of the bees, by taking off a glass or a box of honey,--or, if necessary, by taking off both a glass and a box, set aside the necessity for swarming. on all occasions, under this practice, a proper temperature may be supported in a colony; and in all critical points, by a just observation of the state of the thermometer, bees may be relieved and assisted, and all the mischiefs attending the old mode of management may be guarded against and prevented. for when adequately relieved and properly assisted, they proceed to rid the colony of all embryo queens, which would only become so many supernumeraries in a hive where the reigning queen is fertile, and the necessity for emigration is superseded. but, unless bees could be made to understand that accommodation will be extended to them at the proper time, they, guided by _their_ sense of their situation--not by ours--naturally and wisely provide _their own means_ of relieving themselves; and in so doing frequently bring forth what afterwards become supernumerary queens, which are invariably destroyed and cast out of the colony, as soon as the bees are sensible that they have no occasion for them. and, whenever a royal nymph or a virgin queen is thus cast out, swarming need not be apprehended. chapter xiv. bee-feeding. neglected generally, as is the management of bees by their cottage possessors, there is no part of it less attended to, nor more slovenly performed, when performed at all, than that of feeding. the cottager commonly takes up, as he terms it, his best hives for the sake of the treasures they contain, or are supposed to contain. this is destroying bees because they are rich! he also takes up the lightest and poorest--of course the late swarms--and those that are the least likely to live through the winter; because if he get from one of these but two or three pounds of honey, though he seldom gets so much, and a few ounces of wax, he thinks that that is all clear gain: and, if he get neither honey nor wax, he, at any rate, gets rid of the _expense_ and _trouble_ of feeding _his good-for-nothing swarms_, which, in his opinion, however fed, would never come to any good. a pennyworth of brimstone will do the job at once, and is more easily paid for than a pound of sugar, and after that another, and perhaps another. such is the reasoning, and calculation, and cruel practice of the generality of cottage bee-keepers! such is the destruction annually dealt out to hundreds of poor swarms, and thousands and millions of _poor_ bees!! i do from my heart pity and deplore the untimely fate of these suffocated, innocent, valuable insects. to destroy bees because they are rich is a _barbarous_ practice, and ought by all means to be discountenanced and discontinued;--to destroy bees because they are poor and may need support, is cruel---is inhuman--is shocking, however little may be thought of it by those who still adhere to this practice. even with the common straw-hives, this terrible havoc among poor stocks and late swarms might be prevented, if they, who happen to have them, would so far improve themselves in the practical management of an apiary, as to be able to fumigate, and to take such bees out of the hives containing them, and to join them to their richer stock-hives, in the latter end of august, or any time in september. this is by far the best plan that can be adopted with poor hives; and there really is no difficulty in the operation. this strengthens the population of rich stocks, and causes them to swarm early in the ensuing spring, _it preserves the bees_, which is of itself, independently of the advantages accruing from it afterwards, a consideration that never should be lost sight of,--it leaves the contents of the fumigated hive, as absolutely in the possession of the bee-owner, as if the bees had been suffocated and destroyed,--and in most cases it entirely does away with the necessity of feeding. i confess i should rejoice greatly, and flatter myself that every friend of humanity would rejoice with me, to see this mode of disposing of weak hives universally adopted; because, it may be presumed, that the next step in the way of improvement would be to take away the superabundant treasure of the bees and _still preserve them_. notwithstanding, under certain circumstances it will always be necessary, and judicious in bee-masters, to have recourse to _feeding_. if, for instance, after an early swarm is put into a hive, or into a box, two or three or more cold, ungenial days should follow, and more particularly if those days should happen to be rainy also, by feeding such a swarm you will assist your impoverished labourers, not only with _necessary food_, but with materials and treasure, which, unfortunately for them, they cannot at such an unfavourable juncture get abroad to collect elsewhere. different apiarians have adopted and recommended different ways of feeding bees, none of which, in my opinion, possess any great merit; in order, therefore, to improve this part of bee-management, my endeavours have been directed to the contrivance and construction of a feeding department; which is attached to my collateral-hives in so convenient a manner, that i can feed my bees, at any time when feeding is required--in spring, in autumn, or in winter, without disturbing the position of the hive, and without changing its interior temperature; which temperature cannot be kept equable and comfortable, where a hive is frequently lifted up from its stand, and its interior is suddenly exposed to the action of perhaps an extremely cold atmosphere. besides, a hive cannot be lifted up without breaking the propolis by which it has been cemented all round and made fast to its stool. in sharp, cold weather, disruption of the hive from its stool is a serious mischief done to the bees; because, however carefully it maybe set down again, there will have been made many vents and crevices between the edge of the hive and the stool, which will occasion various currents of air, cold, frosty, or other--proper or improper--to be continually passing through the lower part of the hive. and should bees be tempted by food, or urged by hunger, to descend into these currents in sharp, frosty weather, but few of them will get away alive; the keen air acting upon them whilst feeding, paralyzes and kills them. i am an advocate for keeping bees cool in winter--yes, _cool and still also:_ let them not be disturbed nor disunited,--let them not be forced nor tempted to (if i may so say) uncluster themselves. i have no objection to a current of air passing through the lower part of a hive in winter, _provided the bees be not disturbed--be not exposed singly to its nipping influence;_ but i strongly object to the feeding of bees in such currents, because, in that case, feeding is prejudicial to them. the cottager seldom protects his hives in winter with any other covering than that which a pot, called a pancheon, whelmed over each hive, forms; capped with this unsightly piece of earthenware, his hives are exposed to all weathers; consequently the less he disturbs them the better. he therefore should give his weak stocks _a copious feeding_, in september at the latest,--not molest them during the severity of winter,--but in the spring, as soon as the bees begin to make their appearance at the mouth of his hives, introduce his wooden trough furnished with a _little_ bee-sirup, and then close up the entrance,--withdraw the trough in the morning, and return it replenished every evening, as long as feeding is necessary. tearing off a hive at christmas, and scattering a few ounces of brown sugar upon the stand, and then setting down the hive again, deserves not the name of feeding; though it is all the bounty that is bestowed on some stocks; and is even more than others are treated with. it need not then be wondered at that so many stocks of bees perish in the winter, and in the spring of every year. _by judicious feeding, at proper seasons, almost any stock of bees may be preserved: by injudicious feeding_, at an improper season, even good stocks--stocks that would survive, if not fed at all, nor molested, during the depth and severity of winter, may be seriously injured--may be totally destroyed. the peasant bee-keeper, however, does not often subject himself to the charge _complimental_ of being accessary to the death of his bees _through mistaken kindness_. the sum and substance of my directions, as respects bee-feeding, are these:-- . in spring feed _sparingly_. . in autumn feed _plentifully_. . in winter _do not feed at all_. . feed swarms, if unseasonable weather immediately follow the act of swarming. . preserve the bees of weak stocks, and prevent a great deal of the necessity for feeding, by adding them to those that are rich and able to support them. this last is the best and cheapest, nay--it is even a _profitable_ method of feeding bees. early swarming, where swarming is necessary as in the straw-hive colonies, is of great advantage to the watchful apiarian, but not to the inattentive and slothful manager. i have seen in a cottager's garden a swarm of bees on the th of may, which was considerably weaker in the month of august, than was a swarm on the th of july, and that solely on account of not being fed and properly attended to. if early swarms are judiciously fed, and supported by a natural heat within, they will be greatly benefitted thereby, and eventually prosper. but, notwithstanding what has been already said, the cottager may probably ask--"how can i feed my bees without lifting up their hive?" i again and again request him to examine my collateral box-hive; and he will perceive that he may easily feed the bees in his cottage-hive in the same easy manner, if he have but ingenuity enough to attach a proper feeder to the stool or floor of his hive. mr. huish advises apiarians to make choice of a fine and warm day in which to feed bees, he says, the danger to be apprehended from the change of the temperature in the hive will thereby be obviated. this, i grant, is rational and humane, and in some degree a confirmation of my already expressed opinion, respecting the mischiefs resulting from the inconsiderate practice of exposing the interior of a hive to sudden and extreme alternations of temperature. but it matters not what sort of weather it may be, if my mode of feeding be adopted. i feed my bees in their native temperature, without disturbing them or exposing their food to the temptation of robbers, which feeding in the ordinary way so frequently encourages, during the spring and autumnal seasons; and it is at these times that bees stand in most need of assistance. in the year , i purchased a cottage-hive of a neighbour, it was a large hive, and well-stocked with bees, but extremely light; i was fearful for the safety of its inmates, and, therefore, placed it over one of my feeders; in order to give them support by feeding, i placed the sirup intended for their food beneath the hive; but to my great surprise the bees refused to take the proffered bounty. i persevered in my endeavours to induce them to feed for four days, but they would not touch the well-intended boon: i therefore resolved to ascertain the cause of their refusal, and on turning up the hive i discovered that thousands of the bees were in a dying state, i had the curiosity to take the whole of them out singly. after several hours' particular attention and patient search, i found the queen was dead. i then united the weak, enfeebled bees to a rich stock, and they nearly all recovered their strength. their numbers greatly assisted in the labour of the hive to which they were joined. certain it is, that if any accident befal their queen in winter, it is total _ruin_ to that stock of bees: where such a death is discovered, feeding will avail nothing, the bees dwindle away and perish. mr. huish says--and he is perfectly correct in saying--that there are some persons who defer the feeding of their bees until the moment they suppose that they may be in actual want. this is a most reprehensible plan; for should feeding be too long delayed, the bees will become so weak and debilitated, that they will be unable to convey the food into their cells: the food ought to be administered to poor stocks, three weeks or a month before they may be supposed to be in actual want; it will then be conveyed with the greatest despatch into the cells, and the hive will be saved from a death of famine. he then goes on to observe--that some apiarians conceive that the feeding of bees in the spring renders them lazy and inactive. on what this opinion is grounded he is at a loss to conjecture, as must be every practical apiarian; for it is in direct contradiction, not only to mr. huish's experience, but also to that of many other apiarians. a little food granted to a populous, and even well-provisioned box or hive in the spring, is attended with very beneficial consequences. it diffuses animation and vigour throughout the whole community;--it accelerates the breeding of the queen--and consequently conduces to the production of early swarms, where room is not previously given in order to prevent swarming altogether. bee-food. artificial food proper for bees may be made by mixing _coarse_, raw sugar, and good, sound ale, in the following proportions:-- to a quart of ale add a pound and a half of sugar, gently boil them, in a sweet, well-tinned saucepan, over a fire clear from smoke, for five or six minutes, or until the sugar be dissolved and thoroughly incorporated with the ale; and, during the process of boiling, skim off the dross that rises to the surface. some persons boil these ingredients much longer, and until they become, when cool, a thick, clammy sirup; this not only diminishes the quantity of the mixture, but renders it rather disadvantageous, to weak bees in particular, by clogging and plaguing them, if, as they are almost sure to do, they get their legs or wings daubed with it. i prefer sirup in a more liquid state. for spring feeding, i advise--that not more than a pound of sugar be put to a quart of ale, or sweet wort, if it can be obtained, and that a small quantity of common salt be added. by a _small quantity_ i mean--a drachm or two at the most to a quart of the sirup. salt, it has been said, is conducive to the health of bees, and the most efficacious remedy for the dysentery, which sometimes affects bees in the spring; therefore, it may not be amiss to put a little salt into their food, by way of preventive, rather than to have recourse to it afterwards as a remedy. speaking of the substances which are proper for the feeding of bees, mr. huish says[i]--"he is perfectly convinced that honey alone is very injurious to bees, as it in general gives them the dysentery." whether by this _extraordinary passage_ mr. huish has, or has not, subjected himself to the lash of his own ridicule, it would be hypercritical and unbecoming in me to determine. as an apiarian i respect him; in no other character am i acquainted with him. his work on the management of bees i have read, and have derived information and occasionally assistance from some of its pages. there are in it, nevertheless, several untenable positions, of which i consider the above-quoted passage to be one: and, if what he has remarked somewhat sarcastically, in a note at the foot of page , be read in conjunction with this passage, it will be for the candid reader, apiarian, or other, to decide whether mr. huish in propriâ personâ does not, oddly enough, exemplify his own remark. it is there said--that "there is no wonder in nature which an apiarian has not seen." professedly an apiarian himself, he must have seen some, at least, of _the wonders in nature_, otherwise he never could have been "_perfectly convinced_"--that honey--"_honey alone_"--the very substance which bees, guided by the instinct of their nature, collect with so much industry, and store up with so much care, for their subsistence, should be "very injurious to them, and in general give them the dysentery." from this it seems that the substance, which is the natural food for one stock of bees, is physic for another, if not poison!! i cannot but express my astonishment that a gentleman, so acute and experienced as mr. huish undoubtedly is, should have asserted in the most unqualified manner--that "honey alone is very injurious to bees." were this the fact, rich stocks, and all stocks that subsist upon "honey alone" during winter, would "in general" be affected with dysentery in the spring, which certainly is not the case. "in general" rich stocks are healthy and strong in the spring. poverty is the predisposing cause of dysentery among bees: a regular supply of their natural--their peculiar food, does not induce dysentery or disease of any sort. had mr. huish analyzed the honey given to bees as food, and which induced dysentery, he would, i suspect, have discovered that it was not "honey alone," but--_medicated honey_--_honey and brimstone_, or honey strongly tinctured either with brimstone or tobacco. that honey, tinctured with the pernicious qualities of those substances, should have a laxative effect upon impoverished, debilitated bees, is no more than might be expected: but then it is not the honey that has the "injurious" effect, but the essence of the brimstone or of the tobacco that is administered along with it. what effect honey, that has not been stoved and saturated with brimstone or with tobacco, may have upon _weak_ bees, when given to them for _spring food_, i pretend not to determine, because i have never tried the experiment. but i do say that before the arrival of spring, honey, that has been drained or expressed from the comb, undergoes fermentation, and that fermentation may, for aught i know, impart to it physical properties, which in its pure, liquid, unchanged state, in the warm hive, it does not possess. i am not chemist enough to venture to assert that it is so, but i think it highly probable that fermentation may alter the properties of honey, and perhaps may render it unwholesome to bees. but fresh, unfermented honey, even that in the blackest and oldest combs--the very refuse, and all such as the cottage-housewife makes into common mead, if spread upon large dishes and placed in an apiary, will be banqueted upon by the bees in the most eager manner, and is apparently much enjoyed by them. they soon carry into their hives what they do not consume on the spot, and suffer no inconvenience whatever from the treat. i have feasted my bees in this way scores of times, and esteem it the very best mode of autumnal feeding, and the most profitable way of disposing of broken combs and refuse honey. "honey alone" is the natural food of bees, and if given to them pure and untainted, in its primitive, limpid state, so far from being injurious, it is highly beneficial to them; of this i have not the shadow of a doubt. for autumnal feeding, i prefer honey to all other substances, and recommend it as the most proper food that can be given to them. [footnote i: huish on bees, page .] chapter xv. catalogue of bee-flowers, &c. from the account of the mode of supplying bees with artificial food, to the enumeration of such trees, plants, and flowers as are most frequented by bees, for the purpose of culling from them the various substances, which their necessities, their nature, or their instinct (which is a part of their nature) urge them to seek for, the transition is so easy and natural--is so akin to the subject of bee-feeding, as to be rather a continuation thereof than a transition to a fresh one; i therefore proceed to give a catalogue of those trees and plants which afford pabulum for bees. it is furnished principally from my own ocular observation, and is partly collected from the observation of others, whose curiosity has led them to pay attention to the subject, and to make remarks upon it. * * * * * alder-tree celery almond-tree cherry-tree althea frutex chesnut-tree alyssum chickweed amaranthus clover apple-tree cole or coleseed apricot-tree coltsfoot arbutus (alpine) coriander ash-tree crocus asparagus crowfoot aspin crown-imperial cucumber balm currants bean cypress-tree beech-tree betony daffodil blackberry dandelion black-currant-tree dogberry-tree borage box-tree elder-tree bramble elm-tree broom endive bugloss (viper's) buckwheat fennel burnet furze cabbage goldenrod cauliflower gooseberry-tree gourd * * * * * hawthorn mallow (marsh) hazel-tree marigold (french) heath marigold (single) holly maple-tree holly-hock (trumpet) marjoram (sweet) honey-suckle melilot honey-wort (cerinthe) melon-tree hyacinth mezereon hysop mignionette mustard ivy nasturtium jonquil nectarine-tree nettle (white) kidney-bean oak-tree laurel onion laurustinus orange-tree lavender ozier leek lemon-tree parsley lily (water) parsnip lily (white) pea lime-tree peach-tree liquidamber pear-tree liriodendrum, or peppermint tulip-tree plane-tree lucerne plum-tree poplar-tree poppy primrose privet * * * * * radish tacamahac ragweed tansy (wild) rasberry tare rosemary (wild) teasel roses (single) thistle (common) rudbechiæ thistle (sow) thyme (lemon) saffron thyme (wild) sage trefoil saintfoin turnip st. john's wort savory (winter) vetch snowdrop snowberry-tree violet (single) stock (single) strawberry wallflower (single) sunflower willow-herb sycamore-tree willow-tree woad yellow weasel-snout * * * * * of these some are valuable for the supply of pabulum they afford bees early in spring; as _the white alyssum, broom, crocus, furze, hazel, laurustinus, mezereon, ozier, plane-tree, poplar-tree, snowdrop, sycamore-tree, the willow-tree, &c._ others again are valuable on account of the lateness of the season that bees derive assistance from them; as _the golden-rod, heath, ivy, laurustinus, mignionette, ragweed, &c._ some abound with honey; as _borage, buckwheat, burnet, coleseed, currant and gooseberry-trees, heath, leek, mignionette, mustard, onion, thyme, the blossoms of apple, apricot, cherry, nectarine, pear, and plum-trees, and the leaves of those trees remarkable for what is called honey-dew, as the aspin, blackberry, laurel, laurustinus, lime, maple, oak, plane, poplar, and sycamore-tree._ among those that are rich in pollen, may be classed--_the arbutus, ash, blackberry, box, chesnut, cypress, elder, laurel, marsh-mallow, turnip, &c._ the cultivation of some of the most valuable of these is too-limited to be particularly advantageous to bees, as _alyssum, borage, burnet, golden-rod, laurustinus, mezereon, mignionette, &c._ the most extensive and lasting bee-pasturage in this country is _clover, heath_, and in my own immediate neighbourhood _mustard_. in short, every one of the flowers, &c. mentioned in the foregoing catalogue, and others innumerable, are in their turns resorted to by bees, and of course are more or less advantageous to them. chapter xvi. honey-comb. to excite our admiration of the industry and ingenuity of bees, we need only take into our hands a piece of _honey-comb_, and examine it attentively. its neatness, its beauty, its construction, the similarity and exact proportion of its double web of cells, for a honey-comb is, in fact, a web of cell-work on both sides, are most admirable, and calculated to lead the contemplative mind from nature's work up to nature's god. when a swarm of bees is put into a hive, or into a box, they immediately set about constructing combs in it, and proceed in their building work with a rapidity that is truly astonishing. the cells that are opposite to each other are advanced alike: the work on one side is just as forward and in the same state as that on the other side. in the cells first finished the queen begins to deposit her eggs. in an incredibly short space of time, an immense number of cells is completed, and the bees store pollen, farina, or bee-bread, (which are so many names for the same substance) in some of those not already occupied by eggs, and in others honey soon becomes visible: all is activity, industry, and apparently happiness. but, to come to particulars:-- as dr. bevan, in the course of his _masterly_ chapter "on the architecture of bees," has given an engraved representation of a piece of honey-comb,--and as mr. huish also has given a somewhat similar representation, but better than dr. bevan's, inasmuch as it is more varied, and shows the royal-cells in their different stages to more advantage, and the drone-cells likewise;--i cannot, perhaps, do the _honey-comb_ so much justice in any way, as by presenting to my reader a copy of mr. huish's piece of comb, which has been _greatly improved_ by the skilful hand of my engraver, and by giving along with it dr. bevan's able description. though after all, a piece of _real comb_, to look at and examine, is more beautiful and far better than any engraving possibly can be, however cleverly it may be executed: and therefore, notwithstanding the plate, i would recommend it to my reader to procure a piece of real honey-comb, and with it in his hand read the following account, which is chiefly from dr. bevan's pen. [illustration] royal-cells in different states of forwardness, common-cells, and drone-cells, are intended to be severally represented in this plate. the ranges forming the upper half, and marked--a. are intended to represent common brood-cells and honey-cells--most of them in an empty state. the lower ranges, marked--b. are drone-cells, and are represented as closed up, and as they appear when full of brood. drone-cells, when filled with brood and sealed up, present a fuller and more convex surface than the cells containing common brood--these, that is--the cells containing the brood that becomes working bees, are sometimes flat and even, and sometimes rather concave. the four large cells, attached perpendicularly to the edge of the comb, and marked--c. d. e. f. are royal-cells in different states of forwardness; that marked--c. is similar in size and shape to an acorn-cup, and is supposed to be quite empty; that marked--d. is in a more advanced state, and is supposed to contain a royal embryo, in its _larva_ state: the royal-cell, marked--e. is considerably lengthened, narrowed, and nearly closed, because the larva it is supposed to contain is about to be transformed into a royal nymph, in which stage of its existence, as it does not require the assistance of nurses or common bees, it is closed up entirely, as in the royal-cell, marked--f. in this closed cell it progresses from nymph to bee, and in due time--that is, in about sixteen days from its being deposited as an egg, it emerges a virgin queen. when the temperature of a hive, or pavilion of nature, is at a proper height--namely, between and degrees, sixteen days is the period nature requires for the production of a queen-bee,--twenty-one for the perfection of a working bee,--and twenty-six for a drone bee. but, as dr. bevan very justly remarks, "the development of each species proceeds more slowly when the colonies are weak, or the air cool,--and that when the weather is very cold it is entirely suspended." but to return from this short, though it is hoped, not uninteresting digression, into which the explanation of the queen-cells has led us. "the combs of the bee-hive comprise a congeries of hexagonal cells, formed by the bees, as receptacles for honey or for embryo bees. a honey-comb is allowed to be one of the most striking achievements of insect industry, and an admirable specimen of insect architecture. it has attracted the admiration of the contemplative philosopher in all ages, and awakened speculation, not only in the naturalist, but also in the mathematician: so regular, so perfect, is the structure of the cells, that it satisfies every condition of a refined problem in geometry. still a review of their proceedings will lead to the conclusion, as huber has observed, that, "the geometrical relations, which apparently embellish the productions of bees, are rather the necessary result of their mode of proceeding, than the principle by which their labour is guided." "we must therefore conclude, that bees, although they act geometrically, understand neither the rules nor the principles of the arts which they practise so skilfully, and that the geometry is not in the bee, but in the great geometrician who made the bee, and made all things in number, weight, and measure. "before the time of huber, no naturalist had seen the commencement of the comb, nor traced the several steps of its progress. after many attempts, he at length succeeded in attaining the desired object; by preventing the bees from forming their usual impenetrable curtain by suspending themselves from the top of the hive; in short, he obliged them to build upwards, and was thereby enabled, by means of a glass window, to watch every variation and progressive step in the construction of a comb. "_each comb in a hive is composed of two ranges of cells, backed against each other: these cells_, looking at them as a whole, may be said to _have one common base_, though no one cell is opposed directly to another. this base or partition, between the double row of cells, is so disposed as to form a pyramidal cavity at the bottom of each, as will be explained presently. _the mouths of the cells_, thus ranged on each side of a comb, _open into two parallel streets_ (there being a continued series of combs in every well filled hive). these streets are sufficiently contracted, to avoid waste of room, and to preserve a proper warmth, yet _wide enough to allow the passage of two bees abreast_. apertures through different parts of the combs are reserved to form near roads, for crossing from street to street, whereby much time is saved to the bees. these in firm phalanx ply their twinkling feet, stretch out the ductile mass, and form the street, with many a cross-way path and postern gate, that shorten to their range the spreading state. evans. "_bees_, as has been already observed, _build their cells of an hexangular form, having six equal sides_, with the exception of the first or uppermost row, the shape of which is an irregular pentagon, the roof of the hive forming one of the members of the pentagon. "there are only three possible figures of the cells," says dr. reid, "which can make them all equal and similar, without any useless interstices. these are--the equilateral triangle, the square and the regular hexagon. it is well-known to mathematicians, that there is not a fourth way possible, in which a plane may be cut into little spaces, that shall be equal, similar, and regular, without having any interstices." of these three geometrical figures, the hexagon most completely unites the prime requisites for insect architecture. the truth of this proposition was perceived by pappus, an eminent greek philosopher and mathematician, who lived at alexandria, in the reign of theodosius the great, and its adoption by bees, in the construction of honey-comb, was noticed by that ancient geometrician. these requisites are:-- "first, oeconomy of materials. there are no useless partitions in a honey-comb, each of the six lateral panels of one cell forms also one of the panels of an adjoining cell; and of the three rhombs which form the pyramidal base of a cell, each contributes one third towards the formation of the bases of three opposing cells, the bottom or centre of every cell resting against the point of union of the panels that are at the back of it. "secondly, oeconomy of room; no interstices being left between adjoining cells. "thirdly, the greatest possible capacity or internal space, consistent with the two former desiderata. "fourthly, oeconomy of materials and economy of room produce economy of labour. and in addition to these advantages, the cells are constructed in the strongest manner possible, considering the quantity of materials employed. both the sides and bases are so exquisitely thin, that three or four placed on each other are not thicker than a leaf of common writing paper; each cell, separately weak, is strengthened by its coincidence with other cells, and _the entrance is fortified with an additional ledge or border of wax_, to prevent its bursting from the struggles of the bee-nymph, or from the ingress and _egress_ of the labourers. this entrance border is _at least three times as thick as the sides of the cell_, and thicker at the angles than elsewhere, which prevents the mouth of the cell from being regularly hexagonal, though the interior is perfectly so. on books deep poring, ye pale sons of toil, who waste in studious trance the midnight oil, say, can you emulate with all your rules, drawn, or from grecian or from gothic schools, this artless frame? instinct her simple guide, a heaven-taught insect baffles all your pride. not all your marshall'd orbs that ride so high, proclaim more loud a present deity, than the nice symmetry of these small cells, where on each angle genuine science dwells, and joys to mark, through wide creation's reign, how close the lessening links of her continued chain. evans. "having just adverted to the ingenuity of bees in thickening, and thereby strengthening the mouths of the cells, it may here be observed--that _additional strength is also derived from the bees covering the whole surface of the combs, but more particularly the edge of the cells, with a peculiar kind of varnish_, which they collect for the purpose. at first the combs are delicately white, semi-transparent, and exceedingly fragile, smooth but unpolished: in a short time their surfaces become stronger, and assume more or less of a yellow tint. the deepening of the colour of honey-combs has been supposed, by some, to be the effect of age; and in part it may be: but it is principally owing to the coat of varnish, with which the bees cover them. this varnish strongly resembles propolis, appearing to differ from it only in containing the colouring material which imparts to wax its yellow hue. the source of this colouring matter has not been discovered: it is insoluble in alcohol, but the manufacture of white-wax shows that it is destructible by light. but to return to the construction of the cell-work. "_the pyramidal basis of a cell is formed by the junction of three rhomboidal or lozenge-shaped portions of wax:_ the apex of the pyramid being situated where the three obtuse angles of the lozenges meet. to the exterior edges and angles are attached the six panels or sides of each cell. the apex of each pyramidal bottom, on one side of a comb, forms the angles of the bases of three cells on the opposite side, the three lozenges respectively concurring in the formation of the bases of the same cells. this will, i hope, explain what is meant by "each cell separately weak, being strengthened by coincidence with others." the bottom of each cell rests upon three partitions of opposite cells, from which it receives a great accession of strength. "as it is desirable that the reader should thoroughly comprehend this subject, i will re-state it in other words. the partition which separates the two opposing rows of cells, and which occupies, of course, the middle distance between their two surfaces, is not a plane but a collection of rhombs, there being three at the bottom of each cell: the three together form in shape, a flattened pyramid, the basis of which is turned towards the mouth of the cell; each cell is in form, therefore, a hexagonal prism, terminated by a flattened trihedral pyramid, the three sides of which pyramid are rhombs, that meet at the apex by their obtuse angles. "the union of the lozenges in one point, in addition to the support which it is the means of affording to the three partitions between opposing cells, is also admirably adapted to receive the little egg and to concentrate the heat necessary for its incubation. "each obtuse angle of the lozenges or rhombs forms an angle of about degrees, and each acute one, an angle of about degrees. mr. maraldi found by mensuration that the angles of these rhombs, which compose the base of a cell, amounted to degrees and seconds, and degrees and seconds: and the famous mathematician koenig, pupil of the celebrated bernoulli, having been employed for that purpose by m. reaumur, has clearly shown, by the method of infinitesimals, that the quantity of these angles, using the least possible wax, in the cell of the same capacity, should contain degrees and seconds, and degrees and seconds. this was confirmed by the celebrated mr. mac laurin, who very justly observes, that bees do truly construct their cells of the best figure, and with the utmost mathematical exactness. "the construction of several combs is generally going on at the same time. no sooner is the foundation of one laid, with a few rows of cells attached to it, than a second and a third are founded on each side, parallel to the first, and so on, (if the season give encouragement to the operations of the bees,) till the hive is filled with their works; the first constructed comb or combs being always in the most advanced state, and therefore the first to be completed. "_the design of every comb is sketched out, and the first rudiments are laid by one single bee._ this founder-bee forms a block, out of a rough mass of wax, drawn partly from its own resources, but principally from those of other bees, which furnish materials, in quick succession, from the receptacles under their bellies, taking out the plates of wax with their hind feet, and carrying them to their mouths with their fore feet, where the wax is moistened and masticated, till it becomes soft and ductile. thus filter'd through yon flutterer's folded mail, clings the cool'd wax, and hardens to a scale; swift, at the well-known call, the ready train (for not a buz boon nature breathes in vain) spring to each falling flake, and bear along their glossy burdens to the builder throng. evans. "the architect-in-chief, who lays, as it were, the first stone of this and each successive edifice, determines the relative position of the combs, and their distances from each other: these foundations serve as guides for the ulterior labours of the wax-working bees, and of those which sculpture the cells, giving them the advantage of the margin and angles already formed. "the expedients resorted to by that ingenious naturalist, huber, unfolded the whole process. he saw each bee extract with its hind feet one of the plates of wax from under the scales where they were lodged, and carrying it to the mouth in a vertical position, turn it round, so that every part of its border was made to pass in succession, under the cutting edge of the jaws; it was thus soon divided into very small fragments; and a frothy liquor was poured upon it from the tongue, so as to form a perfectly plastic mass. this liquor gave the wax a whiteness and opacity which it did not possess originally, and at the same time renders it tenacious and ductile. the issuing of this masticated mass from the mouth was, no doubt, what misled reaumur, and caused him to regard wax as nothing more than digested pollen. "the mass of wax, prepared by the assistants, is applied by the architect-bee to the roof or bottom of the hive, as the case may be; and thus a block is raised of a semi-lenticular shape, thick at top and tapering towards the edges. when of a sufficient size, a cell is sculptured on one side of it, by the wax-working bees, who relieve one another in succession, sometimes to the number of twenty, before the cell is completely fashioned. at the back and on each side of this first cell, two others are sketched out and excavated. by this proceeding the foundations of two cells are laid, the line betwixt them corresponding with the centre of the opposite cell. as the combs extend, the first excavations are rendered deeper and broader; and when a pyramidal base is finished, the bees build up walls from its edges, so as to complete what may be called the prismatic part of the cell. every succeeding row of cells is formed by precisely similar steps, until there is a sufficient scope for the simultaneous employment of many workers. these, with sharp sickle, or with sharper tooth, pare each excrescence and each angle smooth, till now, in finish'd pride, two radiant rows of snow-white cells, one mutual base disclose. six shining panels gird each polish'd round, the door's fine rim, with waxen fillet hound, while walls so thin, with sister-walls comhin'd, weak in themselves, a sure dependence find. evans. "the pyramidal bases and lateral plates are successively formed, with surprising rapidity; the latter are lengthened as the comb proceeds, for the original semi-lenticular form is preserved till towards the last, when, if the hive or box be filled, the sides of all the cells receive such additions as give them equal depth. "_the cells intended for the drones_ are considerably larger, and more substantial, than those for the working bees, and, being later formed, usually appear near the bottom of the combs. last of all, are built the _royal-cells_, the cradles of the infant queens: of these there are usually three or four, and sometimes ten or twelve, in a hive, attached commonly to the central part, but not unfrequently to the edge or side of the comb. mr. hunter says that he has seen as many as thirteen royal-cells in a hive, and that they have very little wax in their composition, not one third, the rest he conceives to be farina. such is the genuine loyalty of bees, that the wax which they employ with so much geometric economy, in the construction of hexagonal cells, is profusely expended on the mansion of the royal bee-nymph, one of these exceeding in weight a hundred of the former. they are not interwoven with them, but suspended perpendicularly, their sides being nearly parallel to the mouths of the common-cells, several of which are sacrificed to support them. no more with wary thriftiness imprest, they grace with lavish pomp their royal guest, nor heed the wasted wax, nor rifled cell, to bid, with fretted round, th' imperial palace swell. evans. "the form of these royal-cells is an oblong spheroid, tapering gradually downwards, and having the exterior full of holes, somewhat resembling the _rustic_ work of stone buildings. the mouth of the cell, which is always at its bottom, remains open till the maggot is ready for transformation, and is then closed as the others are. "immediately on the emergence of a ripened queen, the lodge which she inhabited is destroyed, and its place is supplied by a range of common cells. the site of this range may always be traced, by that part of the comb being thicker than the rest, and forming a kind of knot; sometimes the upper portion of the cell itself remains, like an inverted acorn-cup, suspended by its short peduncle. yet no fond dupes to slavish zeal resign'd, they link with industry the loyal mind, flown is each vagrant chief. they raze the dome, that bent oppressive o'er the fretted comb, and on its knotted base fresh garners raise, where toil secure her well earn'd treasure lays. evans. "in this mutilated state only, and not in the breeding-season, could mr. hunter have seen this cradle of royalty; for he describes it as the half of an oval, too wide and shallow to receive its supposed tenant. "i have spoken of the perfect regularity in the cell-work of a honey-comb;--particular circumstances, however, induce a departure from this exactness: for instance, where bees have commenced a comb with small cell-work, and afterwards wish to attach to it a set of large cells, as in the case of drone-cells being required to be appended to workers'-cells. these deviations from the usual regularity renew our admiration of bee-ingenuity, though reaumur and bonnet have regarded them as examples of imperfection. they effect their object by interposing three or four series of, what may be called, _cells of transition_, the bottom or bases of which are composed of two rhombs and two hexagons, instead of three rhombs; the rhombs and hexagons gradually varying in form and relative proportion, till the requisite size, namely, that of the cells which they are approaching, has been attained. "the same gradation is observed when returning to smaller cells. every apparent irregularity is therefore determined by a sufficient motive, and forms no impeachment of the sagacity of the bee. "the common breeding-cells of drones or workers are occasionally (after being cleaned) made the depositories of honey; but the cells are never made so clean, as to preserve the honey undeteriorated. the finest honey is stored in new cells, constructed for the purpose of receiving it, their configuration resembling precisely the common breeding-cells: these _honey-cells vary in size_, being made more or less capacious, _according to the productiveness of the sources from which the bees are collecting, and according to the season of the year:_ the cells formed in july and august vary in their dimensions from those that are formed earlier; being intended for honey only, they are larger and deeper, the texture of their walls is thinner, and they have more dip or inclination; this dip diminishes the risk of the honey's running out, which, from the heat of the weather, and the consequent thinness of the honey, at this season of the year, it might otherwise be liable to do. _when the cells_, intended for holding the winter's provision, _are filled, they are always closed with waxen lids_, and never re-opened till the whole of the honey in the unfilled cells has been expended. the waxen lids are thus formed;--the first bees construct a ring of wax within the verge of the cell, to which other rings are successively added, till the aperture of the cell is finally closed with a lid composed of concentric circles. "the brood-cells, when their tenants have attained a certain age, are also covered with waxen lids, like the honey-cells; the lids differ a little, the latter being somewhat concave, the former convex. _the depth of the brood-cells_ of drones and working bees is about half an inch; _their diameter_ is more exact, that of the drone-cells being three lines[j] and one third, that of the workers two lines and three fifths. these, says reaumur, are the invariable dimensions of all the cells, that ever were, or ever will be made. [footnote j: a line is the twelfth part of an inch.] "from this uniform, unvarying diameter of the brood-cells, when completed, their use has been suggested, as an universal standard of measure, which would be understood, in all countries, to the end of time." while heav'n-born instinct bound their measured view, from age to age, from zembla to peru, their snow-white cells, the order'd artists frame, in size, in form, in symmetry, the same. evans. bees' wax. bees' wax, in its strictest sense, _is a secretion from the body of the honey-bee_, and is that peculiar substance or material with which bees principally construct their combs;--i say--_principally_, because the foundation of every comb is _propolis:_ it is by this tenacious substance (propolis) that combs are securely attached to, and suspended from, the roof of a hive or a box,--and it is by this that they are firmly glued to the sides, wherever they are made to touch them. bees' wax, however, in the common acceptation of the term, is that well-known, valuable article, obtained from honey-comb by the following process:-- having _drained_ all the honey from the combs, put them into a clean pot, together with as much rain-water as will make them float; then simmer over a clear fire until the combs be completely dissolved; and the wax and the dross mixed with it will swim at the top of the water. pour the whole into a strong and tolerably fine canvas bag, made wide at the top and tapering downwards to a point, in the form of a jelly bag. hold this over a tub or large vessel in which is a quantity of cold water. the boiling water will, of course, soon drain through, and leave in the bag the greater part of the liquefied wax commingled with dross. have ready then a piece of smooth board of such a length that, when one end of it is placed in the tub of cold water, the other end may be conveniently rested against, and securely stayed by your breast. upon this inclined plane lay your dripping, reeking strainer, and keep it from slipping into the cold water by bringing its upper part over the top of the board so as to be held firmly between it and your breast. if the strainer be made with a broad hem round its top, a piece of strong tape or cord passed through such hem will draw it close, and should be long enough to form a stirrup for the foot, by which an additional power will be gained of keeping the scalding-hot strainer in its proper place on the board: then by compressing the bag, or rather its contents, with any convenient roller, the wax will ooze through and run down the board into the cold water, on the surface of which it will set in thin flakes. when this part of the operation is finished, collect the wax, put it into a clean saucepan, in which is a little water to keep the wax from being burnt to the bottom; melt it _carefully_ (for, should it be neglected and suffered to boil over, serious mischief might ensue, liquid wax being of a very inflammable nature) therefore melt it _carefully over a slow fire_, and skim off the dross as it rises to the top; then pour it into such moulds or shapes as your fancy may direct, having first well rinsed them, in order that you may be able to get the wax, when cold and solid, out of them without breaking either the moulds or the wax: place them, covered over with cloths or with pieces of board, where the wax will cool slowly; because the more slowly it cools the more solid it will be and free from flaws and cracks. you will thus have your wax in cakes, which may be rendered still more pure by a second melting and moulding. if run into very thin cakes, and afterwards exposed to the influence of the sun and the air, frequently turned, and occasionally wetted, it will lose its yellowness, and become beautifully white. this last process is called _bleaching_; and, though more simple and practicable than that pursued in establishments where large quantities of wax are bleached--where bleaching wax is of itself a regular business--it may probably be sufficient to answer all the purposes for which _white-wax_ is wanted in private families. i have by me wax of my own bleaching that is equal in whiteness and delicacy to any i have ever met with. good wax is a heavy, solid substance, of a deep yellow colour, has an agreeable, balsamic odour, and possesses several medicinal and other valuable qualities. combs that have never been filled, and those that have been filled with honey only, afford the best wax. of the former kind but very little need ever be taken from bees in collateral-boxes; and when any such combs are taken, they may be far more advantageously disposed of than by being melted down for the wax they contain. instead of crushing and melting all the combs of three or four hives together, as is mostly done by cottage bee-keepers, the fine, clean parts should be separated from those that are discoloured, less pure, and inferior, by reason of their age,--of having been brood combs,--or of containing pollen, and should be melted first. by this very easy mode of manipulation, the quantity of wax would not be lessened, and the superior quality of the fine would command a price that would be an ample remuneration for the additional trouble attending the management of it in this way. should the preceding directions be thought to be tediously or unnecessarily minute, my apology for making them so is--an anxious wish on my part to render every thing relating to bees clearly understood--understood so as to be set about and properly managed by persons who never before bestowed one thought upon the subject. chapter xvi i. winter situation for bees. there is no part of bee-management more utterly disregarded by cottage-hive bee-keepers than that which relates to a proper situation for store-hives during winter. from whatever cause this inattention may proceed,--whether from custom, ignorance, or prejudice, it is much to be regretted; because nothing is so essentially conducive to the future prosperity, and often to the very preservation, of a colony, as due attention to its winter situation. left, as stock-hives commonly are, in their summer aspect, and to stand upon the very spot they have occupied ever since the day of their existence as stocks,--with their entrances wide open, just as they were in summer,--exposed alike to every change of weather and to every attack of prowling enemies; or, if covered at all, it is mostly with a rude coat of straw, or reed, or such material as affords to mice, vermine, and various sorts of bee-enemies, shelter and concealment, and, in fact, encouragement to attack and destroy the hives. thus, neglected and unheeded, it is no wonder that so many stocks of bees perish in the winter and spring of every year; the wonder rather is that any should escape. some apiarian authors are opposed to the confinement of bees in their hives, except when snow is on the ground: _then_, and _then only_, they recommend the confinement of bees as necessary for their safety. now, i would respectfully ask--if, in the north of england and in scotland, snow does not lie on the ground for weeks, and in some years for months together? and i would ask further--if bees can bear this confinement with snow on the ground, why they cannot bear it when there is no snow? they argue, however, in the face of this admission, that confinement is injurious to bees, and that a flight in the open air on a fine day, if there should happen to be a fine day, in the depth of winter, is beneficial to bees, otherwise, they say, the bees would not take it. a mild, open winter, every body knows, renders unconfined bees poor--and when kept in a state of perpetual agitation and alarm by the restless enemies that surround them and nestle in their straw covering, and tempted by the faint, wintery sun-beams that gleam upon their floor-board through the unclosed entrance of their hives, they will, no doubt, sometimes sally forth. but what is the consequence? hundreds and thousands of them become paralyzed[k] and never return; and those that do get home again have occasion for food: of course, the oftener these winter flights take place, the more the population of the hives they issue from is diminished, and the more pauperized that diminished population becomes in consequence of such flights: whereas, if bees were confined, kept in darkness, or, at any rate, out of the influence of the sun, kept dry, cool, still, and undisturbed, no such disastrous consequences would ensue. [footnote k: in the th page of his "apiarian's guide," j. h. payne, esq. says--"a bee becomes torpid at a temperature of thirty-two degrees"--payne is an experienced apiarian. what credit then is due to the anonymous critic, who in one of the weekly periodicals[l] has told us that "bees in a glass hive, exposed in the open air, when its temperature was twenty degrees below freezing, instead of being in a state of of torpor, continued very lively?!!"--before yielding implicit credence to this statement, it would be exceedingly satisfactory to be informed _how long_ the bees so exposed continued very lively.] [footnote l: _mechanics' magazine_, no. , p. .] the following detail will show my readers the results of some experiments, relative to the aspect and situation of bee-hives during winter; and whilst in some degree they corroborate the foregoing observations, they may perhaps induce those, who are anxious for the prosperity of their bees, to submit to be taught a useful lesson respecting the winter management of them. in i had six cottage-hives, which had prospered well with me during the summer of that year. in the autumn of the same year i resolved to weigh those six hives, and to place three of them on the north side of my house, and to let the other three remain in their summer situation. the separate weights of my hives, in november of the year , were as under, viz. no. . lbs. no. . lbs. . -- . -- . -- . -- --- --- --- --- the first three of these nos. viz. , , and , weighing together lbs. remained during the winter in their summer situation: nos. , , and , weighing together lbs. were removed to a cold dry place, on the north side of my house. on the th of march, , i again weighed those six hives, and found their respective weights to be as follows, viz. no. . lbs. no. . lbs. . -- . -- . -- . -- -- -- -- -- so that the three hives, remaining in their summer quarters during the winter, had decreased in weight just lbs. being on an average lbs. each; while the three which had wintered on the north side of my house had decreased only lbs. being on an average only lbs. each. this gives an average difference of lbs. a hive, between a proper and an improper winter situation and aspect for bees. it is lamentable to think how many people lose their bees, either from ignorance, prejudice, or want of attention to this particular point--_a proper winter situation_. i need scarcely relate to my readers, that the bees which were placed fronting, or open to the north, were the first that swarmed the next spring. they swarmed in the month of may; while those hives that had remained fronting, or open to the south, did not swarm until july; and one hive (no. .) never swarmed at all during the season. at the latter end of october, , i again weighed my hives, and found them to be as under:-- no. . lbs. swarm from ditto lbs. . -- . -- swarm from ditto -- -- -- -- -- no. . lbs. swarm from ditto lbs. . -- swarm from ditto -- . -- swarm from ditto -- --- -- --- -- hence it appears that the three hives (nos. , , and ) that had never been removed from their summer stands, were lbs. lighter than when i first weighed them, that is, on an average, lbs. a hive; and even with the weight of their two swarms added to them, there was a falling off in the year of lbs. or, on an average, of lbs, a hive: whilst nos. , , and , had gained lbs. or, on an average, nearly lbs. each; and with the weight of their swarms added to them, they had gained lbs. or, on an average, nearly lbs. a hive in the year. i could carry this subject much further in my explanations, as i did in my experiments, but it requires no facts in addition to those just stated to explain the difference of aspect in the winter-season to bees. every cottager must know that the richer his bees are in spring, the sooner they will swarm. then, to make them rich, he must not neglect to place his hives out of the influence of the sun during winter,--_in a dry, cold, and quiet situation_. he will find by this practice, that not more than five or six pounds of honey will be consumed by a good stock; but if he suffer his bees to remain fronting the south, they will in a mild winter, if they survive it at all, become paupers before spring. now what is proper during the winter for stocks in common hives, is equally proper for stocks in collateral-boxes, of which the middle-box is the winter-pavilion or stock-hive. long before winter all the bees of the most populous stock will draw into the middle-box and cluster round their queen; and when that is the case, the dividing-tins should be put down, in order that all the bees may be securely kept in the pavilion; and previously to removing them from their summer situation, the entrance should be carefully closed with a piece of wire-cloth, or perforated tin; which, whilst it admits fresh air into the box, will keep the bees within and all their enemies without. it is hardly possible for the smallest enemy to make its way into a box thus secured. a perforated tin may also be put over the way down into the drawer. towards spring this last may be withdrawn, and the bees, when they begin to revive, will soon rid themselves of those that may have died in the winter, by carrying them down into the drawer. having made every necessary preparation, remove your stocks to such a situation as that herein before recommended, and there in quietude let them pass the dreary months of winter. i do not advise that they be taken too early to, nor that they remain too long in, their hibernacula: generally speaking, they may be removed towards the latter end of november, and again in the third or fourth week of february; but the bees themselves, if duly observed, will be the best directors. this is _my_ practice, and it is also the practice of my apiarian friend at gedney-hill, than whose, no stocks in this neighbourhood are more healthy or much more prosperous. chapter xviii. apiarian societies. the encouragement of any internal branch of industry, which will supersede the necessity for the employment of british capital in speculative adventures where no equivalent is returned, is in the mind of every patriot a subject worthy of consideration. and that the prosecution and encouragement of my system of bee-management, undertaken by those who are qualified by their means, abilities, and powers of patronage, to set the example, and thereby influence others, will effect this to a considerable extent, as far as the production of honey and wax is concerned, will, i think, be sufficiently obvious to those who have witnessed, or who hereafter may witness, the successful results--the almost incredible quantity of these productions from my apiary alone; or, leaving my apiary entirely out of the account, i will venture modestly to assert, _that from any one set of collateral-boxes, well-stocked and well-managed, the quantity and quality of honey that may be annually taken, without either destroying or impoverishing the bees, must be seen to be believed; and being seen, will not be disputed_. the exact amount annually paid to other countries for these two commodities--honey and wax--i have not the means of ascertaining with accuracy, but it is probable that it exceeds £ , .--a sum lost to this country, because, not only have we in the vegetable world a profusion of these productions, that "waste their sweetness on the desert air," but we have, or might have, if we would but encourage them, the labourers necessary to collect them, and this too without the deterioration of any other department of rural economy. were bee-colonies multiplied to any thing like the number that the bee-pasturage of this country would support; were there, for instance, but one set of well-stocked collateral-boxes on every square mile of england, wales, and scotland,--or, to compute moderately, on every square mile of every rural district of great britain, that is fertile in bee-pasturage,--and were the price of the finest box-honey reduced to a shilling a pound, the annual _surplus_ produce of these colonies would realize a sum far exceeding £ , . which would be put into the pockets of, generally speaking, an industrious and deserving part of the community--the rural population, and a profitable remuneration given to them for their indulgence and perseverance in a most rational pursuit, requiring but trifling, and this only incidental attention. i know of no time more proper for throwing out these hints than the present, when the subject of _rural allotments_ excites, and that justly, almost universal attention amongst those desirous of securing an industrious, prosperous, and virtuous peasantry. i do not presume to imagine that, antiquated as are the practices hitherto so generally adopted, and so pertinaciously adhered to in bee-management in this country, and characterized as are these practices by so many superstitious and irrational usages--i do not presume to imagine that my system will, at once, up-root prejudices, dispel superstitions, and be immediately and heartily adopted by the cottager. the generality of apiarians have yet to be taught that _bee-management is a system;_--that it is something more than merely stocking a hive or box with a swarm of bees, and then leaving it to chance alone to prosper or to perish; and, if to prosper, it is only until the time for its final doom--the reckless destruction of every bee--arrives. they have yet to learn that the whole, or at least, the greater part of the contingencies, to which bee-colonies are subject, may be averted; that the casualties of bees are analogous to those of other descriptions of stock; and that, if they would ensure success, or expect to derive profit from them, it must be by attention to their domicils, to their protection from the variations of climate and atmosphere, and from external enemies,--in short, by proper management. if in many instances, the success of my hives has been so unqualified and extensive, it has been because the necessity for careful management has been impressed and adhered to, and because bees, in whose welfare their owners had been previously uninterested, have been looked upon with some degree of attention, and their labours facilitated and requited by timely administering to their wants and comforts. in the same way, i believe, that by attention to the observations contained in these pages, the cottagers' labours may be more amply repaid, and that more honey may be obtained, even by their rough practices; whilst this will be preparing them for the adoption of my improved plans and gradually pave the way for its general introduction. for this i more particularly refer to the preceding chapter, and to that on bee-feeding, i. e. chapters xiv. and xvii. it has often been suggested to me, to point out _how_ the culture of honey-bees might be more generally extended in this country, and rendered more advantageous to the cottager than it has been hitherto. as regards the extension of bee-cultivation, i would observe, that if those gentlemen, especially those gentlemen resident in the country, who possess affluence, influence, and leisure, would undertake to promote it--would set the example and keep bees, their example alone would go far to induce the cottager to keep them; and that, as other countries boast, and that so usefully, their apiarian societies, the formation of such a society, or societies, could not fail to be attended with beneficial effects. some feeble attempts, it is true, to establish such a society have been made, but have proved abortive, whilst premiums on the subject have been offered by other societies,[m] injudiciously, as they have tended to perpetuate mistaken views, and to retard the progress of more correct ones. i am not insensible of the extreme benefit which has resulted to the different branches of industry, and to agriculture and horticulture in particular, by well-regulated scales of premiums, emulating to superiority and necessarily promoting a beneficial stimulus in the different branches with which they are connected. and, in my opinion, nothing would more easily tend to the inculcation of sounder views of practice, than, if gentlemen, pursuing my principles, would interest themselves in connecting with the objects of such associations more generally, graduated scales of prizes, regulated by the quantity of honey obtained from stocks, the prosperity of the hives afterwards, and the state of the apiary generally, &c. were they also to countenance the plan of placing colonies under the care of labouring cottagers, giving them premiums as an inducement to careful management, they could not fail of conferring a benefit, by initiating them into the plans of the system, as well as by more advantageously dividing the pasture of the district among the different hives, and thereby rendering the labour of their collecting the stores considerably less to the bees. this would, undoubtedly, effect much, but i know of no means so decidedly calculated to foster and encourage the culture of honey-bees among all classes, and more particularly among the population of rural districts, as apiarian societies, formed for the express purpose of extending and improving the cultivation and management of honey-bees. [footnote m: a premium was last year ( ) awarded by the cambridgeshire horticultural society, to a mr. widnal, for his exhibition of a glass of honey. but whether the encouragement of bee-culture be an object of that very respectable society,--or whether the reward given to mr. widnal on that occasion was a sort of bye-premium, bestowed for the gratification of seeing a curiosity, it did not appear.] chapter xix. miscellaneous directions. in undertaking this work, as i originally did, at the pressing solicitations of several of those noblemen and gentlemen, whose names graced the list of the subscribers for the first edition, i had two main objects in view; of which a full and particular explanation of the mode of managing honey-bees, in my boxes and upon my principles, was one,--and the other, which i do ardently hope will result from the adoption and encouragement of my long-tried plan, is--the prospective improvement, not only of the culture and condition of those ingenious, admired, and most interesting little creatures, but also of honey and wax--the two valuable articles which bees, and bees alone, afford us. to prepare the way for the accomplishment of the latter of these objects, i have exerted my best endeavours--i have spared neither pains nor expense, to give minute, and, i trust, intelligible descriptions of all my boxes and hives, of my bee-machinery, and of every thing thereto pertaining; which descriptions have been accompanied with such practical directions and relations of experiments, as will, _if duly attended to_, enable my bee-friends to put their apiaries upon my _humane and profitable system of management_. therefore i do not think it is incumbent upon me to proceed farther at present. i might easily double the size of my book, by entering into and giving lengthy details of several matters relative to bees, which are not here so much as hinted at; such, for instance, as the distance that they sometimes fly from their hives in quest of honey, and the experiments that have been made to determine that distance;--the nature of honey-dew, and how it is occasioned,--why it abounds on some trees and plants, whilst others are entirely destitute of it,--whether it be a natural exudation of the plants that afford it,--or whether it be produced by the leaf-lice, called aphides;--why, if the impregnation of a virgin-queen be retarded beyond a certain number of days after her coming into existence, all the eggs she lays during her whole life, should invariably produce _drones;_--the language of bees, for bees, it has been held, have their peculiar language, though i profess not to understand it, nor even to have studied it, my business being with their _habits;_--the various diseases or maladies with which skilful men assure us they are occasionally affected;--their senses, their anatomy, and their instinct;--their affinity to the wasp;--exotic bees from those of lapland to those of china; and from those of siberia to those of the cape of good hope;--the stingless bees of south america, mentioned by dr. hancock, that from the luxuriant ever-blooming, tropical plants and flowers, produce black wax;[n] what aristotle hath remarked on one subject,--what pliny hath said on another,--what classic virgil hath so delightfully sung of the nature, economy, and management of bees in italy,--what gelieu in modest prose hath said of bees in switzerland,--huber and reaumur in france, and a host of writers in germany, and in our own native england; what opposite opinions have been entertained respecting honey; whether plants and flowers secrete pure honey, or whether the saccharine matter culled from them undergoes any percolating, rectifying, chemical process in the stomach of the bee.--i might observe, that the illustrious hunter was of opinion that it undergoes no change; although the no less illustrious naturalist reaumur, and the entomologists kirby and spence, imagine that some change does take place before the honey is stored in the cells,--that, as the nectarious exudation of plants is not of the same consistence as honey from the hives, it is reasonable to suppose that it undergoes some change _in transitu_ whilst in the body of the bee; that, as far as my experience has enabled me to make observations on this subject, i am disposed to lean to the opinion of reaumur, kirby, and spence, and to ascribe the difference between honey in the nectarium of a flower or on the leaf of a tree, and honey in the cells of a comb, to the absorption of the volatile parts of the saccharine of the plants and flowers whilst in the honey-bag; which absorption is aided and accelerated by the natural heat of the bee, and by which process honey is rendered of uniform consistence, in the graphic language of my chemical friend--mr. booth--i might exclaim, "how necessarily do the least valued products in the economy of nature, eliminated in the most miniature laboratory of her operations, confirm us in the belief of the existence, wisdom, and power of nature's god--the great chemist--who has not only imbued matter to act upon its fellow matter in the infinity of space, to produce an infinite diversity of changes in the material world; but, within the small compass of a bee, has provided apparatus for certain changes to take place, which are more elaborate, important, and complicated, than are produced in the largest apparatus of the manufacturer! in this little insect are performed all those chemical processes of life, by which nature is kept in the equanimity and beauty of existence--here composition and decomposition, solution and precipitation, sublimation, volatilization, distillation, and absorption, through the agency of heat and attraction, take place on the minutest matters, secreted by the plants and collected by the bees; and in the hive, by the concentration of their individual efforts, is elaborated that immense quantity of those important products, which constitute such useful commodities in the arts and economy of life." [footnote n: see page , antea.] the discussion of some of these topics, and dissertations on others, might be made amusing, perhaps interesting, and would, at all events, swell the size of my book; but whether i should thereby enhance its intrinsic merits (if intrinsic merit it possess) is more than i dare venture to affirm. in short, these topics come not within my plan,--they are foreign to it, and i gladly leave them to be treated of by others, whose learning is mare able to cope with them, and whose taste may direct them to such subjects. _i have withheld nothing that i deem to be essentially necessary to the thorough understanding of my mode of bee-management;_ consequently, i anticipate that my two main objects will eventually be attained--that bee-culture will become a pleasing and a profitable study--a source of instructive amusement and of profit too,--and that our country will, at no great distance of time, be everywhere studded and ornamented with neat, well-ordered apiaries. i will, therefore, now close my present labours with a few miscellaneous directions, chiefly recapitulatory, which, on account of their importance, every apiarian should constantly bear in mind. have your bee-boxes _well-made_, and _of good substantial materials_. strength and durability are of greater consequence than neatness, though that need not be neglected--neatness and strength are not incompatible--they may be combined. paint your boxes annually, when they are in their winter situation. make a clear ground or floor-way from the pavilion into each of the end-boxes, by cutting away about two inches from the lower edge of each of the corresponding ends, to the depth of half an inch; and make this way or passage as near the front-entrance as it conveniently may be. this convenience has been suggested to me _since_ the directions for making collateral-boxes were printed, and i therefore mention it here as an improvement, because such a way on the floor, and _without any climbing_, will afford an additional accommodation to bees on many occasions. boxes will not work bees, neither will bees work boxes to advantage, unless due attention be paid to them--i. e. both to boxes and to bees. situation is of prime importance: for summer it should be clear and open in front of your boxes, and sheltered at their back by a north-wall or by a thick hedge. in summer let their aspect be south-east:--early in spring, and again in autumn, due south is the best point to be in front: therefore, as spring advances turn the front of your boxes eastward, and as summer declines move them back again to their spring aspect; or, in other words, when there is not more than twelve hours' sun, let the front of your boxes be due south; and during the time that the sun is more than twelve hours above the horizon, let it be south-east. always have the cheerful rays of the morning sun fall upon your boxes: but contrive to throw a shade upon their front for a few hours in the middle of the day, when the weather is very hot. such a shade will be grateful to your bees. elevate your boxes twenty inches or two feet above the ground: and always keep the grass or ground, under and near them, neat and clean, and entirely free from all nuisances. a constant supply of water in the immediate vicinity of your apiary is highly desirable; if therefore you have not a natural supply of that element, _so necessary for bees_, contrive to let them have it by artificial means--by placing it in or near your apiary, in large, shallow dishes, or in wooden troughs, partially covering the surface with reed or moss, and be careful to replenish them, so that your bees may always find it there. suffer not ants to burrow near your bees. ants are enemies to bees, and will annoy them, if they get among them. spiders also are bee-destroyers; therefore, brush away their entangling webs, whenever and wherever you find them about your boxes. fowls should not be permitted in an apiary. early in spring let the entrance be not more than an inch, and increase it gradually to its full extent, as you find occasion: contract it again towards the fall of the year; and, if the moths be troublesome in summer evenings, nearly close it every evening; but take care to open it again either early next morning, or as soon as the evening flight of the moths is over. this attention is more particularly due to weak stocks, and affords them great protection against the attacks of moths, which are among the boldest, the most persevering, and, when once they have got into a hive, most destructive enemies to bees. destroy wasps and wasps' nests wherever you find them in the vicinity of your apiary. the destruction of queen-wasps in spring is the most effectual method of diminishing the number of these formidable bee-enemies; because the destruction of a queen-wasp in spring is tantamount to the destruction of a whole nest afterwards. light in the domicil of bees, if not actually prejudicial to them, is, at any rate, displeasing to them; therefore, be careful never to expose your bees unnecessarily to its glare: never leave the window-doors open, nor suffer careless visitors to do so. my ingenious friend, the rev. t. clark, of gedney-hill, suggests the propriety of recommending that the window-doors be _self-shutting doors_. this, he says, may be done by fixing upon each door a light, easy spring, similar to those made use of to shut doors in good houses; or by a cord attached to each door, and passed through an eye, and over a small pulley fixed to the side of each box; from the end of which cord a weight of two or three ounces must be suspended. this weight, acting upon the cord, will draw the little doors to the windows, that is, it will shut them. the cords, eyes, and pulleys, he further says, may be so arranged, that one small weight will keep all the hive doors, in a set of collateral-boxes, closed and safe, and may be made to hang under the floor. i have no hesitation in recommending his suggestion as ingenious, practicable, and useful. the best security, however, after all, is that afforded by lock and key, the key being in the constant possession of the owner. ventilate your collateral-boxes and bell-glasses, when the interior temperature is at, or above, degrees. never irritate your bees, nor offer any sort of violence or opposition to them; and should an angry bee or two at any time attack you, walk quietly away, and leave them to settle into peace again. on no account drive your bees; it is a ruinous practice. with boxes, however, i trust, it is impracticable, and totally superseded. never disturb, nor in any way interfere with, the middle-box. _on no account destroy any of your bees:_ independently of its cruelty, it is an impolitic practice: it is like cutting down a tree to get at its fruit, which may easily be gathered by less laborious and indestructive means. encourage your bees,--accommodate them,--support them,--and _by all means preserve them_; and, when seasons are favourable, they will _richly_ reward you for your attention to them. always keep a cottage-hive, or single box or two, in your apiary, for the purpose of having swarms from them, with which to stock empty boxes, or to strengthen such stocks as may stand in need of additional numbers; and proceed with such supplementary swarms as directed in pages - . never impoverish your bees by taking from them more honey than they have to spare. always suffer them to be in possession of a plentiful store. over-deprivation distresses them, and is no gain to the proprietor. among other reasons this is one for my repeated directions--not to touch the middle-box. honey of the very finest quality may commonly be obtained from collateral-boxes, as early in the season as the months of may and june, without injuring the parent-stock in the slightest degree. the enlargement of their domicil by returning an empty glass, or an empty box, to the place from which a full one has been taken, is at this busy period of their labour an accommodation to bees, and is one great means of preventing the necessity for their swarming, as it enables them to continue their work at the time that there is the greatest abundance of treasure for them in the fields, and when bees in cottage-hives cannot profit by it, owing to their want, not of inclination to gather it, but of room in their hive to store it; they therefore swarm once, twice, perhaps three times. what then can be afterwards expected from such exhausted stocks but weakness and poverty? the more numerous the working bees are in any colony, the more honey they will collect, _provided they have room wherein to store it_. accommodate them, then, with convenient store-room, and the more workers you have in your boxes the better. up to the middle of august you may, with safety, that is, without injury to the bees, take off glasses and boxes, as they become ready. _after that time_ it is advisable to have, and to leave, in every colony, honey sufficient for the subsistence of the bees until next spring; and should you take off a full box, later in the season than the middle of august, instead of emptying it of all its treasure, be content with a part of it,--take a part, and _return a part--share it with your bees, and let their share be a liberal one_. as has been already enjoined--_on no account impoverish them by over-deprivation_, at that precarious season especially. they possibly may collect much honey after that time; if so, share with them again; if not, have them rich from your first bounty. when a box, well-stored with honey, is taken off, it is not an easy matter to extract the first comb or two, without breaking them and spoiling their beauty, besides shedding more or less of the honey; therefore, be prepared with proper knives. any common knife that has a blade long enough, may serve to sever the combs from the sides of a box: but, to cut them from the top, it is advisable to have an instrument, which may be called a bee-knife, of the following construction:--a two-edged, lancet-shaped blade, two inches long and three-eighths of an inch broad, having the hole, through which the rivet would pass to fix it in a haft, drilled large enough to admit the end of a steel rod, upon which it is to be well brazed or riveted: the other end of this rod may be finished with a neat handle, leaving its clear length between the contrate blade and the handle eleven inches--that being rather more than the depth of my bee-boxes. a knife of this description may easily be passed between the combs, and is very convenient for cutting them from the top of a box. whenever you have occasion to perform any operation among your bees, be provided with every requisite material, implement, &c. have not any thing to seek for, much less to get made, at the moment it is wanted: _that moment may perhaps be a critical one_. in september unite the bees of poor stocks to rich ones; and now, or in march, transfer stocks from straw-hives into boxes. previously to withdrawing the tin-divider, for the purpose of opening the communication into an end-box, take off the end-box and dress its inside with a little liquid honey; this will bring the bees into it, when, but for the honey, they would perhaps refuse to enter it; and at that time close the ventilation. it is wrong to ventilate empty boxes, because it drives the bees into the pavilion: and it is a fact, that they will swarm from the pavilion, rather than take possession of an empty end-box, if its temperature be, and be kept, disagreeably cold, by having the ventilation open at the very time it should be carefully closed. this will both explain and remedy the difficulty, that some apiarians complain of having experienced, in getting their bees to take possession of an empty box; it will also account for swarms sometimes leaving the pavilion when there is no want of room: the fact is--that the temperature of _that room_ is not agreeable to them: but it is owing to the mismanagement of the apiator that it is otherwise than agreeable. whenever a box is taken off, be careful to open the perforations in the cylinder-ventilator, many of which will be found sealed up with propolis. these perforations may be cleared at any time, by introducing a piece of wire with a sharpened point, turned so as to pick out the propolis; but they are most effectually opened when a box is off. towards the latter end of november, or earlier, if the weather be inclement and severe, remove your bee-boxes to their winter situation: this should be _dry, quiet, cool_, and _dark_, and place your boxes in it so that they may front towards the north or north-east. guard and close the entrance with a piece of fine wire-cloth, of lariviere's patent tin, or of perforated zinc, (which is the best, on account of its not corroding) made fast to the box, either of which will confine the bees within their domicil, admit plenty of fresh air, and keep out inimical intruders. thus prepared for winter, having every tin and block in its proper place, _disturb your bees as little as possible_, and, come winter as it may, they will pass it in that state of semi-insensibility, or torpor, which nature, or with reverence let me rather say--nature's god has appointed for them. towards the end of february, or as soon as vegetation begins to make its appearance, take your boxes from their winter to their summer stands, and commence another course of attentions, observations, and humane management, similar to that herein directed and explained. and, though cases may arise, and difficulties occur in the course of your practice, for the remedying of which no specific directions are, or can be, here given, your own experience and progressive improvement in the pleasing science of bee-management, will lead you to adopt the proper mode of treating the former, and the proper means for surmounting the latter. the end. h. and j. leach, printers, wisbech. * * * * * transcriber note minor typographical errors have been corrected. hyphenation standardized to most utilized form herein. transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. more detail can be found at the end of the book. 'tilda jane works of marshall saunders rose à charlitte her sailor deficient saints for his country and grandmother and the crow 'tilda jane l. c. page & company, publishers summer street, boston, mass. [illustration: "she spelled out the information, 'i am an orphan.'" (_see page _)] 'tilda jane an orphan in search of a home _a story for boys and girls_ by marshall saunders author of "beautiful joe," "for his country," "rose À charlitte," "her sailor," "deficient saints," etc. illustrated by clifford carleton _by courtesy of the youth's companion_ "my brother, when thou seest a poor man, behold in him a mirror of the lord." --st. francis of assisi. [illustration: (publisher's colophon)] boston l. c. page & company _copyright, _ by perry mason company _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. i dedicate this story to emile huguenin, jean brun, gerald muir, sanford rothenburg, harry kruger, maughs brown, and robbie maclean, boys of belmont school who used to gather round me on sunday afternoons and beg for a manuscript reading of the trials of my orphan in search of a home. _owing to the exigencies of serial publication, the story of "'tilda jane," as it appeared in the youth's companion, was somewhat condensed. in the present version the omitted portions have been restored, and the story published in its original form._ contents. chapter page i. a creamery shark ii. even sharks have tender hearts iii. the story of her life iv. unstable as water v. another adventure vi. deaf and dumb vii. clearing up a mistake viii. a third running away ix. lost in the woods x. among friends xi. a sudden resolution xii. farewell to the poachers xiii. an attempted trick xiv. home, sweet home xv. the french family xvi. the tiger in his lair xvii. the tiger makes a spring xviii. in search of a perfect man xix. sweet and soft repentance xx. waiting xxi. the tiger becomes a lamb xxii. a troubled mind xxiii. an unexpected appearance xxiv. a friend in need list of illustrations. page "she spelled out the information, 'i am an orphan'" (_see page _) _frontispiece_ "'well, i vum!'" "'tilda jane sat like a statue" "'i'm goin' to repent some day'" "he lay down beside her" "'stop thar--stop! stop!'" "'you are young for that, _mademoiselle_, yet--'" "he lifted up his voice and roared at her" "'i've led another dog astray, an' now he's dead'" "'they was glad to get rid of me'" 'tilda jane. chapter i. a creamery shark. the crows had come back. with the fashionables of maine they had gone south for the winter, but now on the third day of march the advance guard of the solemn, black army soared in sight. they were cawing over the green pine woods of north marsden, they were cawing over the black spruces of south marsden, and in middle marsden, where the sun had melted the snow on a few exposed knolls, they were having a serious and chattering jubilation over their return to their summer haunts. "land! ain't they sweet!" muttered a little girl, who was herself almost as elfish and impish as a crow. she stood with clasped hands in the midst of a spruce thicket. her face was upturned to the hot sun set in the hard blue of the sky. the sun burned her, the wind chilled her, but she remained motionless, except when the sound of sleigh-bells was heard. then she peered eagerly out into the road. time after time she returned to her hiding-place with a muttered, "no good!" she allowed a priest to go by, two gossiping women on their way from the village to spend a day in the country, a minister hurrying to the sick-bed of a parishioner, and several loaded wood-sleds, but finally a hilarious jingle drew her hopefully from her retreat. her small black eyes screwed themselves into two glittering points as she examined the newcomer. "he'll do!" she ejaculated; then, with a half-caressing, half-threatening, "you'll get murdered if there's a word out o' you," addressed to an apparent roll of cloth tucked among spruce branches a few feet from the ground, she stepped out by the snake fence. "hello, mister!" the fat young man bobbing over the "thank-you-ma'ams" of the snowy road, pulled himself up with a jerk in his small sleigh drawn by a long-legged mare. "coronation! where did that noise come from? hello, wood-lark," as he observed the little girl peeping at him through the fence, "is there a hawk in your nest?" "who be you?" she asked. "i've got an awful pretty name," he replied, flicking his whip over the snow-bank beside him, "too pretty to tell." "who be you?" she asked, pertinaciously. "ever hear tell of a creamery shark?" "i didn't know as sharks favoured cream," she said, soberly. "they dote on it." "be you a creamery shark?" "no--course not. i'm chasing one. i'm a farmer." the small, keen-eyed girl looked him all over. he was the creamery shark himself, and he certainly had an oily, greasy appearance befitting his fondness for cream. however, she did not care what he was if he served her purpose. "will you gimme a lift?" she asked. "a lift--where?" "anywhere out o' this," and she pointed back to the smart, white village up the river. "now what be you?" he said, cunningly. "i be a runaway." "what you running from?" "i'm a-runnin' from an orphan 'sylum." "good for you--where you going?" "i'm goin' to orstralia." "better for you--what you going there for?" "'cause," she said, firmly, "they know how to treat orphans there. they don't shut 'em up together like a lot o' sick pigs. they scatter 'em in families. the gover'ment pays their keep till they get old enough to fend for themselves. then they gets a sum o' money an' they works--i heard a lady-board readin' it in a newspaper." "a lady-board?" "yes--lady-boards has to run 'sylums." "course they do. well, skip in, little un." [illustration: "'well, i vum!'"] "there's another passenger," she said, firmly; "an' them as takes me takes him." "have you got your granddaddy along?" "no, siree, but i've got somethin' mos' as good as a granddaddy, an' i'd thank you to keep a straight tongue when you speak of him." the young man put the offending tongue in his cheek, and chuckled enjoyably as the small, elfish figure disappeared in the wood. presently she returned with a good-sized bundle in her arms, that she thrust through the fence. "give it a name," said the young man; "why, see how it's wiggling--must be some kind of an animal. cat, weasel, rabbit, hen, dog--" "stop there," she ejaculated; "let it be dog. his name's gippie." "well, i vum!" the young man said, good-naturedly, as she approached the sleigh and deposited her beshawled dog on his knees. "i guess this sleigh warn't built for two," she said, as she crawled in beside him. "right you are; but you don't want to be carted far." "gimme that dog," she said, taking the bundle, "an' start off. prob'ly they're just hitchin' up to be after me." he clicked his tongue to the long-legged mare, and speedily fences and trees began to fly by them. "what did you twig me for?" asked the fat young man. "ain't you had no other chance?" "lots," she said, briefly. "there was an ole boy ahead o' me with a two-seated rig, an' a youngster on the back seat. why didn't you freeze on to him?" she turned her little dark face toward him, a little face overspread by sudden passion. "d'ye know what that ole shell-back would 'a' done?" "he'd 'a' took ye in." "he'd 'a' druv me back to that 'sylum. he looked too good, that one. you looked like a baddie." "much obliged," he said, dryly. "i guess you've done bad things," she said, inexorably. "you've stole pies, an' tole lies, an' fed dogs an' cats on the sly. i guess you've been found out." the fat young man fell into a sudden reverie, and they passed several white fields in silence. "they'll never ketch me," she said at last, gleefully; "we're goin' like the wind." the young man looked down at her. she had the appearance of a diminutive witch as she sat with one hand clasping her faded hat, the other holding firmly to the bundle on her lap. her countenance was so much older and shrewder in some phases than in others that the young man was puzzled to guess her age. "why, you ain't got any cloak," he said. "that's nothing but a dress you've got on, ain't it? take the shawl off that dog." "no, sir," she said, decidedly, "i don't do that." "hold on; i've got a horse blanket here," and he dived under the seat. "there!" and he wrapped it around her shoulders. "thanks," she said, briefly, and again her bird-like eyes scanned the road ahead. "hot cakes an' syrup!" she exclaimed, in a voice of resigned distress, "there's the north marsden lady-board comin'. they must have 'phoned her. say, mister, lemme sneak under here. if she holes you up, you'll have to tell a lie." the young man grinned delightedly as the little girl slipped through the blanket and disappeared under the lap-robe. then he again went skimming over the snow. there was a very grand sleigh approaching him, with a befurred coachman on the seat driving a pair of roan horses, and behind him a gray-haired lady smothered in handsome robes. "please stop!" she called pathetically, to the approaching young man. the creamery shark pulled up his mare, and blinked thoughtfully at her. "oh, have you seen a little girl?" she said excitedly; "a poor little girl, very thin and miserable, and with a lame, brown dog limping after her? she's wandering somewhere--the unfortunate, misguided child. we have had such trouble with her at the middle marsden asylum--the orphan asylum, you know. we have fed her and clothed her, and now she's run away." the fat young man became preternaturally solemn, the more so as he heard a low growl somewhere in the region of his feet. "did she have black hair as lanky as an injun's?" he asked. "yes, yes." "and a kind o' sickly green dress?" "oh, yes, and a dark complexion." "and a sort of steely air as if she'd dare the world?" "that's it; oh, yes, she wasn't afraid of any one." "then i've sighted your game," he said, gravely, very gravely, considering that the "game" was pinching one of his legs. "i'll give you the scent," he went on. "just follow this road till you come to the three pine-trees at the cross. then turn toward spruceville." "oh, thank you, thank you. i'm ever so much obliged. but was she on foot or driving?" "driving like sixty, sitting up on the seat beside a smooth old farmer with a red wig on, and a face as long as a church." "a red wig!" exclaimed the lady. "why, that's mr. dabley--he's one of our advisory committee." "dabley or grabley, he's driving with one of your orphans. i see her as plain as day sitting beside him--brown face, faded black hat, sickly green frock, bundle on her lap." "farmer dabley--incredible! how one can be deceived. drive on, matthew. we must try to overtake them. had he one horse or two?" "a pair, ma'am--a light-legged team--a bay and a cream. he's a regular old sport." "he's a mephistopheles if he's helping that child to escape," said the lady, warmly. "i'll give him a piece of my mind." her coachman started his horses, and the little girl under the robe was beginning to breathe freely when a shout from the young man brought her heart to her mouth. "say, ma'am, was that a striped or a plain shawl she had her dog wrapped in?" "striped--she had the impudence to steal it from the matron, and leave a note saying she did it because her jacket was locked up, and she was afraid her dog would freeze--i'm under a great obligation to you, sir." "no obligation," he said, lifting his hat. "i'm proud to set you on the chase after such a bad young one. that's your girl, ma'am. her shawl was striped. i didn't tell you she had the nerve to ask me to take her in." "not really--did she?" the lady called back; then she added, wonderingly, "but i thought you met her driving with farmer dabley?" they had both turned around, and were talking over their shoulders. there was a terrible commotion under the lap-robe, and the young man felt that he must be brief. "if you bark i'll break your neck," he heard the refugee say in a menacing whisper, and, to cover a series of protesting growls, he shouted, lustily, "yes, ma'am, but first i passed her on foot. then i turned back, and she was with the farmer. that young one has got the face of a government mule, but i'm used to mules, and when she asked me i said, ''pears to me, little girl, you favour a runaway, and i ain't got no room for runaways in this narrow rig, 'specially as i'm taking a bundle of clothing to my dear old father'--likewise a young pig," he added, as there was a decided squeal from between his feet. "thank you, thank you," came faintly after him as he started off at a spanking gait, and, "you're badder than i thought you was," came reproachfully from the tumbled head peeping above the lap-robe. "you're grateful!" he said, ironically. "i'm bad, but i only asked the lord to forgive the lies i'd got to tell," said the little girl as she once more established herself on the seat. "you should 'a' said, 'no, ma'am, i didn't see the little girl'--an' druv on." "i guess you're kind of mixed in your opinions," he remarked. "i ain't mixed in my mind. i see things as straight as that air road," she replied. "i said, 'this is a bad business, for i've got to run away, but i'll be as square as i can.'" she paused suddenly, and her companion asked, "what's up with you?" "nothin'," she said, faintly, "only i feel as if there was a rat inside o' me. you ain't got any crackers round, have you?" "no, but i've got something better," and he drew a flask from the pocket of his big ulster and put it to her mouth. her nostrils dilated. "i'm a loyal legion girl." "loyal legion--what's that?" "beware of bottles, beware of cups, evil to him who evil sups." "oh! a temperance crank," and he laughed. "well, here's a hunk of cake i put in my pocket last night." the little girl ate with avidity the section of a rich fruit loaf he handed her. "how about your dog?" asked the young man. "oh, i guess he ain't hungry," she said, putting a morsel against the brown muzzle thrust from the shawl. "everythin' was locked up last night, an' there warn't enough lunch for him an' me--see, he ain't for it. he knows when hunger stops an' greed begins. that's poetry they taught us." "tell us about that place you've been raised. no, stop--you're kind of peaked-looking. settle down an' rest yourself till we pull up for dinner. i'll gabble on a bit if you'll give me a starter." "i guess you favour birds an' things, don't you?" she observed, shrewdly. "yaw--do you?" "sometimes i think i'm a bird," she said, vehemently, "or a worm or somethin'. if i could 'a' caught one o' them crows this mornin' i'd 'a' hugged it an' kissed it. ain't they lovely?" "well, i don' know about lovely," said the young man, in a judicial manner, "but the crow, as i take him, is a kind of long-suffering orphan among birds. from the minute the farmers turn up these furrows under the snow, the crow works like fury. grubs just fly down his red throat, and grasshoppers ain't nowhere, but because he now and then lifts a hill o' petetters, and pulls a mite o' corn when it gets toothsome, and makes way once in so often with a fat chicken that's a heap better out o' the world than in it, the farmers is down on him, the legislature won't protect him, and the crow--man's good friend--gets shot by everybody and everything!" "i wish i was a queen," said the little girl, passionately. "well, sissy, if you ever get to be one, just unmake a few laws that are passed to please the men who have a pull. here in maine you might take the bounty off bob-cats, an' let 'em have their few sheep, an' you might stand between the mink and the spawning trout, and if you want to put a check on the robins who make war on the cherries an' strawberries, i guess it would be more sensible than chasing up the crows." "i'm remarkin' that you don't beat your horse," said his companion, abruptly. "that mare," said the young man, reflectively, "is as smart as i be, and sometimes i think a thought smarter." "you wouldn't beat that little dog," she said, holding up her bundle. "bet your striped shawl i wouldn't." "i like you," she said, emphatically. "i guess you ain't as bad as you look." the young man frowned slightly, and fell into another reverie. chapter ii. even sharks have tender hearts. the old moss glen inn, elm-shaded and half covered by creeping vines, is a favourite resort for travellers in the eastern part of maine, for there a good dinner can be obtained in a shorter space of time than in any other country hotel in the length and breadth of the state. "and all because there's a smart woman at the head of it," explained the young man to the little waif beside him. "there she is--always on hand." a round, good-natured face, crowning a rotund, generous figure, smiled at them from the kitchen window, but while the eyes smiled, the thick, full lips uttered a somewhat different message to a tall, thin woman, bending over the stove. "ruth ann, here's that soapy hank dillson round again,--takin' in the farmers, as usual, engagin' them to pay for machinery and buildings more than are needed, considerin' the number of their cows, an' he's got a washed-out lookin' young one with him. she'll make a breach in the victuals, i guess." ruth ann, who was her sister and helper in household affairs, came and looked over her shoulder, just as dillson sprang from the sleigh. mrs. minley stepped to the door, and stood bobbing and smiling as he turned to her. "how de do, mrs. minley. give this little girl a place to lie down till dinner's ready, will you? she's dead beat." 'tilda jane walked gravely into the kitchen, and although her head was heavy, and her feet as light as if they were about to waft her to regions above, she took time to scrutinise the broad face that would have been generous but for the deceitful lips, and also to cast a glance at the hard, composed woman at the window, who looked as if her head, including the knob of tightly curled hair at the back, had been carved from flint. "step right in this way," said mrs. minley, bustling into a small bedroom on the ground floor. 'tilda jane was not used to being waited on, and for one proud moment she wished that the children in the orphan asylum could see her. then a feeling of danger and insecurity overcame her, and she sank on one of the painted, wooden chairs. "you're done out," said mrs. minley, sympathetically. "are you a relation of mr. dillson's?" "no, i ain't." "you can lie on that bed if you like," said mrs. minley, noticing the longing glance cast at it. "well, i guess i will," said 'tilda jane, placing her bundle on a chair, and stooping down to unloose her shoes. "stop till i get some newspapers to put on the bed," said the landlady--"what's in that package? it's moving," and she stared at the shawl. "it's a dog." "mercy me! i don't allow no dogs in my house." "all right," said the little girl, patiently putting on her shoes again. "what you going to do, child?" "i'm goin' to the wood-shed. them as won't have my dog won't have me." "land sakes, child, stay where you be! i guess he can't do no harm if you'll watch him." "no ma'am, he'll not rampage. he's little, an' he's ole, an' he's lame, an' he don't care much for walkin'. sometimes you'll hear nothin' out o' him all day but a growl or a snap." the landlady drew away from the bundle, and after she had seen the tired head laid on the pillow, she softly closed the door of the room. in two minutes 'tilda jane was asleep. the night before she had not dared to sleep. to-day, under the protection of the creamery shark, she could take her rest, her hunger satisfied by the cake he had given her in the sleigh. the shark crept in once to look at her. "ain't she a sight?" he whispered to mrs. minley, who accompanied him, "a half-starved monkey." she playfully made a thrust at his ribs. "oh, go 'long with you--always making your jokes! how can a child look like a monkey?" he smiled, well pleased at her cajoling tone, then, stretching himself out in an armchair, he announced that dinner must be postponed for an hour to let the child have her sleep out. mrs. minley kept a pleasant face before him, but gave vent to some suppressed grumbling in the kitchen. with fortitude remarkable in a hungry man, he waited until one o'clock, then, losing patience, he ate his dinner, and, telling mrs. minley that he had business in the neighbourhood, and would not be back until supper-time, he drove away in his sleigh. at six o'clock 'tilda jane felt herself gently shaken, and opening her eyes, she started up in alarm. "all right--'tain't the police," said mrs. minley. "i know all about you, little girl. you needn't be scared o' me. get up and have a bite of supper. mr. dillson's going away, and he wants to see you." 'tilda jane rose and put on her shoes in silence. then she followed the landlady to the next room. for an instant she staggered back. she had never before seen such a huge, open fireplace, never had had such a picture presented to her in the steam-heated orphanage. fresh from troubled dreams, it seemed as if these logs were giants' bodies laid crosswise. the red flames were from their blood that was being licked up against the sooty stones. then the ghastliness vanished, and she approvingly took in the picture,--the fat young creamery shark standing over the white cat and rubbing her with his toe, the firelight on the wall and snowy table, and the big lamp on the mantel. "hello!" he exclaimed, turning around, "did you make your sleep out?" "yes sir," she said, briefly. "where shall i put this dog?" "don't put him nowhere till we turn this cat out. scat, pussy!" and with his foot he gently assisted the small animal kitchenwards. "now you can roast your pup here," he said, pointing to the vacated corner. "don't touch him," warned 'tilda jane, putting aside his outstretched hand. "he nips worse'n a lobster." "fine dog that," said the young man, ironically. "come on now, let's fall to. i guess that rat's rampaging again." "yes, he's pretty bad," said 'tilda jane, demurely; and she seated herself in the place indicated. mrs. minley waited on them herself, and, as she passed to and fro between the dining-room and kitchen, she bestowed many glances on the lean, lank, little girl with the brown face. after a time she nudged hank with her elbow. "look at her!" hank withdrew his attention for a minute from his plate to cast a glance at the downcast head opposite. then he dropped his knife and fork. "look here! i call this kind of low-down." 'tilda jane raised her moist eyes. "you've got ham and eggs; fried petetters and toast, and two kinds of preserve, and hot rolls and coffee, and cake and doughnuts, which is more'n you ever got at the asylum, i'll warrant, and yet you're crying,--and after all the trouble you've been to me. there's no satisfying some people." 'tilda jane wiped her eyes. "i ain't a-cryin' for the 'sylum," she said, stolidly. "then what are you crying for?" "i'm cryin' 'cause it's such a long way to orstralia, an' i don't know no one. i wish you was a-goin'." "i wish i was, but i ain't. come on now, eat your supper." "i suppose i be a fool," she muttered, picking up her knife and fork. "i've often heard i was." "hi now--i guess you feel better, don't you?" said the young man, twenty minutes later. he was in excellent humour himself, and, sitting tilted back in his chair by the fireplace, played a tune on his big white teeth with a toothpick. "yes, i guess i'm better," said 'tilda jane, soberly. "that was a good supper." "hadn't you better feed your pup?" asked the young man. "seems to me he must be dead, he's so quiet." "he's plumb beat out, i guess," said the little girl, and she carefully removed the dog's queer drapery. a little, thin, old, brown cur staggered out, with lips viciously rolled back, and a curious unsteadiness of gait. "steady, old boy," said the young man; "my soul and body, he ain't got but three legs! whoa--you're running into the table." "he don't see very well," said 'tilda jane, firmly. "his eyes is poor." "what's the matter with his tail? it don't seem to be hung on right." "it wobbles from having tin cans tied to it. gippie dear, here's a bone." "gippie dear," muttered the young man. "i'd shoot him if he was my dog." "if that dog died, i'd die," said the little girl, passionately. "we've got to keep him alive, then," said the young man, good-humouredly. "can't you give him some milk?" she poured out a saucer full and set it before him. the partially blind dog snapped at the saucer, snapped at her fingers until he smelled them and discovered whose they were, then he finally condescended to lick out the saucer. "and you like that thing?" said the young man, curiously. "like him!--i love him," said 'tilda jane, affectionately stroking the brown, ugly back. "and when did he give away that leg?" she shook her head. "it's long to tell. i guess you'd ask me to shut up afore i got through." chapter iii. the story of her life. the young man said nothing more at the time, but ten minutes later, when he was thoughtfully smoking a long brown pipe, and 'tilda jane sat in a chair beside him, rocking her dog, he called out to mrs. minley, who was hovering about the room. "sit down, mrs. minley. p'raps you can get this little girl to talk; i can't." 'tilda jane turned sharply to him. "oh, mister, i'd do anything for you. i'll talk." "well, reel it off then. i've got to start soon." "what d'ye want to know?" she said, doggedly. "everything; tell me where you started from. was you born in the asylum?" "nobody don't know where i was born. nobody don't know who i am, 'cept that a woman come to the poorhouse with me to middle marsden when i was a baby. she died, an' i was left. they give me the name of 'tilda jane harper, an' put me in the 'sylum. children come an' went. just as soon as i'd get to like 'em they'd be 'dopted; i never was 'dopted, 'cause i'm so ugly. my eyes ought to 'a' been blue, an' my hair curly. i might 'a' been a servant, but my habits was in the way." "habits--what habits?" asked hank. "habits of impidence an' pig-headedness. when the men come to kill the pigs i'd shut myself in my room, an' put my fingers in my ears, an' i couldn't hear, but i'd always squeal when the pigs squealed." "is that why you wouldn't eat your ham just now?" "oh, that ain't ham to me," she said, eloquently. "that bit o' red meat was a cunnin', teeny white pig runnin' round a pen, cryin' 'cause the butcher's after him. i couldn't eat it, any more'n i'd eat my brother." "you're a queer little kite," interjected the young man, and he exchanged an amused glance with mrs. minley, who was swaying gently back and forth in a rocking-chair. "so you wasn't very much set up at the asylum?" he went on. "i guess i'm too bad for a 'sylum. once our washerwoman took me home to supper. i guess heaven must be like that. they had a cat, too. i used to get in most trouble at the 'sylum 'bout cats. when starvin' ones came rubbin' up agin me in the garden, i couldn't help sneakin' them a bit o' bread from the pantry. it beats all, how cats find out people as likes 'em. then i'd get jerked up." "jerked up?" repeated her interlocutor. "locked in my room, or have my hands slapped. once i took a snake in the house. he was cold, but he got away from me, an' the matron found him in her bed. she whipped me that time." "was that what made you run away?" "no, i run away on account o' this dog. you call up the cold spell we had a week ago?" "you bet--i was out in it." "well, there come the coldest night. the matron give us extry blankets, but i couldn't sleep. i woke up in the middle o' the night, an' i thought o' that dog out in the stable. 'he'll freeze,' i said, an' when i said it, it seemed as if icicles were stickin' into me. i was mos' crazy. i got up an' looked out the window. there was a moon, an awful bitin', ugly kind of a moon grinnin' at me. i put on some clo'es, i slipped down-stairs, an' it seemed as if everythin' was yellin' in the cold. every board an' every wall i touched went off like a gun, but no one woke, an' i got out in the stable. "the horse was warm an' so was the cow, but this little dog was mos' froze. i tried to warm him, but my fingers got like sticks. then i did a scand'lous thing. i says, 'i'll take him in bed with me an' warm him for a spell, an' no one'll know;' so i lugged him in the house, an' he cuddled down on my arm just so cunnin'. then i tried to stay awake, so i could carry him out early in the mornin', but didn't i fall to sleep, an' the first thing i knowed there was the matron a-spearin' me with her eyes, an she put out her hand to ketch the dog, an' he up an' bit her, an' then there was trouble." "what kind of trouble?" asked the young man. "i had bread an' water for two days, an' the dog was shut up in the stable, an' then i was brought up before the lady-board." "the lady-board," murmured mrs. minley; "what does the child mean?" "the board of lady managers," explained dillson. "tell us about it," he said to 'tilda jane. the latter was keeping an eye on the clock. she knew that the time must soon come for her to part from her new-found friend. it was not in her nature to be very demonstrative, yet she could not altogether hide a certain feverishness and anxiety. one thing, however, she could do, and she subdued her emotion in order to do it. it amused the young man to hear her talk. she would suppress her natural inclination to silence and gravity, and try to entertain him. and the more she talked, possibly the longer he would stay. therefore she went on: "there they set round the table as big an' handsome as so many pies. one lady was at the top, an' she rapped on the table with a little hammer, an' said, ''tention, ladies!' then she says, 'here is the 'fortinate object of dissection. what part shall we tackle fust? name your wishes, ladies.' then she stopped an' another lady begun, 'mam pressiding, stake the case.'" the young man took his pipe from his mouth, and mrs. minley ejaculated, "mercy me!" "madam president, i guess," he said, gravely. "go on, sissy." 'tilda jane went on, still with her eye on the clock, and still speaking feverishly. "the mam pressiding staked me out. says she, 'here is a little girl--she come to us like a lily o' the field; no dress on, no bunnit, no nothin'. we've fed an' clothed the lily, an' guv her good advice, an' she's lifted up her heel agin us. she deifies us, she introjuces toads an' snakes into the sacred presings of our sinningcherry for orphans. she packs a dirty dog in bed. we'll never levelate her. she's lowering the key of our 'stution. she knows not the place of reptiles an' quadruples. ladies, shall we keep this little disturving lellement in our 'stution? if thy hand 'fend against thee cut it off. if thy foot straggle, treat it likewise.' "then she set down, an' another lady got up. says she, 'i'm always for mercy--strained mercy dropping like juice from heaven. if this little girl is turned inside out, she'll be a bright an' shinin' light. i prepose that we make the 'speriment. the tastes is in her, but we can nip off the grati'cations. i remove that instead of disturving her, we disturve the animiles. ladies, we has hard work to run this 'stution.'" "this 'stution?" said the young man. "yes, 'stution," repeated 'tilda jane, "that's what they call the 'sylum. well, this lady went on an' says she, 'let's send away the cats an' dogs an' all the children's pets--squirrels an' pigeons an' rabbits, 'cause this little girl's disruptin' every child on the place. once when cats come an' other animiles, they was stoned away. now they're took in. i come across one little feller jus' now, an' instead o' learnin' his lesson he was playin' with a beetle. ticklin' it with a straw, ladies. now ain't that awful? we've got 'sponsibilities toward these foun'lings. i feels like a mother. if we sends 'em foolish out in the world we'll be blamed. our faithful matron says it's unpossible to ketch rats an' mice. this little girl gets at the traps, an' let's 'em go. she's a born rule-smasher!' "then she closed her mouth an' set down, an' the big lady sittin' at the head o' the table pounded her hammer 'cause they all fell to jabberin'. says she, 'will some lady make a commotion?' then one lady got up, an' she says, 'i remove that all animiles be decharged from this 'stution.' "'what about the chickings?' called out another lady. 'you must declude them. this will go on record.' the other lady said, ''scuse me, i forgot the chickings. i'll mend my dissolution. i remove that all quadruples be decharged from this 'stution.' "that suited some, an' didn't suit t'others, an' there was a kind of chally-vally. one lady said she's mend the mendment, an' then the mam pressiding got kind o' mixy-maxy, an' said they'd better start all over agin, 'cause she'd lose her way 'mong so many mendments. after a long time, they got their ideas sot, an' they said that i was to stay, but all the animiles was to go. i didn't snuffle nor nothin', but i just said, 'are you plannin' to kill that there dog?' "the mam pressiding gave a squeal an' said, 'no, that would be cruel. they would give the dog to some little feller who would be good to him.' i said, 'little fellers tie tin cans to dogs' tails'--an' then they got mad with me an' said i was trespicious. then i said, 'all right,' 'cause what could i do agin a whole lot o' lady-boards? but i made up my mind i'd have to work my way out of it, 'cause it would kill that little dog to be took from me. so i run away." her story was done, and, closing her lips in dogged resolution, she stared inquiringly at the young man. he was not going to withdraw his protection from her, she saw that, but what would he direct her to do next? he was thoughtfully tapping his pipe against the fireplace, now he was putting it in his pocket, and now he was going to speak. [illustration: "'tilda jane sat like a statue."] "little girl, you've started for australia, and as i don't believe in checking a raring, tearing ambition, i won't try to block you, exactly, but only to sidetrack. you can't go to australia bang off. it's too far. and you haven't got the funds. now i'll make a proposition. i've got an old father 'most as cranky as that there dog. i guess if you're so long-suffering with the animal, you'll be long-suffering with the human. he needs some tidy body to keep his house trigged up, and to wait on him, 'cause he's lame. he has an everlasting wrastle to keep a housekeeper on account of this same flash-light temper. but i guess from what i've seen of you, that you could fix him. and you'd have a home which you seem to hanker for. and you could save your money and start for australia when you've put enough flesh on those bones to keep you from blowing away into the sea and getting lost. starting would be convenient, for my father lives near the big canadian railway that is a round the world route. you can step aboard the cars, go to the pacific, board a steamer, and go on your way to australia. what do you say--is it a bargain?" 'tilda jane sat like a statue. the firelight danced behind her little, grave profile that remained unchanged, save for the big tears rolling slowly and deliberately down each thin cheek and dropping on the faded dress. only the tears and the frantically clasped hands betrayed emotion. "i guess it's a go," said the young man, kindly. "here's my father's address," and getting up he handed a card to her. "hobart dillson, ciscasset, maine. i've got to make tracks now, but mrs. minley here will put you on a train that comes by here in the morning, and all you've got to do is to sit still in it, till you hear the conductor holler ciscasset. then you hustle out and ask some one where hobart dillson lives. when you get there, don't shake if he throws a crutch at you. just tell him you've come to stay, and i'm going to pay extra for it. that'll cool him, 'cause he's had to pay a housekeeper out of his own allowance up to this. the old boy and i don't rub along together very sweet, but he knows the size of a dollar every time." 'tilda jane choked back the suffocating lump in her throat, and gravely rose to her feet. "sir, i'm as much obleeged to you as--" here she broke down. "as you ought to be," he finished. "don't mention it. i'm happy to make your acquaintance. so long," and he politely held out two fingers. a vague terror seized the little girl. he had arranged everything for her, and yet she had never since her escape felt so paralysed with fear. her beseeching eyes sought mrs. minley's face. the landlady was smiling graciously at her, but the little girl's heart sunk. quite unknown to herself, she was a sharp reader of character. she was losing her best friend in the fat young man. "take me with you," she gasped, suddenly clinging to his hand. "can't do that, sissy. i'm going back into the settlements--bad roads, scattered houses. you'd freeze stiff. better stay here with mrs. minley. i'll run up to ciscasset by and by to see you." 'tilda jane drew back in sudden, steely composure. she was ashamed of herself. "i'm crazy," she said, shortly; "you've done enough for me now. i'll take care of your father if he gets mad fifty times a day." already she felt a sense of responsibility. she drew herself up with dignity, and in sad, composed silence watched the young man leave the room and the house. when the last faint sound of his sleigh-bells had died away, she gave up her listening attitude, and turned patiently to mrs. minley, who was saying with a yawn, "i guess you'd better go to bed." 'tilda jane walked obediently toward her room, and mrs. minley, seating herself on a chair in cold curiosity, watched her undress. when the little girl knelt down to say her prayers, a feeble smile illuminated the woman's face. however, she was still listless and uninterested, until the latter portion of the petition. "o lord," 'tilda jane was praying earnestly, almost passionately, "forgive me for all this sin an' 'niquity. i just had to run away. i couldn't give up that little dog that thou didst send me. i'll live square as soon as i get takin' care o' that ole man. bless the matron an' make her forgive me, an' bless all the lady-boards--mis' grannis 'specially, 'cause she'll be maddest with me. keep me from tellin' any more lies. amen." when 'tilda jane rose from her knees, mrs. minley's breath was coming and going quickly, and there was a curious light in her eyes. "mrs. grannis, did you say?" she asked, shortly. "mrs. grannis, over beaver dam way?" "yes, ma'am." "what has she got to do with the asylum?" "she's the fust lady-board. she sits behind the table an' pounds the hammer." "and she'll be maddest with you?" "yes, ma'am. she says children has too much liberties." "hurry into bed," said mrs. minley, briefly, and taking up the lamp, and without a word of farewell, she disappeared from the room. 'tilda jane cowered down between the cold sheets. then she stretched out a hand to touch the precious bundle on the chair by her bed. and then she tried to go to sleep, but sleep would not come. chapter iv. unstable as water. a vague uneasiness possessed her. ah, how happy would she be, could she know that the young creamery man was sleeping under the same roof! but he was speeding somewhere far away over the snowy roads. however, she should see him again. he had said so, and, with the hopefulness of youth, she sighed a happy sigh and, closing her eyes tightly, listened to the various sounds about the quiet house. there must have been another arrival, for she heard doors opening and shutting, and also the jingle of sleigh-bells. they were strangely confused in her mind with the ringing of the rising-bell at the orphan asylum, and she was just sinking into a dreamy condition, a forerunner of sleep, when she heard a hard voice in her ear. "get up an' dress, little girl." she raised herself quietly from the pillow. there stood over her the tall, gaunt woman whom she had heard mrs. minley address as ruth ann. to her perturbed mind, there rose a vision of a graven image from the bible, as she stared at the woman's stony countenance. she was standing shading a candle with her hand, and her deep eyes were fixed in unmistakable compassion on the little girl. "jump up," she repeated, "an' dress like sixty. you've got yourself into a peck o' trouble." 'tilda jane had not a thought of questioning the wisdom of this command. something about the hard-faced woman inspired her with confidence, and without a word she stepped out of bed, and began rapidly putting on her clothes. "i'll talk while you dress," said the woman, in a hard, intense voice, and putting down the candle, "but, lord, how can i say it all?" there was a kind of desperation in her tone, although no trace of emotion appeared on her face. 'tilda jane felt a strange kinship with this reserved woman, and flashed her a sympathetic glance while buttoning one of her stout and ugly garments. ruth ann made a brief grimace. "here i am," she said, with a sudden burst of speech, "a middle-aged woman gettin' old. you're a young one settin' out on life's journey. i'll never see you agin, prob'bly. let me give you a word--be honest, an' if you can't be honest, be as honest as you can. you'll have no luck otherwise. you may think you're havin' luck in bein' sly, but it's a kind o' luck that turns to loss in the long run. there's that sister o' mine. she reminds me o' reuben in the bible--'unstable as water thou shalt not excel.' she's that deceitful that i should think she'd choke with it so she couldn't breathe." 'tilda jane made no remark, but as she threw her dress over her head her two black eyes scintillated wonderingly in the woman's direction. "unstable," said ruth ann, bitterly. "i'd 'a' loved her if she'd been honest, but it's always the same,--fair to the face, foul behind the back. i've slaved for her an' waited on her, an' heard her praised for work i've done, and seen young men oggle her, an' she oggle back, an' i've never had an offer an' never will, an' sometimes i think i hate her." 'tilda jane paused for an instant in her rapid dressing. this sisterly repulsion was something unknown to her childish experience. "then when she gets sick from stuffin' herself, i'm feared, an' think she's goin' to die, but she'll 'tend my funeral, an' cry an' look so handsome that some ole jack will pop the question on the way home. here, child, eat these while you dress," and she drew some doughnuts from her pocket. 'tilda jane pushed them from her, with an involuntary movement of dislike. "you've turned agin me for turnin' agin my sister," said the woman, bitterly. "wait till you're treated as i am. an' let me tell you what she's done to you. you made mention o' mis' grannis. mis' grannis has got a mortgage on this house. mis' grannis lends her money, mis' grannis is the god my sister bows down to. do you think she'd let you stand between her and mis' grannis? no--the minute she heard you say mis' grannis would be pleased to git you back, that minute she made up her mind to fool you and hank dillson that she can't abide 'cause he ain't never asked her to stop bein' a widow. so she made me help her hitch up, an' she's off on the wings of the wind to tell her sweet mis' grannis to come an' git you; an' just to fool her who is so cute at foolin' other folks, i made up my mind to git you off. now do you take it in?" 'tilda jane did take in this alarming bit of news, and for one instant stood aghast. then she resolutely fell to lacing on her shoes. "you're gritty," said the woman, admiringly. "now i'll tell you what i've laid out. i'm goin' to guide you through the woods to the moss glen station. when we git mos' there, i'll skedaddle home an' to bed, 'cause i don't want sister to find me out. here's an extry pair o' stockin's an' shoes to put on before you board the train. you'll git yours full o' snow water. if all goes as i calc'late, you'll have time to change 'em in the station. you don't want to git sick so you can't stand up to that ole man. here's a little tippet for your shoulders. dillson told sister to give you a shawl, but she'll not do it. an' he paid her, too. now come, let's start." 'tilda jane brushed her hand over her eyes, resolutely picked up her dog, and followed her guide out to the kitchen. ruth ann caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and opened the door. "my--it's black! i guess we'll have to take a lantern." she turned back, fumbled in a corner of the kitchen, struck a light, then rejoined 'tilda jane. for some minutes they plodded on in silence. then ruth ann said, anxiously, "i don' know what i'll do if it don't snow. she'll track us sure--me, big feet, an' you, smaller ones. glory, it's snowin' now!" a sudden wind had sprung up in the black, quiet night, and whirled a few flakes of snow in their faces. then the snow began to fall from above, gently and quietly, flake by flake. 'tilda jane struggled along the heavy road in the wake of the tall woman ahead. the small dog seemed to have grown larger, and lay a heavy burden in her arms. yet she uttered no word of complaint. her mind was in a whirl, and she gave no thought to physical fatigue. what was she doing? had she--a little girl--any right to give so much trouble to grown people? her actions were exactly in opposition to every precept that had been instilled into her mind. children should be seen and not heard. children should wait on grown people. children must not lie under any circumstances. they must be obedient, truthful, honest, and uncomplaining. perhaps she ought to go back to the orphan asylum. she could stand punishment herself--but her dog? they would make her give him up. some boy would get him. boys were all mischievous at times. could she endure the thought of that little feeble frame subjected to torture? she could not, and steeling her heart against the asylum, the matron, and the lady managers, she walked on more quickly than ever. she would never forget that ghostly walk through the woods. the narrow way wound always between high snow-laden sentinels of trees. the sickly, slanting gleam of the lantern lighted only a few steps ahead. mystery and solemnity were all about her; the pure and exquisite snow, on which they were putting their black-shod feet, was to her the trailing robe of an angel who had gone before. the large, flat snowflakes, showered on her erring head, were missives from the skies, "go back, little girl, go back." "lord, i can't go back," she repeated, stubbornly, "but i'll repent some more, by and by. please take away the sick feeling in the middle of my stomach. i can't enjoy anythin'." the sick feeling continued, and she gave ruth ann only a feeble "yes," when she suddenly turned and threw the light of the lantern on her with a brisk, "don't you want to know what lie i'm goin' to tell 'bout your leavin'? "i'm not goin' to tell any lie," ruth ann continued, triumphantly. "if you've got grace enough to hold your tongue, other folks'll do all your lyin' for you. sister'll come home, mis' grannis with her, prob'bly. they'll go ravagin' in the spare room. they'll come ravagin' out--'ruth ann, that young one's run off!' an' i'll be busy with my pots an' pans, an' all i'll have to say is: 'do tell!' or, 'why, how you talk!' an' sister'll rave an' tear, an' run round like a crazy thing, an' look at mis' grannis out o' the corner of her eye." ruth ann's shoulders shook with enjoyable laughter, but if she had turned suddenly she would have seen a look of unmistakable disgust flitting over the face behind her. she did turn suddenly a few minutes later, but the look was gone. "here, give me that dog," she said, peremptorily. the little girl protested, but the woman took him, and again they plodded on in silence. "here we be," she said, after they had been walking for an hour longer. 'tilda jane raised her head. the narrow road had abruptly expanded into a circular clearing, and in the midst of the clearing stood a small wooden building. ruth ann walked up to it, handed 'tilda jane the dog and the lantern, and put her hands on one of the diminutive windows. it opened easily, and she ejaculated with satisfaction, "just what i thought. come, crawl in here; the station agent's been here all the evenin', an' the fire ain't quite out. you'll be as snug as a bug in a rug. he'll be back at daylight agin, an' soon after your train'll come along for ciscasset. don't you breathe a word to him 'bout me. say mis' minley brought you here, if he asks anythin'. here's enough money to buy your ticket. i ain't got much. sister keeps me short, an' she's took away with her what hank dillson give her for you. mind an' keep that card with his father's name pinned inside your dress. here's a lunch," and she produced a parcel from her pocket. "don't fret, sister can't git home much before breakfast, an' by that time you'll be in ciscasset, an' i guess they'll not follow you there. she don't know the name o' the place, anyway. she didn't take no 'count when hank mentioned it, an' when she asked me, you'd better believe i forgot it, too." 'tilda jane scrambled through the window, and, upon arriving inside, turned around and gravely shook hands with her guide. "i guess i sha'n't forgit this." "don't you take no pains to remember it before sister," said the woman, with a chuckle, "if you don't want me to live an' die in hot water. good luck to you. shut the winder, an' put a stick on the fire," and she strode off through the snow. 'tilda jane shuddered. she was not a nervous child, yet the knowledge that she was alone in a forest pressed and bore down upon her. however, she was out of the increasing storm. she had got her guilty feet off that angel's trailing robe, and the little letters from heaven were not dashing in her face, nor was there any danger now that one of the groaning trees bending to lament over her would fall and crush her shrinking form. they were creaking all around the circular opening--those spying trees--staring through the curtainless windows at her, and instead of throwing on more wood, and making a blaze that would enable her to be plainly seen, she opened the stove door, and, cowering over the embers, changed her wet foot-gear, and tried to dry her clinging skirts. she was entirely miserable until the frightened dog crept into her arms. here was something weaker and more in need of protection than herself, and, hugging him closely to her, she prepared to spend the rest of the night in a patient waiting for the morning. chapter v. another adventure. the quietest and most undemonstrative passenger on the night train from boston was the shabby little girl in the corner, with the bundle beside her on the seat. the conductor, after one sharp glance, paid no attention to her, the brakemen paid no attention to her, the boy with the gum-drops and novels ignored her. she had the air of knowing where she was going, and also of being utterly uninteresting, and greatly to her relief she was left entirely to her own devices. in reality 'tilda jane was in a state of semi-paralysis. she scarcely dared to move, to breathe. all her life had been spent in the quiet precincts of the asylum. she had scarcely been allowed to go to the small village in its vicinity, and when she had been allowed to visit it she had seen nothing as wonderful as this, for there was no railway there. it took her breath away to be whirled along at so rapid a rate. she wondered how the people dared to walk about. she wondered how she had ever had courage enough to step on board the flaming, roaring monster that had come rushing out of the woods as if it would devour the little station, the agent, herself, and her dog. but they had not been devoured, and the agent had guided her staggering footsteps toward the monster. if he had not done so, she would in her bewilderment have been left a prey for the pitiless mrs. minley. for two hours she sat with swimming brain, then it occurred to her that she must in some way acquaint this wonderful and frightful means of locomotion, with her desire to alight at her destination. she closely watched the people entering and leaving the car, and discovered that immediately following the entrance of a man who bawled some unintelligible exclamation, something took place that reminded her of a game played at the asylum. certain people went out, and certain others came in and took their places. she must catch this noisy man and speak to him. she patiently waited for him to pass through the car. once he swept by her, and then some time elapsed before she saw him again. the train had been waiting for fifteen minutes at a station. a number of men had gone out, and presently come back brushing their moustaches and with toothpicks between their teeth. this must be an eating-place; and ruth ann said that 'tilda jane would arrive in ciscasset before breakfast-time. the little girl desperately addressed a passenger passing her. "i say, sir, when do we come to ciscasset?" "ciscasset!" repeated the man. "we passed it an hour ago." "passed it!" she echoed, stupidly. the man turned to a news agent sauntering by. "here, you, send the conductor here." the conductor did not appear, but a brakeman came. "got carried beyond your station, little girl. you're in canada now, but it's all right; we'll ship you off at the next stop. number eight will take you back. all ri-i-i-ght." 'tilda jane fell back on her seat with a strange sinking of heart. she remembered now that hank dillson had said the conductor would "holler" ciscasset; but, if he had done so, she had not distinguished the words in the strange sounds issuing from his mouth. it seemed as if only a few bewildered minutes had passed when someone ejaculated, "mcadam junction!" and the friendly brakeman was beside her. she felt herself lifted from her seat, bundle and all, and swung to a platform, where she stood among a group of people. she did not know where to go or what to do, and remained as one in a dream until some one touched her shoulder. "you the little girl carried beyond your station?" "yes, sir," she gasped, and looked up into the pleasant face of a young man bending over her. "all right; the conductor told me about you. come in here," and he led the way to a waiting-room. "had your breakfast?" "no, sir, but i've got it here," and she pulled ruth ann's parcel out of her pocket. the young man smiled and motioned it back. "come have some hot coffee," and he passed through a doorway into an eating-room, where 'tilda jane presently found herself seated before a steaming cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak and potatoes. "i ain't got any money to pay for this," she said, bluntly, to the young woman who set the tempting viands before her. "that's all right," said the girl, smiling. 'tilda jane picked up her knife and fork. "all right!" seemed to be a railway expression. it was immensely comforting to her, and she soberly partook of the hot breakfast, drank all her coffee, and emptied the scraps from her plate into her handkerchief. then she approached the counter where the young woman stood. "thank you kindly, ma'am. i've made a good meal." then she went outdoors into the crisp morning air. the snow-storm was over, and the day was delightful--blue above, white below. it was like a fairy world. she walked to the end of the platform, unrolled her shawl, and, freeing her mummy-like dog, set his breakfast before him. he ate with avidity, then, showing a disinclination to return to his bandages, hopped on his three legs along the platform beside her, his crooked tail meanwhile describing successive circles in the air. some of the loiterers about the station gathered around him, and seeing that his bodily infirmities were a subject of mirth rather than of compassion, 'tilda jane, in spite of warm protests on his part, once more swathed him in his shawl, and carried him with dignity into the waiting-room. there she sat until the agreeable young man ran in and said her train was coming. something warned her that she ought to implore him to tell some one to have a care of her--to see that she did not again get carried beyond her destination, but a kind of paralysis seized upon her tongue, and she could only open her mouth and gape stupidly at him. "you'll be all right now," he said, with a nod. "jump when you hear ciscasset." "ciscasset, ciscasset!" she repeated the name in a kind of desperation, then, as the train started with a jerk and she tumbled into a seat, she said aloud, and without addressing any one in particular, "i wish to jump off at ciscasset." "bless the child!" ejaculated an old lady in the seat before her, "i guess this is her first journey," and turning around, she stared mildly. "oh, ma'am," said 'tilda jane, "can't you help me get off at ciscasset? the train goes so fast, an' i'm so little." "bless the child!" said the old lady again, "of course i will. conductor, this little girl wishes to get off at ciscasset." "all right," said that official, hurrying by. "this little girl wishes to get off at ciscasset," exclaimed the old lady once more, this time to a brakeman. he nodded and passed on, and presently the conductor returned and said, smartly, "tickets!" "i ain't got any," replied 'tilda jane. "then you must buy one," said the old lady; "have you got any money, my dear?" 'tilda jane never thought of asking the conductor if he had not been informed of her mishap. she never dreamed that the pleasant-faced young man had forgotten to ask that she be carried back to the station for which she had bought her ticket. therefore she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, untied a knot in its corner, and slowly produced fifty cents. "is that all the money you've got?" asked the conductor, briskly. "yes, sir." "where do you come from?" 'tilda jane preserved a discreet silence. "put it up," he said, waving his hand toward the handkerchief and immediately going away. "oh, what a nice kind man!" said the old lady. "he's going to let you ride free." 'tilda jane breathed more freely, and returned her handkerchief to its place. the conductor, meanwhile, had gone to a pullman car in the rear, where a man in plain clothes was lying back on a seat, apparently engaged in an aimless, leisurely scrutiny of the occupants of the car. "jack," said the conductor, "there's a slip of a girl in the day car--poor clothes, shawl bundle, no money, won't tell where she comes from, making a great fuss about going to ciscasset, looks like an emigrant." "all right," said jack, laconically, then he gave an imperceptible nod toward a trio of well-dressed young men engaged in card playing. "want to see me nab that new york jeweller's clerk?" "yep," said the conductor. "got any telegrams in your pocket?" "two." "lend me one, and sit down here a minute." jack got up, the conductor took the vacated seat, and waited one, two, three minutes, and then jack reappeared from between the curtains of the drawing-room at the rear of the car. "a telegram for h.j. bolingbroke," he called, in a loud voice; "any passenger of that name in this car?" the youngest of the three men playing cards involuntarily raised his head, started from his seat, half extended his hand, then drew back. jack tossed the telegram to the conductor, and nodded to the young man. "thought you were travelling under an assumed name. h. j. bolingbroke _alias_ blixton. have you got those diamonds in your pocket?" the young man flushed painfully, while his fellow players threw down their cards and surveyed him curiously. "trouble you to follow me to another car," said jack, and he led the way for the detected smuggler. 'tilda jane saw the two men pass, and innocently stared at them, little dreaming that her turn was to come next. after awhile jack reappeared and sat down in a seat behind 'tilda jane. after noticing the ineffectual attempts made by the old lady to draw the little girl into conversation, he leaned over and poured some candy into her lap from a bag he held in his hand. "have some, sissy?" she gratefully flashed him a glance over her shoulder. "thank you, sir." "going far?" he asked, agreeably. "to ciscasset," she said, feverishly. "will you tell me when we come to it?" "certainly. going to visit friends?" "no, sir." "oh, going home?" "no, sir." "your home isn't quite so near as ciscasset?" "no, sir." "did you bring that small dog across the ocean with you?" he asked, his keen eye noting a stirring inside the bundle. "no, sir." "where did you pick him up?" "some boys were goin' to drown him." "so you're a kind little girl." "i ain't as good as i ought to be," she said, warmly; "but i'm goin' to try to be better. oh, sir, are we at ciscasset yet?" "no, this is vanceboro, the border station between canada and the states. i guess you'd better come this way for ciscasset, little girl." "why, this train goes direct to ciscasset," interposed the old lady. "yes, ma'am, but this little girl is a stop-over. she'll probably go on the next train." the old lady grew suspicious. "you let that child alone, sir. where's the conductor? conductor, i say, come here. can't some one get the conductor? don't go with him one step, little girl." 'tilda jane, grown very pale, gazed apprehensively at the man, and did not offer to leave her seat. he threw back his coat and displayed a badge. "madam, i'm a government inspector." "a government inspector! what's that?" the old lady spluttered, eyeing him over her glasses. "well, madam, there ain't much time for explanation, but i can tell you this much, namely, that we have to detain and examine all persons without means of livelihood who attempt to enter the united states from foreign countries." she still gazed at him suspiciously. "i never heard of such a thing. i guess this is a free country." "yes, ma'am, and the government wants to keep it free. if you get a lot of pauper foreigners here, it'll not be free long." "this little girl is american, ain't you, sissy?" "i'm an orphan," said 'tilda jane, guardedly. whatever happened, she was determined not to admit too much. at this moment the conductor appeared, and the old lady hailed him indignantly. "what does this mean, sir? this little girl offered to pay her passage. i saw her with my own eyes. now you're going to put her off the train." "it's all right, ma'am," he said, soothingly, "she'll likely be allowed to go on to-morrow." "and you'll keep that innocent child here all day, and she too frightened to breathe?" cried the old lady. "i never heard of such doings. i'll write the president! i'll show you up in the papers!" "she'll be well taken care of, madam," said the conductor. "there's a good hotel here. all detained are lodged and fed at government expense. she'll be put in charge of a chambermaid." "you're a set of villains!" said the old lady, wrathfully. "oh, law!" groaned the conductor, "i'm sick of these fusses. pick up her traps, jack." "come, little girl," said jack, kindly, and 'tilda jane, seeing that the inevitable had once more overtaken her, rose resignedly, but the too kind and officious old lady clung to her so wildly that the two men were forced to draw her away from her. 'tilda jane, in a state of complete bewilderment totally unmixed with terror, for she had taken a liking to the kind face of her guide, trotted meekly after him into the shadow of a long v-shaped building. the platform was crowded with people. two trains were standing at the station, and in a large dining-room on her right she saw thronged tables and hurrying waitresses. she was ushered into a room where there was a handsomely dressed woman with a flushed face and tearful eyes, a dejected looking boy and girl sitting very close to each other, a diminutive and poorly dressed german jew, and a composed looking man sitting behind a small table. "i'll have to leave you now," said her guide. "don't be scared, but speak up," and with a reassuring smile he disappeared. chapter vi. deaf and dumb. 'tilda jane sat down on a bench in the corner and took the dog on her lap. the fashionably dressed woman was speaking and gesticulating earnestly in front of the man whose face was only a trifle less calm and stony than that of ruth ann. "i never heard of such a thing in my life--to take my sealskin coat from me in the dead of winter. now if it was summer, it wouldn't be so bad. my nice coat that cost me four hundred and seventy-five dollars." the man listened stolidly. "and you tell me your government orders you to take ladies' jackets from them. it seems incredible!" 'tilda jane curiously scanned the garment under discussion. it certainly was very handsome. "it is incredible, madam. the government does not wish to deprive ladies of their sealskin coats. it merely requires its custom officials, of whom i am one, to enforce the law which has been made to prevent the importation of sealskin coats free of duty." "and have you taken many jackets?" sneered the woman. the official gazed at her in frigid silence. "i'll go right back to toronto, where i live," she said, indignantly. "i was going to buy my daughter's trousseau in new york, but i'll spend every cent at home. that's the way we will make new york suffer on account of your government being so hateful!" and she flounced from the room. the man behind the table cast a leisurely glance over the remaining occupants of the room. then he addressed the dejected boy and girl. "hello, you!--what's your name?" "thaddeus and mary lee," said the boy, mournfully. "brother and sister?" "man and wife," responded the boy, lugubriously. the assistant inspector elevated his eyebrows. "what ages?" "nineteen and seventeen," sighed the lad. "where are you going?" "to boston." "what for?" "to look for work." "got any money?" "two dollars and seventy cents." "that all?" "yes, sir." "what place do you come from?" "chickaminga, quebec." "you'll take the . a. m. train back to-morrow," said the man, briefly. "now, deutscher," and he nodded to the german jew. the boy and girl left the room, hand in hand, with melancholy clothing them like a garment, and 'tilda jane gazed after them with wide-open eyes. her attention, however, was soon distracted, for the little jew, the instant he was indicated, sprang from his seat, extended both hands, and nimbly skipping over the floor between his numerous bundles, overwhelmed the inspector with a flood of german. the inspector leaned back in his chair and at last put up a hand with a commanding, "halt!" the old man paused open-mouthed, and the inspector went on in german: "you left your home, you crossed the sea, you wish to go to portland to relatives--so far, so good, but where are your papers?" the old man broke into a second burst of eloquence. "your certificate," reiterated the inspector, "your writing from the captain of the ship." the old man shook his head sadly. he had no papers. 'tilda jane did not understand a word of what he was saying, but his gestures were expressive, and she anxiously watched his interlocutor. "where did you land?" asked the inspector. "in halifax, nova scotia." "from what ship?" "_das veilchen._" "captain's name?" "strassburger." "your name?" "franz veier." "i'll telegraph him. that's all." "and can i not go to my friends now--at once? they are waiting, they are expecting. we have so much to say." "no," said the inspector, and as the german burst out into groans and lamentations, he waved him from the room. when the door closed, and 'tilda jane felt that the cold and scrutinising eyes of the inspector were fixed on her, she was stricken with sudden dumbness. how these people had talked! she could not in a month utter as much as they had said in a few minutes. the result of their loquacity had been a seeming paralysis of her organs of speech. "what's your name, little girl?" said the official, with slight geniality. her lips parted, but no sound came from them. "_sprechen sie deutsch?_" he asked, agreeably. she shook her head, not from any knowledge of his meaning, but to signify her disinclination for speech. "_parlez-vous français_?" he went on, patiently. her head again negatived this question, and he inquired in spanish if she knew that tongue. the shaking of the head became mechanical, and as the inspector knew seventeen languages, he addressed her successively in each one of them. after she had shaken her head at them all, he surveyed her a few seconds in meditative silence. then he began to talk on his fingers. she was probably deaf and dumb. 'tilda jane joyfully uncurled her hands from the bundle on her lap. this was a safe medium of conversation, for talking on the fingers had been a favourite amusement of the orphans during silence hours; and she would not be tempted to say too much, and betray the fact that she was a runaway. accordingly, she spelled out the information, "i am an orphan." "where do you come from?" he asked her. "a long ways off," her finger tips informed him. "name of place?" "i can't tell you," she responded. "where are you going?" he inquired. "to--" she hesitated about the spelling of ciscasset, but got something near enough to it for him to understand. "any relatives there?" he spelled on his fingers. "no." "going to visit?' "no." "have you any money?" he next asked her, and she politely and speedily informed him that she had fifty cents. "you must tell me where you come from," came next from him in peremptory finger taps. "no, sir," she replied, with spirited movements. "then you'll stay here till you do," he responded, and with a yawn he rose, turned his back to her, and looked out of the window. 'tilda jane took up her dog, and slipped out of the room. she was not frightened or sorry for the deception she had just practised. it did not seem to her that it was deception. for the time being she was deaf and dumb, and, far from being alarmed by her helpless condition, she possessed the strong conviction that she would be well taken care of. she had also ceased to worry about the board of lady managers, and in her present comfortable, callous state of mind she reflected that she might stay here a year, and they would never think of looking for her in a railway station. she was lost to them, and she gaily hummed a tune as she strolled to and fro on the big wooden platform, watching the shunting engines, the busy custom-house officers, and the station yard employees, who were cleaning, rubbing, scouring, and preparing cars for further journeys. at twelve o'clock, just as she was beginning to stifle yawns, and gaze wistfully at the windows of the dining-room, a young girl in a white apron came and stood in the doorway, and, shading her eyes from the sun shining in such dazzling brightness on the snow, beckoned vigorously to 'tilda jane. the little girl needed no second invitation, and, with her dog limping behind her, trotted nimbly toward her new friend. "poor little soul--she's deef and dumb," said the dining-room girl, compassionately, as she passed a group of men in the hall. "ain't it a pity?" 'tilda jane did not speak or smile, nor did her conscience, often so troublesomely sensitive, now give one reproving twinge. since talking to the inspector she felt as if deaf and dumb. she had been officially proclaimed so, and in meek patience she seated herself at the table, calmly pointed to what she wished, and, being most tenderly and assiduously waited upon by the pitying girl, ate a large and excellent dinner. at the orphan asylum there had never been fare such as this, and, after she had finished her chocolate pudding, and put in her pocket a juicy orange that she could not possibly eat, she bowed her head, and internally and thankfully repeated the orphanage grace after meat. "just look at her!" exclaimed the admiring girl. "ain't she cute? what kind of folks must she have to let such a poor little innocent travel alone? i don't believe she's obstinate. that assistant inspector is as hateful as he can be. come, sissy, and i'll show you to your room," and she approached 'tilda jane, and took her by the hand. the latter pointed to her dog, and not until she had seen him satisfy the demands of his appetite, would she consent to follow her guide to a neat little apartment in the top of the wooden hotel. upon arriving there, she thanked the girl by a smile, closed the door, and, throwing herself on her bed, was soon buried in sweet and wholesome slumber. chapter vii. clearing up a mistake. that evening, when some of the custom-house officials and some of the guests of the hotel were sitting tipped back in chairs in the smoking-room, the assistant inspector said to the inspector, who had just come in, "i couldn't make anything of your deaf and dumb kid, jack." "what deaf and dumb kid?" asked jack, seating himself, and drawing out his cigar case. "that young one with the bundle." "she ain't deaf and dumb. her tongue's hung as limber as yours." "well, i swan!" said the assistant inspector, blankly, and, as he spoke, he brought his chair down on its four legs, and gazed about the room with an expression of such utter helplessness that the other men broke into a roar of laughter. "don't cry, blakeman," said jack, soothingly. "it's only once in a coon's age you're fooled." "do you suppose the slyboots has gone to bed?" asked blakeman, again tipping back his chair, and returning to his professional manner. "uncle sam hasn't got any spare cash to waste on such like. just open the door, rufus, and see if you see any of the girls about." a dining-room girl good-naturedly consented to go in search of 'tilda jane, and upon entering the room found her on her knees thoughtfully looking down at the railway tracks running close to the hotel. stepping forward and gently touching her shoulder, the girl pointed down-stairs. 'tilda jane nodded, smiled, and, taking her hand, went out into the hall and down the staircases with her. 'tilda jane stared at the ring of men sitting in the smoking-room. when she caught sight of her friend of the morning, she smiled and bobbed her head at him, then, letting her dog slip from her arm to the floor, she stood in silence, waiting to be questioned. she had no doubt that this was some special tribunal called together to deliberate upon her case. she was not afraid of these men, they had kindly faces. "what made you pretend you were deaf and dumb?" asked the inspector, at last. she opened her mouth once or twice, tried to speak, failed, and at last articulated with difficulty, and with an air of genuine surprise, "why--ain't i deef an' dumb? i ain't spoke ever since he made me think so till now," and she nodded toward the assistant inspector. "i made you think so!" ejaculated blakeman, irritably. "yes, sir," she said, dreamily, and lingering over her syllables as if she found a new pleasure in the exercise of speech. "you had so much to say, an' the other people had so much to say, that the room seemed chock full o' words. they was flyin' round ever so thick, but i couldn't ketch one o' them." "well, now, you've got to quit lying and tell us where you come from," said the assistant inspector, roughly. "you've got to be sent home to-morrow." "sent home?" she repeated wonderingly. "yes--to canada. now tell us the name of the place you belong to, or we'll ship you to some poorhouse." "do i come from canada?" she asked, with a mystified air. jack jogged his assistant's elbow. "seemed to me there was the smell of a ship about her." "not so," responded blakeman who prided himself on distinguishing nationalities. "she hasn't any european accent. she's from right over the border here somewhere." "do you know my mother?" 'tilda jane was eagerly asking the assistant inspector. "yes--know her well. if you don't speak up i'll telegraph her." "oh, i'll never speak then," said 'tilda jane, taking a step forward and clasping her hands painfully. "oh, sir, do telegraph to my mother. i've cried an' cried at nights 'bout her. other girls has mothers that loves 'em an' strokes their hair, an' nobody ever done that to me. they just thinks i'm ugly. oh, sir, oh, sir, won't you telegraph my mother?" blakeman had gone too far. the sentiment of the meeting was against him, and a low murmur warned him to retract what he had said. "i don't mean your mother," he said, sulkily. "i mean your guardians." "the lady-boards?" asked 'tilda jane, eagerly. he did not know what "lady-boards" meant, but his silence seemed to give assent to her question, and losing the bright flush that had come to her face, she relapsed into painful and profound silence. he would never know how he had hurt her. oh! what hopes he had raised, and in an instant dashed to the ground, and checking the convulsion in her throat, she stealthily wiped away the two tears of distress coursing down her thin cheeks. "don't cry," said jack, kindly. "i expect you're tired from your trip in the train yesterday. you had a pretty long one, hadn't you?" "yes, mr. jack," she said, humbly. "it seemed kind o' long, but i'm not used to bein' drug along so mighty quick." "i didn't notice her till we passed mcadam junction," whispered jack to his assistant. "she's come down from some place in new brunswick. telegraph mcadam." "they'll not know," growled blakeman. "robinson on yesterday's montreal express is the man. he'll be back to-night. he'll know where she got on. if he'd reported, 'twould have saved this." "i guess he didn't think we'd struck such an obstacle," remarked jack, with a chuckle. then he said aloud, "don't you suppose they'll be worrying about you, sissy?" "no, sir," she said, meekly, "they'll be more mad than worried." "you haven't lost that paper with the address, have you?" said jack, cunningly. "no, sir," and she put her hand to her breast. he got up and walked toward her. "let me see if i can read it." "there's no 'casion for that," she said, with dignity. "you'll have to let me see it," he said, firmly, so firmly that it being no part of her plan to "dare the undareable," she quietly handed hank's card to him. "hobart dillson, ciscasset, maine," he read, then he gave it back to her. "thank you, sissy. i guess you can go to bed now." "in a minute," said 'tilda jane, submissively, while she made a queer bob of a curtsey to all present. "gen'l'men all--before i go i must say somethin'. up-stairs jus' now i was ponderin' on my wickedness. i guess you think i don't know that all liars has their portion in the lake o' fire an' brimstone. i knows it an' feels it, but gen'l'men i ain't told no more lies nor i could help. that 'bout bein' deef an' dumb i can't call a lie, 'cause i felt it, an' i'm s'prised now to hear myself talk. but i have told lies, an' i know it. to-day i had a boss dinner. i went to sleep an' on my bed i dreamed. somethin' roared an' shook the house an' i woke in a sweat. did i think the devil had come after me? yes, sirs--gen'l'men, i've been awful bad, i don't s'pose any of you knows what such badness is. i'm afeared i've got to go on lyin' till i like lies better'n truth. that's what the--what ladies i has known said would happen to little girls as stepped aside from the paths of righteousness." the men were all staring at her, the assistant inspector most intently, for this flow of language from the supposedly deaf and dumb child surprised even him--a man used to surprises. "i'm goin' to repent some day," continued 'tilda jane, sadly, "just as soon as i get out o' this, an' enjoyin' fam'ly life. i'm goin' to repent of all 'cept one thing, an' i can't repent 'bout that 'cause i dunno if it's wrong. do you like dogs?" and she abruptly addressed the assistant inspector. "no," he said, brusquely. "what do you like?" she went on, wistfully, "cats, birds, children--do you like girls, sir, nice little girls with blue eyes an' curly hair?" the assistant inspector was a remarkably fine blond specimen of a man, and, as he was popular among the young women of the neighbourhood, 'tilda jane's artless question produced a burst of laughter from his companions, and a furious flaming of colour in his own face. [illustration: "'i'm goin' to repent some day.'"] her question had gone home, and she proceeded. "suppose you had a nice little girl an' some one wanted to take her away, an' frighten her, an' tie jinglin' things to her an' make her run, an' you'd ketch her up an' run off to the woods, would that be awful wicked, do you s'pose, an' would you have to repent?" the assistant inspector preserved a discreet and resentful silence, but two or three of his companions murmured between their pipe-stems and their lips, "not much he wouldn't." "now that's what troubles me," 'tilda jane continued. "the rest is bad, but is that bad? i guess i'll have to ask some minister, an', gen'l'men all, i guess you'd better let me go on to ciscasset. you've got a nice place here, an' plenty o' things to eat, an' i think you're very fair, but i feel like movin' on," and pausing, she anxiously scanned the row of faces about her. "run away to bed now," said jack. "we'll tell you to-morrow what you're to do," and as 'tilda jane picked up her pet and disappeared, he sauntered across the room, took up a telegraph form, and addressed a message to the creamery shark's father. "hobart dillson, ciscasset. girl, age about twelve. dark hair, eyes--run away from place unknown. going to your address. held as immigrant without means. refuses to give name. can you supply any information? answer paid for." chapter viii. a third running away. "look here, little girl," said jack, stopping 'tilda jane as she was coming out of the dining-room the next morning, "i've had a telegram from your friend in ciscasset." "an' what does he say?" she asked, breathlessly. "i'll read it," and he drew a paper from his pocket. "never heard of girl. don't want her. hobart dillson." 'tilda jane looked crestfallen, but did not flinch in face of the new difficulty. "he's a cranky ole man. he'll be all right when i talk to him." "well, you're a queer fish," muttered her friend, as by way of hiding her chagrin she went quickly up-stairs. "we can't do anything with you till robinson gets back, and tells us where he picked you up." the assistant inspector met her in the hall above. "have you made up your mind to talk yet?" he asked, austerely. 'tilda jane shook her head. "i've been amusing myself by telegraphing along the line," he said, in the same tone of voice. "none of the stations know anything about you, and the agent at mcadam has started off in the woods for his holidays. the conductor that brought you is laid up from an accident to his train, so you've got to speak for yourself; and do you know what i've made up my mind to do?" "no, sir," she said, steadily. "by to-night if you won't tell me where you come from, i'm going to take that dog away from you." her face turned a sickly yellow, but she did not quail. "you wouldn't shoot him, would you?" "no, i won't shoot him," he said, deliberately. "i guess i'd give him to some nice little girl who wouldn't tell lies." 'tilda jane's head sank on her breast. "gimme till to-morrow morning, sir. i'd like to think it over." "i'll see about it," he said, with a curious glance at her; then he went away. 'tilda jane knew that he would give her till the morning. she would not be troubled by him all day. she would have time to think. the worst difficulty in her experience confronted her. she would lose her dog in any case. to speak was to be sent back to the asylum, to remain silent was to let her gippie become the cherished darling of some other girl, and in mute agony she caressed the smooth brown head, and put her hand before the almost sightless eyes as if she would hide from them even a suspicion of coming danger. mr. jack had just stepped on one of the out-going trains. she could not appeal to him, and the table-girls, since they had found that she was a story-teller, slighted her in a most marked way. she wandered down-stairs and out-of-doors. all day she loitered about the station platform watching the trains come in,--deliberate freight-trains, with their loads of merchandise, all to be examined by the busy customs officials, and rushing express trains, with their hundreds of hungry passengers who swept in crowds into the spacious dining-room. she saw her companions in captivity borne away. the fashionable lady got on a train that was entering canada, and the dismal boy and girl followed her. the little german jew, who had been roaming about the hotel like a restless ghost, always with his hat on and a bundle in his hand as if he wished to impress all beholders with the fact that he was only tarrying for a short time, had, on the receipt of a telegram informing the inspectors that he had merely forgotten his papers, become a happy maniac. he ran to and fro, he collected his bundles, dropped them, to kiss the hand of a table-girl who gave him some cakes for his lunch, and had to be restrained by main force from boarding every train that pulled up at the station. fortunate travellers and unfortunate orphan! she could not get on one of the trains and be borne away. she was watched; she felt it, for she had now a perfect comprehension of the system of espionage established over unsuspecting travellers. the rich and well-dressed ones were passed by unless they were wearing sealskin wraps, the poor and penniless must give an account of themselves. so there was no escape for her by train. she must take to the road. she had better go lie down and try to sleep, she reflected with a shudder, as she had now before her the prospect of another night in the woods. as soon as it got dark, she must try to slip away from the hotel. at six o'clock she had had her nap and was in her favourite spot on her knees by her open window. night was approaching, and she felt neither sorry, nor frightened, nor apprehensive. the sun was going down, and she was so completely wrapped in deep and silent content that she could neither speak nor think. she did not know that she was an ardent lover of nature--that her whole soul was at the present moment so filled with the glory of the winter evening that she had no room for her own troubles. the clanging supper-bell disturbed her, and, with a sigh and a look of longing farewell at the sky, she closed the window and made her way to the dining-room. after supper she returned to her post, and, as she could not now see the glorious sky and the snowy fields, she let her attention fall upon the trains below that had begun to have a strange fascination for her. she had lost all fear of them by this time, and had even begun to notice that there were differences in them just as there were differences in people. some were big and bulky, others were quick and dashing. some had hoarse voices, some clear ones. the canadian engines coming in shrieked in one tone, the american ones, passing them from the other direction, replied in another. hour after hour went by, and with the time her sense of dreamy contentment faded away. it gave her but little dismay to look out into the starlit night and fancy herself alone in snowy solitudes, but it gave her considerable dismay to look down below, and find that the hotel was neither getting dark nor perfectly quiet, as she fancied all well-regulated houses did at night. she had forgotten that they could not sleep here, at least everybody could not. trains were coming and going all the time, and with this constant supervision below, how could she evade detection? "number seventeen is an hour late and getting later every minute," she heard some one call after a time; "bad snow-drifts up north." "guess i'll take a wink of sleep," a tired voice responded, "there'll be nothing but freights for a spell," and then followed comparative silence. footsteps were only occasionally heard, fewer lights flashed in the distance, and it was only at much longer intervals that passing trains shook the house. there was a lull in the constant noises, and now was the time for action. she rose stealthily, and took her dog in her arms--a pathetic child figure no longer, but a wary, stealthy little elf endeavouring to escape from danger threatened by these larger and more powerful human beings. her sleeping-room was a tiny chamber opening out of one occupied by two of the dining-room girls. she was not afraid of their waking. she had heard them say as they undressed that they had to get up at half-past four to iron table-cloths and napkins, and there was not an instant's interruption of their heavy, dreamless slumber as she stole noiselessly by them. now for the staircase. she paused anxiously at the top, and looked down. there was no one in sight, and holding her breath, and tiptoeing cautiously, she stole down step by step. at last she was at the bottom of both flights of stairs. so far so good, and she laid her hand on the knob of the front door that was never locked. but stop, let her pause--there were sounds outside. some one out there hesitated, halted, and remarked to some other person behind, "will you come in and have a bite of something to eat?" 'tilda jane scarcely dared to breathe, and, gazing down the hall behind her, shook in her substantial shoes. she could see the office at the end of the hall, and the sleepy clerk napping at his desk. if she retreated toward him, he might wake up and discover her, and if the men entered she could not possibly avoid being caught by them. in intense anxiety she awaited results. there were only a few seconds of uncertainty, then her heart gave a bound of thankfulness. the footsteps had passed on, and only waiting till they died away, she opened the door and glided through. now she was on the brightly lighted platform at the mercy of any passer-by, or any wakeful person who might be at one of the hotel windows. she made one swift rush across it, one leap over the railway tracks, and with a stifled exclamation of thankfulness found herself on the village road. like a dark, diminutive ghost she sped up the hill past the silent houses. now she was comparatively safe, yet which way should she go? she was completely puzzled, yet she had a vague idea that there were great forests surrounding vanceboro, for she had heard the men at the hotel talk of fishing and shooting. trembling in every limb from excitement, and pressing her precious bundle closely to her, she took a road to the left. she must not go to the right, for across the river was canada, and if she got into that foreign country again, she would have fresh difficulties in returning to her own native one. she would press on through the village, take to the woods, and trust to luck to find some house where she could ask the way to ciscasset. there was a moon to-night, an old, pale moon, and it cast a tremulous light over the soft, white fields sloping down to the sainte-croix river, the sleeping village, and the brightly lighted station yard in the hollow. she turned around, took one farewell glance at the habitations of men, and plunged into the winding road leading into the heart of the forest. hour after hour she plodded on. this reminded her of her walk with ruth ann two evenings before, only here there was more light, the snow was deeper, and the trees were not as high as those on the way to the moss glen station. she hoped with a shiver that she should meet no wild beasts. hark! what was that crashing through the alder bushes? she stopped short, clasped her dog to her breast, and looked about for some means of defence. nothing offered but a dry tree branch, and she was just bending over to seize it when there rushed by her, so quickly that she had no time to be afraid, an object that caused a faint smile of pleasure to come to her pale lips. this was a large deerhound running along with his nose to the snow, and he paid no more attention to her than if she had been one of the stumps by the side of the road. "here, doggie, doggie!" she called, wistfully, but he did not return, and, startled by the sound of her voice in the intense stillness, she hastily resumed her way. how solemn the moon was, staring down at her with that section of a face on which she fancied she saw an ear, the corner of a mouth, and one terrible, glistening eye. "little girl, where are you going? are you doing right? are you not a naughty little girl?" "i can't think about it now," she said, desperately. "when i git settled down i'll square things up. anyway, i'm not bad for the fun of it. law me, ain't this road long! here, gippie, i guess you might walk a few steps. keep in my tracks an' i'll not let anythin' hurt you. if a bear comes, he'll eat me first. it'll do you good to stretch your legs a mite." away back in the hotel mr. jack was just getting home. "we can let our deaf and dumb kid go in the morning," he said to his assistant, who got on the train as he left it. "the waitress at mcadam was just inquiring about her--says she's u. s. all right. came from moss glen station, didn't know ciscasset when she got to it, and was carried on. agent forgot to speak to robinson about her, and the waitress wanted to know if she got through all right." "u. s.," grumbled the assistant inspector, pausing with his foot on the steps of the baggage-car, "why didn't she say so?" "was frightened--i guess she'd run away--a case of innocence abroad." "well, we can't hold her if she isn't an immigrant," said blakeman, with relief. "let her go. they've got a poorhouse in ciscasset, i suppose." "she'll go in no poorhouse," said mr. jack, with a chuckle. "she's too smart." if he could have seen at that moment the weary little figure toiling along the forest road, he would have uttered the appreciative adjective with even more energy. tired, hungry, occasionally stooping to lift a handful of snow to her lips, 'tilda jane plodded on. her thin figure was bent from fatigue. she had again picked up the wailing dog, and had slung him on her back in the shawl, yet there was not the slightest indication of faltering in her aspect. there were no clearings in the woods, no promise of settlement, yet her face was ever toward the promised land of ciscasset, and her back to the place of captivity in vanceboro. chapter ix. lost in the woods. nothing could be more exquisitely beautiful than that winter morning in the maine woods. the white glory of the snow, the stealing pink and gold glances of the sun, the bravery of the trees proudly rearing their heads aloft and stretching out their heavily laden arms,--all made a picture that filled with awe even the heart of rough bob lucas, unregistered guide and nominal lumberman, noted for his skill as hunter and poacher and his queer mingling of honesty, law-breaking, piety, and profanity. no, it was not a picture, it was reality, and he was a part of it. he was in it, he belonged to this glorious morning, the morning belonged to him, and he put up his hand and pulled off his cap. "branching candlesticks on the altar of the lord," he muttered as he surveyed the trees. "i feel like a vessel o' grace, more's the pity i can't take on the actions o' one." he stood lounging in the cabin door--red-haired, long-nosed, unkempt, and stalwart. inside were his two sons getting the breakfast, and the appetising odour of frying bacon floated out on the fresh air. "hi, poacher--whot's up with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, and his gaze went to a deerhound of unusually sturdy build, who was ploughing through the snow toward the cabin. the dog wagged his tail, advanced, and, lifting toward him a countenance so bright with intelligence that it might almost be called human, opened his mouth, and dropped something at his master's feet. "hello, boys!" said the man, stepping inside the cabin; "what in the name o' creation's this? i call it a morsel of woman's togs. don't your mother wear aprons like it, or somethin'?" the two strapping lads in high boots and woollen shirts turned their red faces from the fireplace. "yes, siree," said the taller of them, fingering the scrap of cotton; "they call it something like jingo." "gingham, you gull," interposed his brother, with a guffaw of laughter. "i've seen it in the stores. where'd you get it, pop?" "poacher fetched it. when i got out o' my bunk this mornin' an' opened the door, he put up that ole muzzle of his an' give a sniff. then off he sot. i knew he'd got somethin' on his mind. he's been runnin' deer, an' he found this on his way back." "he's a beaut," said the other lad, eyeing him admiringly. "he's nosed out something. what'll you do, pop?" "swaller some breakfast an' make tracks for morse's camp." "s'pose it was some person," said the younger of the boys, uneasily. "by gum!" and the man suddenly smote his thigh, "s'pose the ole woman had run after us with somethin'. hustle on your coats, boys. mebbe it's your ma." the faces of both boys had turned white, and their hands were shaking. seizing their coats, they rushed out of the cabin. "pop, it wasn't bitter last night," said the younger, in a hushed voice. "shut up!" said his father, irritably, and in profound silence the three proceeded through the wood in single file, following the dog who, without excitement, but with his dark face beaming with pleasure at being understood, rapidly led them over his own tracks of a few minutes previous. mile after mile they went in silence, until at last the father, who was leading, made a leap forward. there was a dark mound on the snow against a tree trunk, and dropping beside it he turned it over. "thank the lord!" he ejaculated, while scratching and beating the snow away from it, "it ain't what i feared." "why, it's only a gal," said one of the boys. "is she gone, pop?" "here--shake her up," he replied. "what's this she's curled round? a dog, sure as thunder, an' alive an' warm. merciful grindstones, look at him!" irritably stepping out of wrappings, consisting of a small tippet and a shawl, was a little old dog, the most utter contrast to the handsome deerhound that could have been imagined. the hound stared inquiringly and politely at gippie, and, being a denizen of the woods, made the first overtures to friendship by politely touching him with the end of his muzzle. the smaller dog snapped at him, whereupon the hound withdrew in dignified silence, and watched his owners, who were making vigorous efforts to restore the benumbed girl. "her heart's beatin'," said lucas, putting his hand on it. "the dog lay there, an' kep' it warm." "rub her feet--rub harder," he said to his sons, while he himself began chafing 'tilda jane's wrists. "she's jist the age o' your sister min. s'pose she was here, stone cold an' half dead!" the boys redoubled their efforts at resuscitation, and presently a faint colour appeared in the little girl's marble cheeks, and the cold lips slightly moved. lucas put his head down. "what you sayin'? dog, is it? he's all right. if you'd wrapped yourself more, an' him less, it might 'a' bin better. yet, i guess not. if it hadn't 'a' bin for the dog, you'd 'a' bin dead. put on her shoes, boys. we'll carry her to that heap o' logs of ours." "pop, will one of us have to show her out?" said joe, anxiously pressing beside him. "yep," said his father. "here, strip off your coat an' put it round her." "an' i s'pose i'll hev to go 'cause i'm the youngest," said the boy, bitterly. "no, sir--you're always doin' dirty work. this time it'll be zebedee." zebedee frowned, and muttered that he wished girls would stay out o' the woods; then he tramped on beside his brother. "here, gimme my gun," said lucas, presently. "you-uns is younger. you kin carry the gal." he had been carrying 'tilda jane over his shoulder, and now the little procession started again, this time with the boys bearing the semi-unconscious burden. gippie, squealing and complaining, followed behind as well as he was able, but finally, becoming stuck in a drift, gave a despairing yell and disappeared. lucas turned around, went in the direction of the crooked tail sticking up from the snow, and pulling him out, contemptuously took him under his arm. "if you was my dog, you'd get a bullet to eat. howsomever, you ain't, an' i guess we'll hev to keep you for the leetle gal. git on thar, sons." two hours later, 'tilda jane opened her eyes on a new world. where had her adventures brought her this time? had she died and gone to heaven? no, this must be earth, for she had just heard a string of very bad words uttered by some one near her. but she could not think about anything. a feeling of delicious languor overpowered her, and slowly opening and shutting her eyes, she little by little allowed her surroundings to impress themselves upon her. she was very warm and comfortable; she was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall by means of an overturned chair and blankets; a fire in an open fireplace blazed beside her; gippie was making his toilet before this fire, and she was very happy. "here, sup this," some one said, and languidly lifting her eyelids, she saw a big red-haired man bending over her. he was holding a cup to her lips--coffee sweetened with molasses. just what they used to have at the asylum, and with a faint smile, and a feeble "thank you, sir," she slowly swallowed it. "i was scared to give you any before," he said, gruffly; "thought you might choke. here, gimme some grub, sons." 'tilda jane felt a morsel of something put in her mouth. it was followed by another morsel of something hot and savoury, and speedily she felt new life in her veins. she could sit up now, and look about her. "guess you can feed yourself," said the man, going back to the table. "fall to now--you most got to the end of your tether." 'tilda jane took the two-pronged fork he put in her hand, and began to eat with slow avidity, not disregarding the requests for titbits from her dog, who occasionally paused for that purpose in his endeavours to lick himself dry. at intervals she cast a glance at the centre of the cabin, where a man and two boys were seated at a rough table. these must be her rescuers. she had fallen down in the snow the night before. not even her fear of death had been able to keep her on her feet. she stopped eating. "who be you?" "we be lumbermen, when the fit takes us," said the man, shortly. "well," said 'tilda jane, "i guess--" then she stopped, overpowered by intense feeling. "i guess," she went on, finally, "that there wouldn't 'a' bin much o' me this morning if it hadn't bin for you comin'." "'twasn't us," said the man, agreeably, "'twas poacher there," and he indicated the dog under the table, who, at the mention of his name, rose and walked politely toward the little girl. he looked at her and she looked at him, then he took a step nearer and laid his muzzle on her shoulder. with exquisite subtlety he comprehended all that she wished to say in relation to himself, and all that she felt in relation to the dog race in general. she laid her cheek against his velvet ear. then her arm stole around his neck. the dog stood in courteous silence, until, feeling embarrassed under her attention, he looked somewhat foolishly at his master, and appealingly licked 'tilda jane's cheek. as quick to understand him as he was to understand her, she released him, whereupon he lay down beside her and put his handsome head on her lap. gippie extended his muzzle, sniffed suspiciously, then his short-sighted eyes discovering the presence of a rival, he advanced snapping. the large dog generously averted his head, and gippie, seeing that he was not to be dislodged, meanly curled himself up on poacher's glossy back. [illustration: "he lay down beside her."] "yes, that's a boss dog," the man went on. "search the state from fort kent to kittery depot, and you'll not find a cuter. he's given me pointers many a time--where you hail from, leetle gal?" "i'm going to ciscasset," she said, dreamily. her mind was running back to the night before, and, unaware that she was holding a piece of bacon poised on her fork in tempting proximity to poacher's nose, she stared intently at the fire. she had been near death. had she been near the heaven that the matron and the "lady-boards" pictured, or would it have been the other place, on account of her disobedience? "the soul that sinneth it shall die"--"for whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all"--"keep thyself pure"--"for without are dogs, and sorcerers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie"--that meant without the city, the beautiful city of gold where her mother probably was, and many of her unknown relatives, and where all good matrons, orphans, and "lady-boards" went. "i guess i'd bin without, with no comfort but the dogs," she thought bitterly, and pushing away her plate, she said aloud, "i thank ye kindly, but i can't swaller another morsel." a roar of laughter saluted her ears. gippie's inquiring muzzle had scented out the bacon and had seized it, whereupon poacher, knowing that it was not intended for him, had gently but firmly taken it from him, and was walking about the cabin, holding it aloft, while gippie snarled at his heels. 'tilda jane paid no attention to them. the greater matter of her soul's destiny was under consideration. "are you an extry good man?" she abruptly asked her host. he stopped laughing, and a shadow came over his face. then his glance went to his boys. "what you say, sons?" the boys stared at each other, avoided his eye, and said, uneasily, "course you be, pop--don't make game." "make game," repeated the man, strangely, "make game," then he laughed shortly, and made another onslaught on the bacon and bread. "'cause i'm lookin' for an extry good person," went on 'tilda jane, brusquely. "some one that won't blab, an' that i kin tell a story to." "well, thar ain't no extry good persons in the woods," said her host, "we be only ordinary. you better wait till you git out. what was you doin' so far from houses last night, leetle gal, 'stead o' bein' tucked snug in bed?" "i might as well tell the truth," she said, helplessly. "i'm tired o' lies. i was runnin' away from somethin', but whether my runnin' was good or bad is what i can't make out." "while you're puzzlin' you eat some more breakfus'," said the man, getting up and putting another supply of bacon on her plate. "you've got to call up strength to git out. i s'pose you dunno you're some miles from sofas, an' pianos, an' easy chairs." "i didn't know where i was goin'," she said, apologetically, "or what i was comin' to. i jus' travelled on an' on. then i begun to get queery an' i left the road. thinks i, there'll be kind animiles in the woods. mebbe i'll meet a nice black bear, an' he'll say, 'little girl, you're lost an' i'll lead you to my den. we'll be happy to have you an' your little dog, an' i'll not let no one eat him, an' i'll give a big party an' invite all the foxes, an' deer, an' bears an' squirrels 'cause you're fond o' wild beasts, little girl.' an' it seemed i'd come to the bear's den, an' there was a soft bed, an' i just lay down, an' was goin' to sleep when i thought, 'mebbe if i sleep, some little bird'll tell him i'm a baddie, an' he'll eat me up,' an' i felt just awful; then i forgot everythin' till i woke up here--i guess i'm obliged to you." the lumberman was about to reply to her when one of the boys ejaculated, "hist, pop, look at poacher!" chapter x. among friends. the animal had gone to the door, and stood in a listening attitude. "some one's comin'," said the boy. "is everythin' snug?" the three cast hurried glances about the room, then shaking off a somewhat uneasy expression, the man stepped to the one and only window of the cabin. "game warden perch," he said, dryly, "and registered guide hersey. comin' spyin' round--bad luck to 'em," and he sulkily went back to the table. presently there came a knocking at the door. "come in," bawled lucas, not inhospitably, and two men, much smarter, cleaner, and more dapper-looking than the red-haired man and his sons, entered the cabin. "howdye," they said simultaneously, as they stood their guns and snow-shoes against the wall, and took possession of the two boxes vacated by the boys at a sign from their father. then, with an appearance of enjoyment, they dragged the boxes near the fire, and stretched out their hands to the blaze. 'tilda jane saw that they were staring in unmitigated astonishment at her, and with a feeling that she herself was out of the world and in a place where passers-by were few and infrequent, she examined them in equal interest. "where'd you come from?" asked the elder of them at last, fixing her with a pair of piercing eyes. "she got keeled over on the old road last night," spoke up lucas, much to her relief. "lost her way. dog here, found her," and he motioned toward poacher, who was surveying the newcomers in cold curiosity. warden perch's attention being drawn to the dog, he stared at him earnestly, then turned to his companion. "ever see that animal before?" "not near at hand," said the other, with a slight sneer. "guess' i've seen his hind legs and the tip of his tail once or twice." "hev some breakfus?" said lucas, who was imperturbably going on with his own. warden perch inspected the table. "not on bacon--haven't you got something more uncommon?" "we've got some beans in thar," said lucas, with a backward nod of his head toward a bag on the floor, "coarse brown beans. they might be a treat for ye, seein' ye don't git 'em much in hotels." perch flushed angrily and opened his mouth as if to make a retort. then he drew a blank book from his pocket, and to calm himself ran his eye over the report he was making for the game commissioner of the state. "left nexter . a. m. march , for bluefield. march at bearville . a. m. jim greene's camp lake clear at . p. m. march left camp at a. m. bill emerson's camp . a. m. reached moose yard on back side fern brook ridge . p. m. moose in yard--henry," he said, lifting his head and abruptly addressing his companion, "some of those poachers have mighty cute tricks." henry nodded assent. "those fellows at hacmactac station tried hard to fool us last week,--cut the legs off the deer, then got a couple of bears' feet and had the bone of the bear's leg slipped up under the skin on the leg of the deer. then they put them up so sly in three layers of bagging with nothing but bears' feet sticking out, but i caught on to those bears' legs, and said the feet weren't big enough. so i had it opened and took the deer and the fellows to mattawamkeag, and i guess they think forty dollars apiece was just about enough for a fine." lucas and his sons burst out laughing, and 'tilda jane shrewdly suspected by their amused faces and knowing glances that they had heard the story before. there was no love lost between these newcomers and her preservers, and lucas and his sons would be glad when their callers left the cabin. but what was all this talk about deer? surely they did not kill the pretty creatures whom without having seen she loved. she cleared her throat and in a weak little voice addressed the game warden. "sir, i've got pictures in my joggafry of deer with branching horns. does bad men kill them?" warden perch gave her another alert glance. here was no confederate of poachers. "yes," he said, severely, "bad men do kill them, and dogs chase them, but mind this, young girl--poachers get nabbed in the long run. they slide for a time, but there's a trip-up at the end. and their dogs, too--i've shot three hounds this week for dogging deer." "you have shot dogs!" repeated 'tilda jane, in a horrified tone, and pressing gippie closer to her. "if i didn't shoot them, they'd kill the deer," said the man, irritably. "oh!" murmured 'tilda jane. here was one of the mysteries of nature that was quite beyond her comprehension. the dog hunted the deer, and the man hunted the dog. the deer apparently was the weaker one, and she must inquire into the matter. "what does bad men kill deer for?" she asked, timidly. "haven't you ever eaten any deer meat?" asked the warden. "i didn't know it was good to eat," she said, sadly. "you haven't had any here in this cabin?" "i guess not, unless i might 'a' eat it when i was fainty." lucas eyed her peculiarly, and the meaning of the warden's question and offensive manner burst upon her. "that's a good man," she said, indignantly, starting from her half-reclining position and pointing to lucas. "i guess men that takes little girls out o' snow-banks don't kill deer." warden perch laughed and rose from his seat. he had very little sentiment with regard to the animal creation. "i calculate we'd better be moving," he said, to the guide. "don't suppose we'd see anything to keep us here, unless we'd hang on for the big snow-storm they say is coming, and that i expect you're waiting for," and he looked at lucas. "me an' my sons," said the latter, coolly, "is on our way to david morse's lumber camp. two of his hands had to come out 'count o' sickness. we lay out to git thar this evenin'. was late in startin' last night, an' camped here. we'll hev to git this leetle gal out, 'thout you might undertake it, seein' as you're makin' for outside, i s'pose." "get your own find out," said the warden, severely; "it will keep you out of mischief, and look here--if i find that dog of yours up to tricks, you know what i'll do." "shoot him on sight," said lucas, stooping and patting the animal who was pressing close to him; "but you'll never ketch him, 'cause he ain't the sort o' dog to be ketched in any kind o' mischief; hey, poacher?" the guide went out, and the warden with a scowl followed, slamming the door after him. lucas and his sons crowded to the window to see their callers depart, and when they were fairly out of sight, they burst into relieved laughter, and noisily drew their boxes up to the fire. "say, pop, ain't he mad?" remarked joe, excitedly. "mad 'cause you're too cute for him. he'd give his teeth to fasten something on to you." "shut up," said his father, with a roll of his eye toward 'tilda jane. the girl was puzzled. lucas, who seemed a nice man, was treated as if he were not a friend to the deer, while the departed ones, whom she did not like at all, seemed to be their protectors. "who are those men?" she asked, curiously. "wal, i'll tell you," said lucas, taking two moose ear skins from his pocket, and fitting them together to make a tobacco-pouch, "them two is fancy game men. the warden an' the guide likes to lounge in easy chairs round hotels an' tell of their doin's in the woods, how the poachers tremble an' run when they see 'em comin'. as a rule, they don't take to the woods till they're druv to it by some complaint. then they're awful fierce, an' growl an' show their teeth, an' run home. nobody don't care nothin' for 'em." "are there many men killing deer?" asked the little girl, falteringly. "many men!" groaned lucas. "law me, what a question! las' year, leetle gal, thar was awful heavy snow, eight foot deep in franklin county, seven foot in somerset, piscataquis, penobscot, and aroostook. what a year for big game! they couldn't git away. they was as helpless as sheep. storm came on storm, till we was walkin' up among the tree branches and knockin' off the snow with a stick. snow covered tracks, and poachers took possession o' the airth." "they lived high in the lumber camps, pop, do you mind?" said zebedee, smacking his lips. "when a fellow was starvin' the smell just come out to meet him." "you bet, only you wasn't thar to smell it," said his father, sharply, "you mind that. you young ones takes to the woods too natural." he surveyed them with mingled pride and dissatisfaction, then came back to his reminiscences. "i vum that was a winter, but the deer would 'a' starved if they hadn't been shot, for the snow was so deep that they couldn't get to their food. that there perch made a great flurry about gettin' in an' drivin' six deer to a swamp where they could git green stuff, but i don't believe a word of it. i believe he shot and ate them." "do you mind the deer that was dogged into our yard, pop?" exclaimed joe. "i saw 'em as they crossed the river--dog not fifteen foot behind." "and what became of that deer?" asked 'tilda jane, unsteadily. lucas winked at his sons and concluded the story himself. "he run across our yard, an' among the bark pilers at meek an' sons' tannery. when the animal come runnin' down between the bark piles, some of the crew was for killin' him, but i was workin' thar, an' i wouldn't let 'em. he stayed round close to us all day, an' when any dog come an' sniffed at him, he'd run up close an' tremble, an' ask us to see fair play." "you killed that deer," exclaimed 'tilda jane, bursting into tears. "oh! why does god let men be so wicked?" sobs were almost tearing her little, lean frame to pieces. she had not worked up gradually to a pitch of emotion, but had fallen immediately into it, and lucas and his sons stared wonderingly at her. poor little girl! she looked as if she had come through a sea of troubles, and pity stirred in the man's rough but not unkindly breast. "shut up now, shut up, missy," he said, soothingly. "we did shoot that feller, but thar warn't nowhere to keep him, but deer has bin kep'. soft now, an' i'll tell ye of seth winthrop, who has a park an' is a rich man. las' year, when you couldn't go scarce five mile without seein' tracks o' blood in the snow where some one had been slaughterin', a moose was chased near winthrop's place. he was so dead beat that he jus' stood an' trembled, an' one o' winthrop's men put a halter on him, an' led him to the barnyard an' give him fodder an' drink, an' that livin' young moose is in winthrop's park to-day, an' he weighs four hundred pound." 'tilda jane was still sobbing, and joe nudged his father. "tell her 'bout the bear, pop." "now here's somethin' that'll make you laugh," said lucas, kindly. "it's about a bad bear that went an' got drunk. i was on a fishin' trip, an' i had a jug o' black-strap with me. know what that is, leetle gal?" "no-o-o," gasped 'tilda jane, who, rather ashamed of her emotion, was trying to sober herself. "wal--it's the state o' maine name for rum an' molasses mixed, an' you take it with you in case you git sick. there was some other men with me, an' they'd gone off in a boat on the lake. i had a gun, but 'pon my word i didn't think o' usin' it, 'count of gratitude to that b'ar for givin' me such a treat--just as good as a circus. wal, i must tell how it happened. i didn't feel well that day--had a kind o' pain, an' i was lyin' on the bank in the sun, foolin' an' wishin' i was all right. by an' by, thinks i, i'll go to the camp an' hev a drink o' black-strap. i was mos' thar, when i met a wicked thief b'ar comin' out. powers around, he was as tipsy as a tinker. he'd bin at my black-strap, an' i wish you could 'a' seen him. he didn't know where he was at, or where he wanted to be at, an' he was jolly, an' friendly, an' see-sawed roun' me, an' rolled an' swaggered till i tho't i'd die laughin'. my pain went like las' year's snow, an' i walked after that b'ar till he was out o' sight. just like a drunken man he was, makin' for home, an' in the midst of all his foolery havin' an idea of where he'd oughter go. i'd 'a' given a good deal to see mrs. b'ar's face when he arrove. an' didn't those other fellers give it to me for not shootin' him! i said i couldn't take a mean advantage of his sitooation." 'tilda jane's face was composed now, and with a faint smile she reverted to the subject of the deer. "don't you feel bad when you're killin' them, an' they looks at you with their big eyes?" "look here, leetle gal, don't you talk no more 'bout them, or you'll hev me as mush-hearted as you be," said lucas, getting up and going to the window. "at present i ain't got no feelin' about deer excep' that what's in the woods is ours. you jus' stand up an' try your feet. it's goin' to snow, an' i'd like to git you out o' here. did you ever try to teeter along on snow-shoes?" "no, sir," she said, getting up and walking across the room. lucas was anxiously surveying the sky. "'pears like it was goin' to snow any minute. the las' thaw took the heft of it off the ground--you'd 'a' never got in this fur if it hadn't--an' we're bound to hev another big fall. it ain't fur to the road, an' i guess you an' zebedee better start. lemme see you walk, sissy." 'tilda jane tottered back to her seat. "it's a smart trot home," observed zebedee. "d'ye think she could foot it?" "pop, it's snowin' now," said joe, who had taken his father's place at the window. with almost incredible rapidity there had been a change in the weather. a small and sullen cloud had hidden the dreamy, thoughtful sun, and out of the cloud came wheeling, choking gusts, bearing bewildered snowflakes up and down, hither and thither, before allowing them to alight turbulently upon the quiet earth. "that's quick," muttered lucas, philosophically. "we'll hev to put off opinions till it's over," and he again sat down by the fire. the wind tore around the small cabin, furiously seeking an entrance, but finding none. outside at least he could have his will, and his vengeance fell upon the sturdy young firs and spruces, who at his fierce word of command threw off their burdens of snow, and bent and swayed before his wrath as wildly as the most graceful hardwood saplings. the older trees bent more reluctantly. they had seen many winters, many storms, yet occasionally a groan burst from them as the raging breath of the wind monster blew around some decaying giant and hurled him to the ground. 'tilda jane pictured the scene without, and cowered closer to the fire. gippie was on her lap, poacher beside her, and this man with his two boys, who at present personified her best friends in the world, were safe and warm in their shelter. her dark face cleared, and in dreamy content she listened to the string of hunting stories reeled off by the two boys, who, without addressing her directly, were evidently stimulated by the knowledge that here was an interested, appreciative, and "brand new" listener. chapter xi. a sudden resolution. the storm did not abate. all day long it raged around the cabin, and the four prisoners talked, ate, and drank without grumbling at their captivity. when bedtime approached, lucas addressed 'tilda jane in an apologetic manner. "ye see we ain't used to havin' leetle gals, an' i'm afeard we can't make you very comfy, as my ole woman says, but we'll do the best we kin. this room's all we've got, but i'm goin' to try to make it two. see here," and rising, he went to one of the rough bunks built against the wall opposite the fire; "i'm a-goin' to drape ye off a place for yourself and dog," and, hanging a blanket on a hook by the fireplace, he called loudly for a nail to drive in the logs across the corner. the two boys, who were playing cards at the table, jumped up, and presently 'tilda jane had a snug corner to herself. lucas had dragged out one of the fragrant fir beds from one of the bunks. the rustling of the evergreen inside reminded her of her narrow straw bed at the orphanage, and drawing the blanket over her, she nestled down and patiently waited for her friends to seek their equally fragrant couches. she was very sleepy, but she must not drop off until she had said her prayers. it never occurred to her to repeat them to herself. she must get up and say them aloud, and upon her knees. after some time there was silence outside her screen, except for the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and the slow, deliberate crackling of the fire over the fresh wood heaped upon it by lucas. she crept quietly from her bed and knelt down. "dear father in heaven, i thank thee for saving my life. i might 'a' been dead at this minute if thou hadst not sent that good dog to find me. please make me a better girl for being saved. i'll take good care o' that old man if thou wilt let me find him. bless the red-haired man that owns this cabin. i guess he is a good man, lord, but if he kills deer, wilt thou not lay on his heart a coal from thy altar? if he was a deer, he would not like to be killed. bless him, dear father in heaven, an' his two boys, an' bless me an' gippie an' poacher an' keep us safe for evermore,--an' bless the lady-boards, an' the matron, an' all the little orphans, an' let them find good homes an' get out o' the 'sylum,--lord, i will write them a letter as soon as i get settled, an' confess what is wickedness, an' what ain't. i don't want to be a bad little girl. i want to live straight, an' go to heaven when i die, but i'm sorry i had to begin in a 'sylum. it ain't a place for children what likes animiles. for jesus' sake, amen." with a relieved sigh, 'tilda jane crept back to bed and went to sleep, quite unaware that her petition had awakened lucas, who slept as lightly as a cat. she had waked him, and now he could not go to sleep. for a long time he lay motionless in his bunk, then softly getting up, he seated himself on one of the boxes before the fire, and let his head sink on his hands. years ago he had had a deeply religious mother. one who would rise at dead of night and pray earnestly for her children. 'tilda jane's childish prayer had brought back this mother from her grave. what a good woman she had been! the dying wind, sobbing and sighing without, called to mind the camp-meetings that he used to attend when he was a boy. churches were few and far between, and it was the event of the year for the scattered religious people to gather together under the pines for out-of-door services. he could hear the women singing now,--the weird sound of their voices floated down the chimney. surely he was among them again,--that good, religious crowd. he shook himself, muttered an impatient exclamation, and went back to bed. no, they were mostly dead, his mother was in heaven, and he was a hard, impenitent man. but his children--something ought to be done about them. this little girl had stirred these old memories--zebedee and joe must quit this life, and, with a snarl of determination on his brow, he turned over and fell into a profound and resolved slumber. early the next morning 'tilda jane heard some one stirring quietly about the cabin. she peeped from behind the screen, and found that it was the father of the boys. he was making coffee, and taking dishes from a shelf to set them on the small table. he was also frying meat. 'tilda jane did not like to venture out until the boys had made their toilet, which they presently did by springing from their beds, drawing on their boots, and smoothing their thick locks with a piece of comb that reposed on a small shelf near a broken looking-glass. when they had finished, she piped through the screen, "will you please gimme a lend o' the comb?" it was politely handed to her, and in a short time she made her appearance. "ho--deer's meat!" said joe, sniffing joyfully. "where'd you get it, pop?" "found half a carcass leanin' agin the door this mornin'," he said, briefly. "some o' the boys must 'a' left it on their way out," remarked zebedee. "hard blow to travel in. gimme some, pop." lucas had settled himself at the table, and was eating with every appearance of enjoyment. "nop," he said, pausing, and speaking with his mouth full. "that thar is for you an' the leetle gal." the boys stared at him in undisguised astonishment. "fall to," he said, inexorably, "eat your bacon and beans, an' be thankful you've got 'em. there's many an empty stummick in the woods this mornin'." joe, who was readier of speech than his brother, found his tongue first. "ain't you goin' to give us any fresh meat, pop?" "no, sir-r-r." "you ain't got loony in the night, pop?" "y' don't calklate to eat half a carcass y'rself, do ye?" said zebedee, with a feeble attempt at a joke. "nop--what i don't eat, i'll lug off in the woods." "he's loony," said joe, with resignation, and serving himself with bacon. 'tilda jane was silently eating bread and beans, and to her lucas addressed himself. "leetle gal, the storm's a-goin' to conclude accordin' to my reckonin'. kin you foot it out on snow-shoes this mornin' to the nearest house, do you s'pose?" "yes, sir," she said, quietly. "an' you two boys will keep her comp'ny," said lucas, turning to his sons. "i'm a-goin' to march on to morse's camp." there was a howl of dismay from joe. "you give me your word zebedee was to go." "an' i give you my word now that you're to go," said his father, sternly. "in an hour i'll make tracks. you two wait till the last flake's settled, then take the leetle gal an' git her out safe an' sound to william mercer's. ask him to hitch up an' take her over to nicatoos station, an' i'll settle with him. then you skedaddle for home, git out your books, an' to-morrer go to school." this time there was a simultaneous howl from the boys, and in the midst of their distress could be heard faintly articulated the words, "pop--books--school!" lucas turned to 'tilda jane. "yes, we're poachers, leetle gal, an' when i ask ye to say nothin' about what ye've seen an' heard here, i know ye'll keep as mum as we do. i'm a poacher, an' i'm goin' to hev a hard time to give it up. they used to call me king o' the poachers, till another feller come along smarter nor i was. anyway, i can't give it up yet. it's in my blood now, an' men as ole as i be don't repent easy. it's when ye're young an' squshy that you repents. but these two cubs o' mine," and he eyed his boys with determination, "has got to give up evil ways right off. ye've got to go to school, sons, an' learn somethin', an' quit poachin', an' hevin' the law hangin' over ye all the time." the boys looked ugly and rebellious, and, perceiving it, he went on. "come now, none o' that; when ye're respectable, hard-workin' men ye'll be ashamed o' your father, an' that'll be my punishment if i don't get out o' this. an' you needn't kick, 'cause i'll lick ye all to splinters if i ketches one o' you in the woods this spring. ye've got to turn right round." "i'll turn right round an' come back," said zebedee, bitterly and furiously. lucas got up, took him by the coat collar, and, without a word, led him outside the cabin. a few minutes later they returned--both flushed--lucas grim and determined, and zebedee sulky and conquered. "air you also cravin' for an argyment?" asked lucas, ironically, of joe. "i'm cravin' to lick you," said the boy, bursting out into a wild raving and swearing at him. "swearin' when there is ladies present," said his father, seizing him by the shoulder, and dragging him the way his brother had gone. 'tilda jane stopped eating, and sat miserably with downcast eyes. she felt dimly that she had made trouble in this family, and brought additional misfortune upon herself, for what kind of escorts would these whipped boys be? lucas's tussle with joe was a longer one than the former with zebedee had been, and not until after some time did he return. joe hung about outside for an hour, then he came in, shaking and stamping the snow from him, and, as if nothing had happened, sat down and finished his breakfast. lucas, meanwhile, had been making preparations for his long tramp. 'tilda jane watched him with interest as he took a sack, tied a potato in each corner, and proceeded to fill it with parcels of provisions. when at last he sat down, took off his cow-hide moccasins, and began to tie on soft moose moccasins, fit for snow-shoeing, he addressed his two boys. "when parients tell their children things air to be did, they ought to be did. when the children raves an' tears, they ought to be licked, an' when the lickin's over, the reasons come. air you sighin' either o' ye to see the inside o' state's prison? air you, zebedee?" "no, sir," said the boy, shortly. "air you, joe?" joe, with his mouth full of beans, replied that he was not. "wal, that's where you'll land if ye don't quit breakin' state's law. ye ain't either o' ye as clever as i be, but i've got to try to give it up, too. i've bin feelin' that ye'd git caught some day, and i've made up my mind, an' i'll hold it to my dyin' day. i'm goin' to crowd ye out o' this risky game. if i ketch one o' you after deer agin, i'll give ye up to the warden myself. i swan i will," and he brought his hand down energetically on the table. "now you go home an' go to school with smart boys an' gals till summer vacation, then ye can tell me what ye think of it. i'll not pretend i'll let ye out of it if ye don't like it, but i guess ye will. ye've bin to school before an' made good progress, an' i asks yer pardon for takin' ye out." zebedee listened in quiet resentfulness, but joe, who possessed a more volatile disposition, and who having satisfied his hunger was comparatively good-natured, remarked, "what'll ye do about poacher, pop?" lucas's face darkened suddenly, and unhappily. "come here, ole boy," he said, and when the dog went to him, he bowed his head for a minute over him. "we've bin good friends--me an' you. many's the trap i've led ye in, an' many a time my heart would 'a' bin sore if ye'd a bin caught. an' now, 'count o' my transgression, ye're a wanderin' sheep. ye'll never git back in the fold agin unless some good sheep leads ye." "there's somethin' you can't make over," said zebedee, briefly. "he'll chase deer as long as he kin wag a leg." "leetle gal," said lucas, suddenly, "would ye like to hev this dog?" "to have him--that beauty dog!" 'tilda jane gasped, confusedly. "oh, sir, you'd never give him away." "i'd most as soon give a child away," said lucas, "an' i'd never do it, if it warn't for his habits. ye're a-goin' to ciscasset, which is somethin' of a place, an' a ways from the woods. an' ye'll pet him an' kinder cherish him, an' keep him from frettin' an' bein' lonely. my ole woman don't set much store by dogs, an' when i'm workin' in the tannery he's off doggin' deer by himself. he's nearly got shot dead. see those ripples in his back? that's where he's bin grazed. poacher, ole boy, you've got to go with this leetle gal, if she'll hev you." 'tilda jane hesitated, stammered, looked into the dog's anxious face, and the boys' protesting ones, and said at last, "but the ole man where i'm goin', mebbe he'll breach at my havin' two dogs." "prob'bly he will," said lucas, "but you crowd right up to him. folks is queer 'bout dogs. them as don't like 'em don't want to give 'em standin' room on this airth, but you walk right up to 'em an' say, 'this dog has as good a right to a place on god's footstool as you hev, an' i'm goin' to see he gits it. if you was more like a dog yerself, ye'd be more thought of, ye cross-grained, cranky ole skillingsby'--come you, sons, quit that scowlin'. do ye know why i'm givin' that dog to the little gal stid o' you?" they uttered a brief negative. "'cause she knows dog language," said lucas, dropping his voice to a whisper, and looking mysteriously over his shoulder, "an' if there was a deer here, you'd find she knowed deer talk. you, sons, is fond o' dogs, but not in the style the leetle gal is, or i be. it's a kind o' smartness at gettin' inside the animal's skin. he don't verily talk. ye jist understan' him without talk--leetle gal, what's poacher sayin' now?" "oh, he don't want to go with me," burst out 'tilda jane, with energy. "he's a sick dog. look at his eyes an' his droopin' ears. he don't want you to give him away. he don't want me to take him. oh, i can't!" and she buried her face in her hands as if to hide temptation from her. "he's got to go," said lucas, stroking poacher's head, "an' mind me, dog," and he put his hand under the dog's jaws and lifted them so that he could look in his eyes, "no runnin' away from ciscasset. ye stay with that leetle gal. don't ye come chasin' round here, 'cause if ye do, i'll turn my back on ye for a runaway, an' ye'll feel worse'n ye do now when we part on speakin' terms. say, is it a bargain, ole feller? call him, leetle gal." 'tilda jane was overawed by lucas's determined manner, and dropping her hands she ejaculated feebly, "here, poacher, poacher!" the dog looked at her, then pressed closer to his master, whereupon lucas seized a stick by the fireplace, and struck him sharply. poacher turned his large brown eyes on him in one despairing, reproachful glance, then with drooping head sauntered across the room to the boys. "call him," said lucas to 'tilda jane. "speak up as if ye knew he was your dog." "poacher," she said, in a firm voice, "come here. you're mos' as unhappy as i be--we'll be unhappy together." the suffering animal moved slowly toward her, and laid his head on her lap. there were tears in his eyes, and the little girl groaned as she wiped them away. chapter xii. farewell to the poachers. lucas was ready to start, and 'tilda jane and the boys stood in the doorway watching him tie on his snow-shoes. "now, sons," he said, straightening himself up and drawing on his woollen mittens, "i'm goin' one way an' you another, but if ye act contrairy an' pouty to that leetle gal, i'll know it, for she's goin' to write me, an' if there's any complaint, there'll be such a wallopin' as these ones this mornin' would be a shadder an' a dream to." his lecture over, he looked over his shoulder and narrowly inspected the faces of his two boys. they were reserved, almost expressionless. it might be a month before he saw them again. he forgot 'tilda jane for an instant, "sons--ye know yer pop loves ye, don't ye?" his tone had suddenly changed, and the two big boys ran to him as if they still were children. "pop, can't we come back after we take her out?" they exclaimed, with backward jerks of their heads toward 'tilda jane. their hands were on his arms, and they were roughly fondling his shoulders--these two unmannerly cubs of his. "sons," he said, in a broken voice, "i ain't been a good father to ye. i've got to spend the last o' my life in rootin' up the weeds i sowed the fust part. i don't want you to have such a crop. now you go 'long out an' be good sons. your mother'll be sot up, an' you mind what she says, an' i'll soon come home. take good care o' the leetle gal," and passing his hand, first over one brown head, then over the other, he tramped away out of view among the snowy spruces. the boys and 'tilda jane went back into the cabin. the two former sat together by the fire and talked, taking little notice of her. all their friendliness of the evening before was gone, yet they were not openly unkind, but simply neglectful. toward noon the snow ceased falling, as lucas had predicted, the sun came out brilliantly, and they began making preparations for departure. zebedee was to wear an old pair of snow-shoes that had been left in the cabin, and 'tilda jane was to put on his new ones. her humility and unselfishness slightly thawed the boys' reserve, and when they at last started, her ridiculous attempts at snow-shoeing threw them into fits of laughter. zebedee carried the infirm gippie, who otherwise would have sunk to his neck in the snow, poacher soberly plunged his way along, while joe assisted 'tilda jane in keeping her equilibrium. after an hour's travel, she had become quite expert in the art of taking wide steps, and no longer needed his helping hand. "air we mos' there?" she asked. "in the span of another hour and a half," said joe. the hour and a half went by. they tramped on under the serene blue of the sky, and in such a solemn stillness that it seemed as if never a bird nor beast could have inhabited this white wilderness. only the voiceless, silent trees were there, clad all in white like ghosts of departed living things. but at last their winding way through the wood came to an end, and they stepped out on the old road. here were evidences of travel. a few teams had passed by, and there were snow-shoe tracks alongside those of the sleigh runners. the trees also grew more sparsely, and soon gave place to clearings, then the distant roof of a barn appeared, and finally a long, thin string of small farmhouses winding down a bleak road before them. "is this your home?" asked 'tilda jane, of the boys. "nop," answered joe, "we live off'n that way," and he pointed down a road to the left. "but we've got to take you here to the mercers', pop said." he drew up before the first in the string of houses,--a poor enough place, and unspeakably chilling in its deathly whiteness. a tiny white house, a white barn, a white fence, a white cow in the yard,--white snow over everything. "looks as if they'd all died an' gone to heaven," thought 'tilda jane, with a shiver. "hole on," said joe. "i'll run ahead an' see if the folks is home. ain't no smoke cornin' out o' the chimney." he swung open the gate, hurried in, pounded at the front door, pounded at the back door, and finally returned. "guess there mus' be a funeral or somethin'--all off, anyway. what'll we do, zeb?" zebedee shrugged his shoulders. "s'pose we go nex' door?" "but them's the folcutts," objected joe. "s'pose they be." "well, you know--" "guess they kin drive as well as mercer's folks." "what would pop say?" "it's nearer than the nex' house." "i'm kind o' tired," said 'tilda jane, politely and faintly. "just drop me, an' you go back. i'll find some one." "nop," said joe, firmly, "we promised pop." "come on," said zebedee, "let's try the folcutts." they went slowly on to the next blot on the landscape,--this one, a low-roofed, red house with untidy windows, and a feeble, wavering line of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. they all went around to the back door, and, in response to their knock a slatternly woman appeared. "what you want, boys?" "pop says will you take this gal to nicatoos station?" asked joe. "he'll square up with you when he comes out." the woman looked 'tilda jane all over. "the roads is main heavy." 'tilda jane leaned up against the door-post, and the woman relented. "i guess it won't kill our hoss," she remarked. "is it the seven o'clocker you want?" 'tilda jane appealed to the boys. "yes, m'am," responded joe, promptly. "needn't start for an hour yit. come on in, boys." "i guess we'll be goin' on home," said zebedee. joe, for some reason or other, seemed reluctant to leave 'tilda jane. he carefully lifted gippie to a resting-place by the kitchen stove, untied 'tilda jane's snow-shoes and strapped them on his back, stroked poacher repeatedly, and finally with a hearty "so long, little gal, let's hear from you," he made her an awkward bob of his head and ran after his brother, who had reached the road. 'tilda jane drew up to the stove, and, while she sat drying her dress, looked about her. what a dirty kitchen! the log cabin she had just left was neatness itself compared with this place. pots and pans were heaped in a corner of the room, the table was littered with soiled dishes, the woman herself was unkempt, frowsy, and dispirited in appearance. she was also cunning, for, while she seized a broom and stirred about the accumulation of dust on the floor, she inspected the little girl with curious, furtive glances. "you bin stoppin' with the lucases?" she asked, at last. she had opened the door, and while she looked one way she carelessly tried to sweep in another way the pile of rubbish she had collected. "yes, m'am," said 'tilda jane, wearily. "how's mis' lucas?" 'tilda jane paused to gaze out the open door. why did not the woman shut it? and why, when it was so pure and clean without, did she not feel ashamed to keep so dull and untidy a house? if it were summer-time, and the ground were brown and green, this dun-coloured room would not be so bad, but now--the contrast made her sick. "how's mis' lucas?" repeated her hostess, in a dull voice. "i don't know," replied 'tilda jane. mrs. folcutt poised herself on her broom and with rustic deliberation weighed the statement just made. then she said, "she ain't gone away?" "i dunno," said 'tilda jane, "i never see her in my life." here was a puzzle, and mrs. folcutt pondered over it in silence, until the draught of chilly air made her remember to close the door. "are we to start soon?" inquired 'tilda jane, after a time. "i ain't a-goin' to take you," said her hostess, unamiably, "it's uzziah--uzziah!" and she went to an open stairway leading from the kitchen. "what cher want?" came back, in an impatient tone. "you're wanted. passenger for the station." a boy speedily appeared. 'tilda jane was not prepossessed in his favour as he came lumbering down the staircase, and she was still less so when he stood before her. he had his mother's sharp face, lean head, and cunning eyes, and he was so alarmingly dirty that she found herself wondering whether he had ever touched water to his face and hands since the winter began. "go hitch up an' take this gal to the station," said his mother, in feeble command. he stood scrutinising 'tilda jane. "who fur?" "bob lucas." "how much'll he gimme?" "i dunno. he'll pay when he comes out." "s'pose the warden ketches him?" "he ain't bin ketched yit." "he's goin' to--so they say at the post-office." "i've got fifty cents," said 'tilda jane, with dignity. "here it is," and she laid it on the table. the youthful fox snatched at it, and grinned at his mother as he pocketed it. "say--that ain't fair," remarked 'tilda jane. "you ain't kerried me yet." "she's right," said the more mature fox. "give it back, uzzy." uzziah unwillingly restored the coin to 'tilda jane. "now go hitch up," said his mother. he sidled out of the room and disappeared, and mrs. folcutt's covetous eye wandered over 'tilda jane's wearing apparel. "say, sissy, that's a pooty fair shawl you took off'n your dog. i always favour stripes." "so do i," replied 'tilda jane, and, with a premonition of what was coming, she turned her head and gazed out the window. "i guess you might as well square up with us," said the slatternly woman, seating herself near her caller and speaking in' persuasive accents, "and then you'll not hev to be beholden to bob lucas. it's jus' as well for a nice little gal like you to hev no dealin's with them lucases." "that shawl ain't mine," said 'tilda jane, sharply. this statement did not seem worth challenging by the woman, for she went on in the same wheedling voice, "you'll not hev no call for it on the cars. i kin lend you somethin' for the dog to ride down in. it's too good for wrappin' him," and she gazed contemptuously at gippie. 'tilda jane drew in her wandering gaze from the window, and fixed it desperately on poacher, who was lying under the stove winking sadly but amiably at her. was no one perfect? lucas hunted deer, this good dog helped him, his boys were naughty, this woman was a sloven and a kind of thief, her boy was a rogue, and she herself--'tilda jane was a little runaway girl. "you can have this tippet," she said, sternly. "that shawl's got to be sent back to where it comes from." "oh, you stole it, did ye?" said the woman, with a sneer. "well, i guess we kin hitch up for no thieves," and she got up and moved deliberately toward the door as if she would recall her son. 'tilda jane's nimble fancy ran over possibilities. she had fallen among sharpers, she must be as sharp as they. her offensive manner fell from her. "look here," she said, bluntly, "i ain't got one mite o' money but that fifty-cent piece. if your boy'll drive me to nicatoos right off, i'll give him that as i said, an' i'll send back the shawl by him. but if you don't want to do it, speak right up, an' i'll move on to the next house, and," she continued boldly as she saw consent on the cunning face, "you've got to give me somethin' to eat an' drink with it, 'cause i've got two dogs to take care of, an' i don't want to get to ciscasset and tumble over from bein' fainty." mrs. folcutt's gray face became illumined by a silly smile. there was not a shawl like that in the settlement, and bustling to her feet, she stroked it and felt it with admiring fingers, until admonished by 'tilda jane that time was passing, and if she was going to get her anything to eat she had better be quick about it. the little girl almost choked over the sloppy tea from the venerable teapot, the shady bread and butter, and the composite dish of preserves set before her, yet resolutely shutting her eyes she ate and drank, and forced gippie to do the same. poacher would touch nothing. "don't ye know them huntin' dogs eats only once a day?" said mrs. folcutt, contemptuously. chapter xiii. an attempted trick. "how fur are we from nicatoos?" inquired 'tilda jane of her charioteer one hour later. "a matter of a mile," he replied, beating his disengaged hand upon his knees. he was sulky and cold, and 'tilda jane averted her glance from him to his small brown nag, who was trotting along as cheerfully as if there were a reward at the end of the drive for him. he was a curious little horse. surely there never before was one with such a heavy coat of hair. he looked like a wild animal, and with gladness of heart she noted his fat sides. the folcutts might be mean and untidy, but they certainly were good to this faithful friend, and her mind went off in puzzled reflection. she was pursuing the same line of thought of an hour before. no one was perfect, yet no one was wholly bad. there was good in everybody and everything. poacher was a bad dog in some respects, and she cast a glance at him as he came trotting sleek and thoughtful behind the sleigh, but what a noble character he was in other respects! gippie was a crank, and she pressed closer the small animal beside her, but he had his good points, and he was certainly a great comfort to her. her heart was much lighter now that she was drawing nearer to the train that was to take her to ciscasset, and in raising her little, weary head gratefully to the sky, she noted in quick and acute appreciation an unusually beautiful sunset. the colours were subdued--the sky was as hard and as cold as steel, but how clear, how brilliantly clear and calm! she would have fine weather for her arrival in her new home. she was glad that she was not to stay here. she felt herself quite a travelled orphan now, and somewhat disdainfully classed this rough settlement as "back-woodsy." the houses were uninviting and far apart, the roads and yards were desolate. the men were in the woods, the women and children were inside huddling around the fires. middle marsden was a quiet place, but it had not seemed as much out of the world as this. she hoped ciscasset would be cheerful. her travels had given her a liking for meeting new faces, and for enjoying some slight excitement. not as much as she had had during the last few days--no, not as much as that. it was too trying for her, and she smiled faintly as she called up her last vision of her little careworn face in the cracked looking-glass in the log cabin. "what's the matter?" she asked, abruptly. the sleigh had come to a sudden standstill, and the boy was holding the lines in dogged silence. "why don't you drive on?" she asked. "now you jus' looky here," he replied, in a rough and bullying tone. "i ain't a-goin' one step furder. i'm mos' froze, an' the station's right ahead. you foller yer nose a spell, an' you'll git thar. gimme the shawl an' the fifty cents, an' git out." for one moment 'tilda jane sat in blank amazement. then she looked from his dirty, obstinate face to the plump pony. the latter showed no signs of fatigue. he could go for miles yet. if he had made a plea for the harness, she would not have so much wondered, for it was patched and mended with rope in a dozen places. then her blood slowly reached boiling-point. she had stood a good deal from these folcutts. the shawl was worth five dollars. that she knew, for she remembered hearing the matron tell how much it had cost her. she had overpaid them for this drive, and she was not prepared to flounder on through the snow and perhaps miss her train. her mind, fertile in resources, speedily hit upon something. she must get this bully out of the sleigh, and she fixed him with a glance more determined than his own. he had on a rough homespun suit of clothes, and a home-made cap to match it. this cap was pulled tightly over his ears, but it was not on tight enough to resist 'tilda jane's quick and angry fingers. plucking it off, she threw it over a snake fence into a snow-bank, saying at the same time, "if you're goin' to turn me out, i'll turn you out first." the boy was furious, but the cold wind smote his head, and, postponing retaliation, he sprang first for his cap, shouting warningly, however, as he swung his leg over the fence, "i'll make you pay up for this, you--" 'tilda jane neither heard nor cared for the offensive epithet applied to her. with feet firmly braced, both hands grasping the lines, gippie beside her, and poacher racing behind, she was sweeping down the road. she had never driven a horse before in her life, but she adored new experiences, and she had carefully watched every motion of the young lout beside her. he could scarcely believe his eyes. he gaped speechless for a few minutes, for the sound of the sleigh-bells had made him turn sharply as he was picking up his cap. then he restored the covering to his head, ran to the fence, and bawled, helplessly, "stop thar--stop! stop!" 'tilda jane was skimming gaily around a turn in the road toward the sunset. he thought he heard a jeering laugh from her, but he was mistaken. having got what she wanted, she was going obliviously on her way. the boy had been an obstacle, and she had brushed him aside. [illustration: "'stop thar--stop! stop!'"] with his slower brain he was forced to pause and deliberate. had she stolen their rig? stupid as he was, the conviction forced itself upon him that she had not. she could not take the rig on the train, anyway, and plucking up courage, and shivering in the cold that had seized upon him during his deliberations, he meditatively and angrily began to plod over the route that he had recommended to her. three-quarters of an hour later, he drew into the station yard. the train had come and gone, and his eager eyes went to the pony tied safe and sound under the shed, with not only the lap-robe over his back, but also the striped shawl--the first and last time that he would have the pleasure of wearing it. at the sound of the bells when he turned the sleigh, the telegraph operator came to the station door. "here's fifty cents for you, left by a black-eyed girl." without a "thank you," the boy held out his hand. "i guess you don't like that black-eyed girl much," said the young man, teasingly. "she's a--" and the boy broke into an oath. "shut up!" said the young man, with a darkening face. then with some curiosity he went on, "what did she do to make you talk like that?" "spilt me out," replied the boy, with another volley of bad language. "you young hound," said the man, witheringly, "if she spilt you out, i'll bet you deserved it. i'll not touch your dirty hand. if you want your money, go find it," and throwing the fifty cents in a snow-drift, he went back into the warm station and slammed the door behind him. uzziah's troubles were not over, and he had still to learn that the way of the transgressor is a tiresome one. he fumbled desperately in the snow, for he wanted fifty cents above all things in the world just then, but he was destined not to find it; and at last, cold, weary, and yet with all his faults not inclined to wreak his wrath on the pony who stood patiently watching him, he threw himself into the sleigh and sped gloomily homeward. his mother had the shawl, but he had nothing for his trouble, for he counted as nothing and worse than nothing his experience of the maxim that one sly trick inspires another. chapter xiv. home, sweet home. 'tilda jane was in a quandary. she had boarded the train for ciscasset, she sat up very straight and apparently very composed--her outward demeanour gave not a hint of the turmoil within. in reality she was full of trouble. she had not a cent of money in her pocket, and her new familiarity with the workings of the maine central railway assured her that it did not carry passengers for nothing. what was she to do? she pulled the little tippet more closely around gippie's shoulders. she had taken it from her own, for it was absolutely necessary for him to have another covering now that the shawl was gone. perhaps he would be taken away from her. she had noticed that it was not a customary thing for people to travel with dogs. his head and tail were plainly visible--this tippet was not like the voluminous shawl. lucas had not offered her money, and she had not liked to ask him for it. perhaps he had not thought about it. perhaps if he did think of it, he supposed that he was doing enough to get her to nicatoos--and there was the conductor entering the other end of the car. she must do something, and deliberately rising from her seat, she slipped gippie under her arm, and made her way out to the platform of the fast moving train. it was quite dark now. she gave one side glance at the white, silent country they were passing through, then stepped into the lighted car ahead. "this is a smoking-car, young girl," observed some one, haughtily. 'tilda jane had dropped into the first seat she came to, which happened to be beside a very stout and very dignified gentleman who had a cigar in his mouth, and who was reading a newspaper. she looked round, saw that there were a number of men in the car--no women, no children, and that the atmosphere was a hazy blue. "smoke don't bother me," she said, almost scornfully. what was a breath of smoke compared with her inward discomposure over her pecuniary difficulties? "i'm in a little trouble," she said, brusquely, "i ain't got money to buy a ticket." the gentleman gazed at her suspiciously. "i have no money for beggars," he said, and he turned his broad back squarely on her. 'tilda jane, for one so obstinate, was strangely sensitive. with her face in a flame of colour, she rose. had any one else heard the insult? no, not a man in the car was looking her way. "i'm a poor little girl," she breathed over the gentleman's substantial shoulder, "but i'm no beggar. i guess i work as hard as you do. i wanted you to lend me a dollar or so to be sent back in a letter, but i wouldn't take it now--no, not if you crawled after me on your hands an' knees like a dog holdin' it in your mouth," and precipitately leaving him, she sauntered down the aisle. the gentleman turned around, and with an amazed face gazed after her. stay--there she was pausing by the seat in which was his son. should he warn him against the youthful adventuress? no, he was old enough to take care of himself, and he settled back in his corner and devoted himself to his paper. the only person in the last seat in the car was a lad of seventeen or eighteen who was neither reading nor smoking, but lounging across it, while he suppressed innumerable yawns. he was very handsome, and he looked lazy and good-natured, and to him 'tilda jane accordingly addressed herself. she had hesitated, after the rebuff she had received, to apply to any of those other men with their resolved, middle-aged or elderly faces. this lad she was not at all afraid of, and resting gippie on the arm of his seat, she stared admiringly at him. he straightened himself. here was something interesting, and his yawns ceased. "well, miss, what can i do for you?" he inquired, mischievously, as she continued to stare at him without speaking. he would lend her the money, she knew it before she asked him. there was something else in her mind now, and her little sharp eyes were full of tears. "is anything the matter with you?" he asked, politely. she could not answer him for a few seconds, but then she swallowed the lump in her throat and ejaculated, "no, sir, only you are so pretty." "pretty!" he repeated, in bewilderment. "yes," she said in low, passionate, almost resentful tones, "you ain't got no 'casion for those blue eyes an' that yeller hair. i wish i could take 'em away from you. i'd 'a' been 'dopted if i had 'em. i wouldn't be standin' here." "won't you sit down?" he asked, courteously, and with a flattered air. he was very young, and to have a strange child melt into tears at the sight of his handsome face was a compliment calculated to touch even an older heart than his. 'tilda jane, with a heavy sigh, seated herself beside him. "i'm kind o' put out," she said, languidly, "you must s'cuse me." after her interest in him, he could do nothing less than murmur a civil inquiry as to the cause of her concern. "i've been tryin' to borrer money," she replied, "an' i was 'sulted." "to borrow money--then you are short of funds?" "yes, sir," she said, calmly, "i'm a-travellin', but i ain't got no money to pay for me nor for this dog, an' his head an' tail shows this time, an' he'll be nabbed." "where are you going?" asked the lad. "to ciscasset, sir, if i ever get there. i'm beginnin' to think there ain't no such place." "i assure you there is, for i live in it myself." "do you?" she ejaculated, with a flash of interest. "do you know a man by the name of hobart dillson?" "rather--he was my father's bookkeeper for years. we pension him now," he added, grandly, and with a wish to impress. 'tilda jane was not impressed, for she did not know what a pension was. "what kind of a feller is he?" she asked, eagerly. "oh, a sort of tiger--might be in a cage, you know, but we haven't got one big enough." "you mean he gets mad easy?" "never gets un-mad. always stays so. is a regular joke, you know. going to visit him?" "i'm goin' to be his housekeeper," said 'tilda jane, with dignity. the lad cast a rapid and amused glance over her small resolved figure, then taking his handkerchief from his pocket, turned his face to the window, and coughed vigorously. "i can fight, too," she added, after a pause, "but--" slowly, "i sha'n't fight him." the lad did not turn around except to throw her one gleam from the corner of a laughing eye, until she ejaculated uneasily, "there comes the conductor--are you a-goin' to lend me some money?" his face reappeared--quite sober now. "well, young lady, i am not a capitalist, but i think i can raise you a loan. how much do you want--that is, where did you come on?" "i come on at nicatoos, an' i've another dog in the baggage-car." "travelling with two dogs," he murmured, "and short of funds. you have courage!" "i like some animiles better'n some people," observed 'tilda jane, sententiously. "your sentiment does you credit," he replied, gravely, and as the conductor approached, he held out his hand. "i pay for this little girl and her dog in the baggage-car." "that's a fine hound you've got," the conductor observed, civilly, to 'tilda jane. "yes, sir," she replied, meekly. "i hope he ain't scared o' the train." "he don't like it much, but some of the boys have been playing with him. why--" and he drew back in surprise, "you're the obstinate young one i pointed out to the inspector the other day. here--you needn't pay," and he put in her hand the money her new friend had just given him. "there was a great racket about you. you needn't have run away from vanceboro--if you'd spoken the truth, you'd saved yourself and us a lot of trouble. however, i guess they'll be glad to hear you're all right." "i'll be 'bliged if you'll give my respecks to mr. jack," she said, steadily. "i'll do it," said the conductor, "and tell him you've picked up another dog," and with a wink at her companion, he passed on. "accep' my thanks," she said, after a time, handing the loose change in her lap to the lad. "keep it," he replied, generously. "i don't want it." a grim flash like a streak of lightning passed over her dark face, and he added, hastily, "as a loan, of course. you may need money for your dogs. old hobart will begrudge them a bone, i assure you." she thanked him, and thoughtfully tied the money in a corner of her handkerchief. "now if his son were home, he would be different. hank is a rattling, good-natured sort of a fellow. no principle, you know, but not a tiger by any means." "i'll thank you, sir, to keep a stiff tongue when you're talkin' of hank dillson," observed 'tilda jane, severely. "he's done me favours, an' you'd better keep your tongue off his father, too. if you're dyin' to pitch into some one, pitch into that selfish ole tub a-readin' that big paper up there. he turned his back on me when i hinted round him for the loan of a dollar or so." "and i'll thank you to keep a stiff tongue when you speak of that gentleman," said the lad, smartly, "for he's my father." "your father!" echoed 'tilda jane, in astonishment. "yes, ma'am." "did he once have blue eyes an' curly hair?" "i believe so. he's a good-looking man yet." "he's a--" began 'tilda jane, hurriedly, then she stopped short. "law me--i'll never learn to forgive folks before the sun goes down; i'm gettin' wickeder an' wickeder. what's your name, sir? i'll want to send you this money soon's i earn some." "my name is datus waysmith, and my father is the biggest lumber merchant on the ciscasset river." "is he?" she said, wistfully, "an' have you got more family?" "yes, i have a mother as pretty as a picture, and three sisters." "an' you have a nice room with a fire that ain't boxed up, an' you sit round, an' no other folks come in, an' no bells ring for you to get up and do somethin'?" "we have loads of rooms in our house," said the lad, boastfully. "it's the biggest one in ciscasset. you'll soon find out where we live. here we are most in--iceboro next, then home," and he flattened his face against the glass. outside in the dark night, bright lights appeared, danced over the snowy country, then disappeared. the train was running through the outskirts of a prosperous town. "is ciscasset a nice place?" asked 'tilda jane, wistfully. "slowest old place that ever was. i'd like to live in bangor or portland. there's something going on there. we've nothing but a river, and mills, and trees, and hills--not a decent theatre in the place." 'tilda jane did not know what a theatre was, and discreetly held her peace. "i say--here we are!" exclaimed the boy. "i hope mamma will have a good supper." a shadow overspread 'tilda jane's face, and seeing it, the boy said, impulsively, "stop here a minute--i want to speak to papa," and he rushed away. the little girl sat still. they were going more slowly now, and all the men in the car were standing up, putting on coats and warm caps. she had no wrap, but her dress was thick, and hugging gippie closer, she felt that she should not suffer from the cold. the boy was making an animated appeal to his father, who was asking him short, quick questions. at last he gave him a brief, "very well!" and the boy ran back to 'tilda jane. "papa says you can ride with us. i told him you had no one to meet you, and it would be cold comfort wandering about alone to find your way. he used to think a lot of dillson, but you'd better not talk to him." 'tilda jane trailed slowly after her guide through the crowd of people leaving the train, and passing through the lighted stone station to the yard outside. here were drawn up a number of sleighs. the boy led her to the handsomest one. "jump up on the box with jenks," he said in a whisper. "curl down under the rug, and i'll bring dog number two. he'll run behind, won't he?" "i guess so," replied 'tilda jane, with an equally mysterious whisper, and she slipped down under the soft bearskin robe. in two minutes the boy came back, leading poacher by a small rope. "i'll just tie him behind," he said, "to make sure. he's all right--and here's papa." he stood aside, while his dignified parent got into the sleigh. 'tilda jane, from her high seat, looked around once. the lumber merchant and his son were down in a black valley of soft, smothering furs, poacher was running agreeably behind, and gippie was snug and warm in her lap. no one spoke during the drive, and they glided swiftly through the snowy town. 'tilda jane had a confused vision of lighted shops with frosty windows, of houses with more sober illuminations, then suddenly they were stealing along the brink of a long and narrow snow-filled hollow. this was the ciscasset river, still held by its winter covering. she thought she heard a murmur of "rotten ice" behind her as the lumber merchant addressed his son, and she was enough a child of the state to know that a reference to the breaking up of the ice in the river was intended. presently they dashed up a long avenue of leafless, hardwood trees to a big house on the hill. a hall door was thrown open, and within was a glimpse of paradise for the homeless orphan. softly tinted lights in the background illuminated and made angelically beautiful the white dresses and glowing faces of a lady and three little girls who stood on the threshold with outstretched arms. the father and son welcomed to these embraces had forgotten 'tilda jane, and as the sleigh slowly turned and went down the cold avenue, tears streamed silently down her cheeks. "where am i to take you?" suddenly asked the solemn coachman beside her. "to hobart dillson's," she said, in a choking voice. nothing more was said, she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing of her immediate surroundings. she had once been taken to a circus, and the picture now before her mind was that of a tiger pacing back and forth in his cage, growling in a low monotonous tone, always growling, growling at a miserable child shrinking outside. "that there is dillson's cottage, i think," said the coachman at last. 'tilda jane roused herself. through her blurred vision a small house wavered at the end of a snowy path. she wiped her eyes hastily, thanked the man, and, slipping from her high seat, ran behind the sleigh and untied poacher. the man turned his sleigh and glided slowly out of sight. she stood watching him till he disappeared, then, followed by her two dogs went reluctantly up the path. chapter xv. the french family. 'tilda jane stood entranced. this was not the dillson cottage, the coachman had made a mistake. she stood staring in the window, for this was a sight that pleased her above all other sights. here was another family,--a happy family, evidently, all gathered around a cheerful fire in a good-sized living-room. there were an old grandfather in the corner smoking a pipe, an old woman beside him with a white cap on her head, a middle-aged man cleaning a gun by the light of a lamp on the table, a middle-aged woman knitting a stocking, and a cluster of children of all ages about the grandfather, grandmother, father and mother. mingled with the crackling of the open fire was a very gay clatter of tongues speaking in some foreign language, and one boy's voice soared above the rest in the words of a song that 'tilda jane was afterward to learn: "_un canadien errant_, _bannis de son pays_, _parconrait en pleurant_, _un pays étranger._" she gazed at them until the sense of increasing cold checked her rapture, and made her move regretfully toward the door and rap on it. it was immediately opened by a brown-eyed child, and held far back as if she were expected to enter. "can you tell me where mr. hobart dillson lives?" "_ou-ay, ma'mzelle_," murmured the child, bashfully hanging her head. "but enter--it is cold," called the mother, rising and coming forward, stocking in hand. 'tilda jane felt drawn toward this alluring family circle, and one minute later was sitting in a chair on its circumference. "but come in, dawgie," said the mother gently to poacher, who stood hesitating on the threshold. he came in, and was greeted silently and politely by two respectable curs that rose from the hearth-stone for the purpose, then he lay down beside them, and gratefully extended his limbs to the fire. 'tilda jane sat for a minute looking about her without speaking. these people were not staring at her, but they were all stealing occasional curious glances in her direction. "i'm lookin' for hobart dillson's," she said, bluntly, "but i guess there ain't no such person, for the nearer i get the more he seems to run off." the mother of the family smiled, and 'tilda jane gazed in admiration at the soft black eyes under the firm brows. "i can tell you, _mademoiselle_--he is near by, even nex' doah." "oh!" murmured 'tilda jane, then she fell into meditation. these people were foreigners, poor, too, evidently, though perfectly neat and clean. she wondered how they got into the country. "you air emigrants?" she said, at last, inquiringly. "french," said the woman, "'cajien french--sent from our country long ago. our people went back. we returned to earn a little money. too many people where we lived." "did you come through vanceboro?" asked 'tilda jane. the woman's liquid eyes appealed to her husband. he shrugged his shoulders, looked down the barrel of his gun, and said, "it is a long time ago we come. i do not know." "mebbe they weren't so partickler," observed 'tilda jane. "let um do!" came in a sepulchral voice from the fireplace. 'tilda jane stared at the old grandfather, who had taken his pipe from his mouth to utter the phrase, and was now putting it back. the house-mother addressed her. "do not fear, _mademoiselle_; it is the only english he knows. he means 'all right, do not anxious yourself, be calm, very calm.'" "does he?" murmured 'tilda jane; then she added, unwillingly, "i must be going." "delay youself yet a leetle," urged the woman, and her pitying eyes ran over the girl's drooping figure. "the children go to make corn hot. marie--" and a stream of foreign syllables trickled and gurgled from her lips, delighting and fascinating her caller. a little maid danced from the fireplace to one of the tiny pigeon-hole rooms opening from the large one, and presently came back with a bag of corn and a popper. "and a glass of milk for _mademoiselle_," said the woman to another child. 'tilda jane was presently sipping her milk, eating a piece of dark brown bread, and gazing dreamily at the fire. why could she not linger in this pleasant home. "you know mr. dillson?" she said, rousing herself with an effort, and turning to her hostess. "but yes--we have lived nex' him for so many yeahs." "do you think i can keep house for him?" asked 'tilda jane, wistfully. [illustration: "'you are young for that, _mademoiselle_, yet--'"] the woman hesitated, laid her knitting on her lap, and thoughtfully smoothed her tweed dress. "you are young for that, _mademoiselle_, yet--" and she scrutinised 'tilda jane's dark, composed, almost severe face--"if a girl could do it, i should think yes--you can. he is seeck, poor man. he walks not well at all. it makes him--" "like the evil one," muttered her husband, clutching his gun more tightly; "if he was a crow, i would shoot." "let um do!" came in guttural tones from grandfather's corner. the woman laughed merrily, and all anxiety faded from her face. "hark to _gran'père_--it makes me feel good, so good. no one can make us feel bad if we feel not bad ourselves. deelson is seeck. he is not hap-py. let us not be seeck, too. let us be hap-py. _allons mes enfants, est-ce que le_--" and then followed more smooth syllables that 'tilda jane did not understand. she soon saw, however, that an order had been given to butter and salt the corn, and presently she was shyly but sweetly offered some by the french children. even poacher and gippie had some kernels laid before them, and in the midst of her concern as to mr. dillson's behaviour, her heart swelled with gratitude to think that she should have such good neighbours. here all was gentleness and peace. she had never seen so kind a woman, such amiable children. did they ever quarrel and slap each other, she wondered. "it's getting late, ain't it?" she exclaimed at last, with uneasiness. "i must go," and she rose quickly. "but you can stay all night if you desiah," said the woman, motioning toward the pigeon-holes. "stay, and go nex' doah in the morning." "no, no, i must not," said 'tilda jane very hastily, through fear that she might yield to so pleasant a temptation. "but can i drop in an' see you by spells?" "but yes, yes--certainly, come often," said the woman. "come at any hour," she said under her breath, and seizing 'tilda jane's hand in her own, "if it is not agreeable there, at any time run here." "i'm 'bliged to you," said tilda jane, gratefully, "much 'bliged, an' if you want any floors scrubbed, or anythin' done, jus' you run over an' get me. i'll come--" and with a sturdy nod of her head, she took her dogs, and slipped out into the darkness. "if agreeable leave your dogs here till mornin'," called the woman after her. the little girl shook her head. "i guess he'd better see 'em right off. good-night, an' thank you." the woman clasped her hands, and, looking up at the sky before she went into the house, murmured in her own language, "holy one, guard her from that terrible rage!" chapter xvi. the tiger in his lair. the next house to that of the french people was larger and more pretentious than theirs. it had more of a garden, there were two stories instead of one, and the roof was surmounted by a tiny tower. the outside of the tiger's den was highly satisfactory, and 'tilda jane smiled in weary stoical humour. now to find the particular corner in which the tiger himself abode. the house was dark, except for one feeble glimmer of light on the ground floor. she had rapped at the front door, she had rapped at the back door without getting any response, and now she returned to the latter to see if perchance it had been left unfastened. it had, and lifting the latch cautiously, she went in. she knew mr. dillson was an old man, she knew he was lame, and possibly he heard her, but could not come to her rescue. passing through a small porch where she stumbled against some heaped up pans, she turned the first door-knob she touched in passing her hand around the dark wall. she found herself in a kitchen. the table in the middle of the floor, the chairs, the dresser, were all illumined by a feeble, dying glow in a small cooking stove, and by the beams of a candle struggling through an open door. poacher and gippie crept after her as she proceeded slowly in the direction of this light. they felt that there was something mysterious afoot. 'tilda jane paused at the bedroom door. here was the lair of the tiger, and there was the tiger himself,--an old man with white hair, red eyes, and a night-cap. a candle was on a shelf by the head of the bed, and a pair of crutches was within reaching distance, and the old man was lifting his head from the pillow in astonishment. 'tilda jane could not help laughing aloud in her relief. this was not a very dangerous looking person. he seemed more amazed than vexed, and she laughed again as she noted his clutch of the bed-clothes, and the queer poise of his white head. "'scuse me, sir," she said, humbly, "for comin' this time o' night, but i thought you'd like me to report first thing. i hope you've heard from your son i was comin'?" the old man said nothing. he was still open-mouthed and dumb, but something in his face assured 'tilda jane that he had heard--he had received some news of her, apart from the telegram sent by mr. jack. "i've had lots o' speriences," she said, with a tired gesture. "i'll tell 'em some other time. i jus' wanted to 'nounce my 'rival, an' tell you i'm goin' to wait on you good--i guess i'll go to bed, if you'll tell me where to get a candle, an' where i'm to sleep." he would tell her nothing. he simply lay and glared at her, and by no means disposed to seek a quarrel with him, she made her way back to the kitchen, opened the stove door, and, lighting a piece of paper, searched the room until she found the closet where the candles were kept. the old man lay motionless in his bed. he heard her searching, heard the dogs pattering after her, and a violent perspiration broke out upon him. wrath sometimes gave him unwonted fluency of speech. to-night it rendered him speechless. he did not wish this beggar's brat to wait on him. hank had not asked his permission to send her--had simply announced that she was coming. he was treated as if he were a baby--an idiot, and this was his own house. hank had nothing to do with it. he didn't care if hank did pay her. he had money enough of his own to hire a housekeeper. but he didn't want one. he wanted to wait on himself. he hated to have women cluttering round, and he lay, and perspired, and inwardly raged, and obtained not one wink of sleep, while 'tilda jane, having obtained what she wished, peacefully composed herself to rest. first though, she calmly bade him "good-night," told him to "holler," if he wanted anything, and, calling her dogs, went off in search of a bed for herself. beyond the kitchen was a front hall,--cold, dusty, and comfortless. up-stairs were four rooms, two unfurnished, one having something the appearance of a spare room left long unoccupied, the other smelling of tobacco, exceedingly untidy, littered with old clothes, fishing rods, bats, cartridge shells, and other boyish and manly belongings. this must be hank's room, probably it had been occupied later than the other, and the bed would not be so damp. she would sleep here, and she turned down the clothes. "good land!" she murmured, "i wonder how long sence those blankets has been washed?" and she turned them back again, and, going to the other room, obtained two coverlets that she spread over herself, after she lay down on the outside of the bed. the dogs had already curled themselves up on a heap of clothes on the floor, and in a few minutes the three worn-out travellers were fast asleep. when 'tilda jane lifted her head from her very shady pillow the next morning, her ears were saluted by the gentle patter of rain. the atmosphere was milder--a thaw had set in. she sprang up, and went to the dogs, who were still snoring in their corner. "wake up," she said, touching them with her foot. gippie started, but something in the expression of poacher's eloquent eyes told her that, although he had been apparently sound asleep, he knew perfectly well what was going on about him. "let's go and see mr. dillson," she exclaimed, and picking up gippie, she ran down-stairs with poacher at her heels. "it ain't cold--it's just pleasant," she muttered, turning the key with difficulty in the front door, and throwing it open. "oh, my, how pretty!" and she clasped her hands in delight. across the road was the deep hollow of the river. she was in one of a line of cottages following its bank, and across the river were fields and hills, now a soft, hazy picture in the rain. but the sun would shine, fine days would come--what an ideal place for a home! and her heart swelled with thankfulness, and she forgot the cross old man in the room behind her. the cross old man would have given the world to have turned her out of his house at that very minute, but his night of sleeplessness and raging temper had given him a fierce headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and such a helplessness of limbs that he could not turn in bed. 'tilda jane fortunately did not know that if he could have commanded his tongue he would have ordered her into the street, but she saw that there was something wrong with him, and as she stood in his doorway, she said, pityingly, "i guess you're sick; i'll make you some breakfast," and she vanished in the direction of the wood-shed. he heard her chopping sticks, he heard the brisk snapping of the fire and the singing of the teakettle. he heard her breaking eggs--two eggs when he never cooked more than one at a time! he opened his mouth to protest, but only gave utterance to a low roar that brought poacher, who happened to be the only one in the kitchen, into his room to stare gravely and curiously at him. she made an omelet, she toasted bread, she steeped him a cup of tea--this slip of a girl. she had evidently been taught to cook, but he hated her none the less as she brought in a tray and set it beside his bed. he would not touch the food, and he gave her a look from his angry eyes that sent her speedily from the room, and made her close the door behind her. "i guess he'd like to gimme a crack with them crutches," she reflected, soberly, "i'd better keep out of his way till he's over it. reminds me o' the matron's little spells." if she had been a petted darling from some loving home, she would have fled from the cottage in dismay. as it was, although she suffered, it was not with the keenness of despair. all her life she had been on the defensive. some one had always found fault with her, some one was always ready to punish her. unstinted kindness would have melted her, but anger always increased her natural obstinacy. she had been sent here to take care of this old man, and she was going to do it. she was too unconventional, and too ignorant, to reflect that her protective attitude would have been better changed for a suppliant one in entering the old man's domain. however, if she had meekly begged the privilege of taking care of him, he would have sent her away, and as she was given neither to hair-splitting nor introspection, but rather to the practical concerns of life, she calmly proceeded with her task of tidying the house without reference to future possibilities. the kitchen was the first place to be attacked, and she carefully examined the stove. it smoked a little. it needed cleaning, and girding on some old aprons she found in the porch, she let the fire go out, and then brushed, and rubbed, and poked at the stove until it was almost as clean outside as it was inside. her next proceeding was to take everything off the walls, and wipe them down with a cloth-bedraped broom. then she moved all the dishes off the dresser, washed the chairs, and scrubbed the floor. then, and not until then, did she reopen the door into the old man's room. now he could see what a clean kitchen she had, and how merrily the fire was burning in the stove. it was also twelve o'clock, and she must look about for something more to eat. mr. dillson had not touched his breakfast, so she ate it herself, made him fresh toast, a cup of tea, and a tiny meat hash, then went up-stairs to tidy her bedroom. the hash was well-seasoned, and the odour of onions greeted the old man's nostrils tantalisingly. he was really hungry now. his wrath had burned down for lack of fuel, and some power had come back to his limbs. he ate his dinner, got out of bed, dressed himself, and limped out to the kitchen. when he had dropped in his big rocking-chair, he gazed around the room. the girl had done more in one morning than all the women he had ever employed had done in three. perhaps it would be economy to keep her. he was certainly growing more feeble, and a tear of self-pity stood in his eye. there she was now, coming from the french-woman's house. she had been over there to borrow sheets, and a flash of impotent rage swept over him. he tried to have no dealings with those foreigners. he hated them, and they hated him. this girl must go, he could not stand her. the back of his rocking-chair was padded, and before he realised what was happening, his state of fuming passed into one of sleepiness,--he was off, soundly and unmistakably announcing in plain terms, through throat and nose, to the world of the kitchen, that he was making up for time lost last night. when he opened his eyes, it was late afternoon, and 'tilda jane, sitting at a safe distance from him, was knitting an unfinished sock of his, left by his dead wife some ten years ago. he blinked at her in non-committal silence. she gave him one shrewd glance, with her toe pushed gippie's recumbent body nearer her own chair, and went on with her work. if he wanted to hear her talk, he could ask questions. the afternoon wore away and evening came. when it grew quite dark 'tilda jane got up, lighted a lamp, put on the teakettle, and with the slender materials at hand prepared a meal that she set before the uncommunicative old man. he ate it, rolling his eyes around the clean kitchen meanwhile, but not saying a word. 'tilda jane kept at a safe distance from him until he had finished and had limped into bed. she then approached the table and ate a few morsels herself, muttering as she did so, "i ain't hungry, but i mus' eat enough to help me square up to that poor ole crossy." she was, however, too tired to enjoy her supper, and soon leaving it, she washed her dishes and went up-stairs. chapter xvii. the tiger makes a spring. the situation would have been absurd if it had not been painful. the next morning the old man was still in the same mood, angry at the girl's invasion of his premises, and yet so appreciative of the value of her energetic ways that he did not insist on her departure. and so day after day, for a whole week, 'tilda jane lived on, keeping house for the old man, but saying not one word to him. he would not speak to her, and she would not begin a conversation with him. she prepared his meals from food that the storekeeper and butcher readily gave her on the old man's account, and exercised her tongue by talking to her dogs. occasionally she called on her french neighbours, the melançons, and from them gleaned various items of information about the eccentric mr. dillson, without, however, allowing them to know that he would not speak to her. this secret she proudly kept to herself. she found out from them that the old man was ordinarily in better health than at present,--that he was usually able to hobble about the house and wait on himself, for his temper had of late become so violent that no woman in ciscasset would enter his house to work for him. therefore, 'tilda jane's arrival had been most opportune, for he would have been in danger of starving to death if left to himself. feeling persuaded of this, and greatly pleased to think that she had been and was of service to the father of her benefactor hank, her attitude toward the old man continued to be one of philosophical and good-natured obstinacy. she would not speak to him, but she was willing to wait on him in silence, looking forward to the time when he would find his tongue. her only fear of his sullenness was on behalf of her dogs. he hated them--she knew it by the menacing tremble of his crutches whenever the animals came within his reach. therefore, her constant endeavour was to keep them out of his way. she had made two soft, persuasive beds in the wood-shed for them; but it was cold there, and she could not stay with them. they loved her with all the strength of their doggish hearts, and wished to be with her every minute of the time. often at night she would start up in bed from troubled dreams of a fierce old figure mounting the staircase, crutch in hand. there was no lock on her bedroom door, and if the old man had a sudden accession of strength, he could easily push aside the barrier of a wash-stand and two chairs that she put across this door before she went to bed. she wished that hank would come home. he might persuade his peculiar parent to end this unnatural silence, and give her a chance to become acquainted with him. "mebbe he'll soon come, poacher," she whispered in the ear of the dog who was sitting close beside her. "we'll make up our minds for that, won't we?" the dog was sitting up very straight beside her, and gazing benevolently down at gippie, who lay on her lap. they were all out on the front door-step, and 'tilda jane was knitting industriously. it was a day like may in the month of march--there was a soft, mild air and a warm sun that made dripping eaves and melting snow-banks. little streams of water were running from the garden to the road, and from the road to the hollow of the river, where large cakes of ice were slowly loosening themselves, breaking up and floating toward the sea. spring was coming, and 'tilda jane, despite the incorrigible sulkiness of the person with whom she was living, felt it good to have a home. "we'll have lots o' sport by an' by runnin' in the fields, poacher," she whispered, lovingly, in his ear, "you ole comfort--always so sweet, an' good, an' never sassing back. you jus' creep away when you see some one comin' and don't say a word, do you? you're a sample to me; i wish i was like you. an' you never want to be bad, do you, an' chase back to the woods?" the dog abandoned his stately attitude, and gave his tongue a quick fillip in the direction of her forehead. no--thanks to her intense devotion to him, he had no time for mournful reflections on the past. "but i guess you'd like to see your master sometimes," she murmured. "i see a hankerin' in your eyes now an' agin, ole feller, an' then i jus' talk to you hard. you darlin'!" and throwing her arm around his neck, she squeezed him heartily. he was boldly reciprocating, by licking her little, straight, determined nose, when there was a clicking sound around the corner of the house. 'tilda jane released him and raised her head. the old man was approaching, leaning heavily on his crutches. the beauty of the day had penetrated and animated even his ancient bones. 'tilda jane was delighted to see him moving about, but, giving no sign of her satisfaction, she rose and prepared to enter the house. he did not approve of having the front door unlocked, he did not approve of her habit of dodging out-of-doors whenever she had no work to do inside. she felt this, although he had never said it, and pushing gippie into the hall, she stepped down the walk to pick up her ball of yarn. the dog's enemy was some distance away, and seeing him leaning so heavily on his crutches, it did not occur to her that there could be any fear of danger. however, with all her acuteness, she did not measure the depth of his animosity, nor the agility with which it could inspire him. with a deftness and lightness that would have been admirable if it had not been cruel, the old man bore all his weight on one crutch, swung the other around in the air, and with the heavy end struck a swift, sure blow on poacher's glossy black forehead. it was all done in the twinkling of an eye--in the short space of time that the little girl's back was turned. she heard the crashing blow, flashed around, and saw the black body of the dog extended on a white snow-bank. his eyes were open, his expression was still the loving one with which he had been regarding her as she stooped to pick up the ball. for an instant 'tilda jane felt no emotion but wonder. she stood stock-still, staring alternately at the old man and at the motionless body of the dog. it had occurred to her that he would kill one of her pets if he had a chance, but now that he had done it, the thing seemed unreal, almost absurd. surely she was dreaming--that was not poacher lying there dead. she went up to the dog, touched him with soft, amazed fingers, lifted the velvet ears, and put her hands on his forehead. there was the slightest ruffling of the smooth skin where the crutch had struck him. the old man stood and watched her for a few seconds, his face a trifle redder than usual, but giving no other sign of emotion. he watched her until she lifted her head and looked at him, then he turned hastily and limped to the back door. it was an awful look to see on the face of a child,--an avenging, unforgiving, hateful look,--the look of a grown person in cold, profound wrath. he did not regret killing the dog, he would like to dispose of the other one, but he did object to those murderous eyes. she was capable of killing him. he must get rid of her, and make his peace with some of the ciscasset witches, in order that they might come and wait on him. he went thoughtfully into the house and sat down in his usual corner beyond the kitchen stove. he wondered whether she would give him any supper. he could get it himself to-night if she did not. he was certainly better, and a glow of pleasure made his blood feel warm in his veins. stay--there she was, coming slowly in--he thanked his lucky stars, looking very much the same as usual. he would not be slain in his bed that night. and she was getting fresh wood for the fire. perhaps she would make hot cakes for supper. she was wonderfully smart for a girl. he had several times speculated as to her age. sometimes when talking to the dogs she seemed no more than eleven or twelve years old. ordinarily she appeared to him about fifteen, but small for the age. to-day in her wrath, she might be taken for seventeen. how subdued she seemed as she moved about the kitchen. he had done a good thing to strike down one of those animals. she would not have such an independent air now. she built up the fire, set the teakettle on the back of the stove--he wondered why she did not put it on the front, and why she gradually piled on sticks of wood until there was a roaring blaze that caused him some slight uneasiness. was she going to set the chimney on fire? no, she was not; when there was a bed of fiery red coals, she took up her tiny padded holder, lifted off one of the stove covers, then, to his surprise, went into the corner behind him, where he kept his crutches. what was she going to do? and he uneasily turned his head. she had both his crutches in her hand--his polished wooden crutches with the gold plate inscription. years ago, when he resigned his position as bookkeeper at waysmith and son's big mill, a gold-headed cane had been presented to him, on which was engraved a flattering inscription. nothing that had ever been given to him in his life had tickled his vanity as this present from the rich and prosperous firm had done. when he had been obliged to put away the cane on account of his increasing bodily infirmities, he had had the gold plate inscription transferred to his crutches where he could see it all the time, and have others see it. now--what was she going to do with those crutches? [illustration: "he lifted up his voice and roared at her."] he opened his mouth, and for the first time addressed her. "put those crutches down." she paid less attention to him than she did to the crackling of the fire. walking behind his chair, and making a wide circle to avoid his outstretched arms, she went to the other side of the stove and-- he lifted up his voice and roared at her. she was sticking the legs of his crutches down in that fiery furnace. he roared again, but she did not even raise her head. she was holding the crutches down, stuffing them in, burning them off inch by inch--very quietly, very deliberately, but very surely. she was not thinking of him, she was thinking of the dead dog out on the snow. he kept quiet for a few seconds, then he began to bellow for mercy. she was burning up to the cross-bar handles, she would soon reach that gold-plate inscription, and now for the first time he knew what those eulogistic words were to him--he, a man who had had the temper of a maniac that had cut him off from the sympathy of every human being he knew. tears ran down his cheeks--in incoherent words he stammered an apology for killing her dog, and then she relented. throwing the charred and smoking tops to him, she shut up the stove, took her hat and tippet from a peg in the wall, and clasping gippie to her, left the house without one glance at the old man as he sat in the smoky atmosphere mumbling to himself, and fumbling over the burnt pieces of wood as tenderly as if they had been babies. she had conquered him, but without caring for her conquest she left him. chapter xviii. in search of a perfect man. ciscasset, perhaps most beautiful of maine towns near the canadian border, was particularly beautiful on the morning after 'tilda jane's departure from hobart dillson's cottage. the sun was still shining fervently--so fervently that men threw open their top-coats or carried them on their arms; the sky was still of the delicate pink and blue haze of the day before, the wind was a breath of spring blown at departing winter. it was still early, and beautiful ciscasset was not yet really astir. few women were to be seen on the streets,--only a score of shop-girls hurrying to their work,--but men abounded. clerks were going to their desks and counters, and early rising business men to their offices. market-men swarmed in from the country in order to be the first to sell their produce in the prosperous little town with the indian name. other towns and villages might direct their search across the sea for european titles for streets and homes. ciscasset prided itself on being american and original. the indian names were native to the state, and with scarcely an exception prevailed in the nomenclature of the town. therefore the--in other places main street--was here kennebago street, and down this street a group of farmers was slowly proceeding. they had sold their farm produce to grocers and stable-keepers, and were now going to the post-office for their mail. assembled a few moments later in a corner of the gray stone building, and diligently reading letters and papers, they did not see a small figure approaching, and only looked up when a grave voice inquired, "air you too busy to speak to me a minute?" the men all stared at the young girl with the dog in her arms, the heavy circles around her eyes, and the two red spots on her cheeks. "what do you want?" asked the oldest farmer, a gray-haired man in a rabbit-skin cap. "i want to find the best minister in this place." a smile went around the circle of farmers. they were all amused, except the gray-haired one. he was nearest to 'tilda jane, and felt the intense gravity of her manner. "in the town, i mean," she went on, wearily. "i want to ask him something. i thought they'd know in the post-office, but when i asked behind them boxes," and she nodded toward the wall near them, "they told me to get out--they was busy." the old farmer was silent for a moment. then he said, gruffly, "you look beat out, young girl, like as if you'd been out all night." "i was," she said, simply, "i've been pacin' the streets waitin' for the mornin'." the attitude of the younger men was half reproachful, half disturbed. they always brought with them to the town an uneasy consciousness that they might in some way be fooled, and 'tilda jane's air was very precocious, very citified, compared with their air of rustic coltishness. they did not dream that she was country-bred like themselves. the older man was thinking. he was nearer the red spots and the grieving eyes than the others. the child was in trouble. "bill," he said, slowly, "what's the name o' that man that holds forth in molunkus street church?" his son informed him that he did not know. "how d'ye do, mr. price," said the farmer, leaving the young farmers, and sauntering across to the other side of the post-office, where a brisk-looking man was ripping open letters. "can you give us the name of the preacher that wags his tongue in the church on molunkus street?" "burness," said mr. price, raising his head, and letting his snapping eyes run beyond the farmer to the flock of young men huddling together like gray sheep. "would you call him the best man in ciscasset?" pursued the farmer, with a wave of his hand toward 'tilda jane. mr. price's snapping eyes had already taken her in. "what do you mean by best?" he asked, coolly. "i mean a man as always does what is right," said 'tilda jane, when the question was left for her to answer. "don't go to burness, then," said mr. price, rapidly. "good preacher--poor practiser." "ain't there any good practisers in ciscasset?" asked the farmer, dryly. "well--i know some pretty fair ones," responded mr. price. "i don't know of one perfect person in the length and breadth of the town. but i know two people, though, who come near enough to perfection for your job, i guess," and his brilliant glance rested on 'tilda jane. "who be they?" asked the farmer, curiously. "is it this young girl that wants 'em?" asked mr. price. "yes, sir," said the farmer, "it is." "then i'll tell her," said his quicksilver friend, and he flashed to 'tilda jane's side. "go up wallastook street to allaguash street. ask for reverend mr. tracy's house. any one'll tell you--understand?" "yes, sir--thank you; and thank _you_, too," and with a grateful gesture toward the farmer, she was gone. the farmer gazed after her. "i hate to see a young one in trouble. someone's been imposin' on her." mr. price felt sympathetic, but he said nothing. "who'd you send her to?" inquired the farmer. "i'd give a barrel of apples to know." "to me?" inquired mr. price, smartly. the farmer laughed. "yes, sir--i'd do it. you've put me in the way of business before now." "i sent her to a man," replied mr. price, "who might be in boston to-day if he wanted to. he gave up a big church to come here. he's always inveighing against luxury and selfishness and the other crowd of vices. he and his wife have stacks of money, but they give it away, and never do the peacock act. they're about as good as they make 'em. it isn't their talking i care about--not one rap. it's the carrying out of their talk, and not going back on it." "my daughter wants to go out as hired help. i guess that would be an a number one place, if they'd have her," observed the father, meditatively. "good enough," said mr. price, "if you want her to ruin her earthly prospects, and better her heavenly ones," and he went away laughing. the farmer stepped to the post-office door. 'tilda jane was toiling up the sidewalk with downcast head. the shop windows had no attractions for her, nor was she throwing a single glance at the line of vehicles now passing along the street; and muttering, "poor young one!" the farmer returned to his correspondence. the reverend mr. tracy was having his breakfast in the big yellow house set up on terraces, which were green in summer and white in winter. the house was large, because it was meant to shelter other people beside the tracys and their children, but there was not a stick of "genteel" furniture in it, the new housemaid from portland was just disdainfully observing to the cook. "you'll get over that soon," remarked the cook, with a laugh and a toss of her head, "and will be for givin' away what we've got an' sittin' on the floor. there's the door-bell. you'd better go answer it; it's time the beggars was arrivin'." mr. tracy was late with his breakfast this morning, because he had been out half the night before with a drunken young man who had showed an unconquerable aversion to returning home. now as he ate his chop and drank his hot milk, fed a parrot by his side, and talked to his wife, who kept moving about the room, he thought of this young man, until he caught the sound of voices in the hall. "bessie," he said, quietly, "there's your new maid turning some one away." his wife stepped into the hall. the housemaid was indeed assuring a poor-looking child that the master of the house was at breakfast and could not see any one. "then i'll wait," mrs. tracy heard in a dogged young voice. the front door closed as she hurried forward, but she quickly opened it. there on the top step sat a small girl holding a dog. "good morning," she said, kindly; "do you want something?" "i want to see the reverend tracy," responded the little girl, and the clergyman's wife, used to sorrowful faces, felt her heart ache as this most sorrowful one was upturned to her. "come in," she went on, and 'tilda jane found herself speedily walking through a wide but bare hall to a sunny dining-room. she paused on the threshold. that small, dark man must be the minister. he was no nearer beauty than she was, but he had a good face, and--let her rejoice for this--he was fond of animals, for on the hearth lay a cat and a dog asleep side by side, in the long windows hung canaries in cages, and on a luxuriant and beautiful rose-bush, growing in a big pot drawn up to the table, sat a green and very self-possessed parrot. she was not screeching, she was not tearing at the leaves, she sat meekly and thankfully receiving from time to time such morsels as her master chose to hand her. the little, dark, quiet man barely turned as she entered, but his one quick glance told him more than hours of conversation from 'tilda jane would have revealed. he did not get up, he did not shake hands with her, he merely nodded and uttered a brief "good-morning." "won't you sit here?" said mrs. tracy, bustling to the fireplace, and disturbing the cat and the dog in order to draw up a chair. "i think our young caller will have some breakfast with me," said the minister, without raising his eyes, and stretching out his hand he pushed a chair beyond the rose-bush, and by a gesture invited 'tilda jane to sit in it. she seated herself, crowded gippie on her lap under the table, and mechanically put to her mouth the cup of steaming milk that seemed to glide to her hand. she was nearly fainting. a few minutes more, and she would have fallen to the floor. the minister did not speak to her. he went calmly on with his breakfast, and a warning finger uplifted kept his wife from making remarks. he talked a good deal to the parrot, and occasionally to himself, and not until 'tilda jane had finished the milk and eaten some bread and butter did any one address her. then the minister spoke to the bird. "say good morning to the little girl, lulu." "good morning," remarked the parrot, in a voice of grating amiability. "say 'it's a pretty world,' lulu," continued her owner. "it's a pretty world, darlin'," responded the parrot, bursting into hoarse, unmusical laughter at her own addition. "oh, it's a pretty world--a pretty world!" to the gentleman and his wife there was something cynical and afflicting in the bird's comment on mundane affairs, and they surreptitiously examined their visitor. did she feel this? she did--poor girl, she had been passing through some bitter experience. there was the haunting, injured look of wounded childhood on her face, and her curled lip showed that she, too, young as she was, had found that all was not good in the world, all was not beautiful. the parrot was singing now: "'mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. home, home, sweet, s-we-e-e-t ho-o-o-me," but at this point she overbalanced herself. her uplifted claw swung over and she fell backward among the rose-branches. the bird's rueful expression as she fell, her ridiculous one as she gathered herself up, and with a surprised "oh, dear!" climbed back to her perch, were so overcoming that the minister and his wife burst into hearty laughter. 'tilda jane did not join them. she looked interested, and a very faint crease of amusement came in a little fold about her lips, but at once faded away. the minister got up and went to the fire, and taking out his watch earnestly consulted its face, then addressed his wife. "i have a ministers' meeting in half an hour. can you go down-town with me?" "yes, dear," replied mrs. tracy, and she glanced expectantly toward 'tilda jane. the little girl started. "can i ask you a question or so afore you go?" she asked, hurriedly. "no, my dear," said the man, with a fatherly air. "not until i come back." "i guess some one's told you about me," remarked 'tilda jane, bitterly. "i never heard of you, or saw you before a quarter of an hour ago," he replied, kindly. "do you see that sofa?" and he drew aside a curtain. "you lie down there and rest, and in two hours we shall return. come, bessie--" and with his wife he left the room. 'tilda jane was confounded, and her first idea was of capture. she was trapped at last, and would be sent back to the asylum--then a wave of different feeling swept over her. she would trust those two people anywhere, and they liked her. she could tell it by their looks and actions. she sighed heavily, almost staggered to the sofa, and throwing herself down, was in two minutes sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. chapter xix sweet and soft repentance. she was awakened by a hoarse whisper in her ear: "get up and go on, get up and go on. don't croak, don't croak!" her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, it seemed as if she would rather die than stir her sluggish limbs, yet she moved slightly as the rough whisper went on, "get up and go on, get up and go on. don't croak, don't croak!" it was the parrot with the cold in her throat, and she was perched on the sofa cushion by her head. 'tilda jane raised herself on one hand. how weary, how unspeakably weary she was! if she could only lie down again--and what was the matter with her? why had she waked with that terrible feeling of unhappiness? she remembered now--poacher was gone. she had not shed a tear over him before, but now she hid her face in her hands, and indulged in low and heart-broken lamentation. poor poacher--dear, handsome dog! she would never see him again. what would the lucases say if they knew of his untimely end? what should she do without him? and she cried miserably, until the sound of voices in the next room recalled her to herself. she was in the minister's house, and she must get her business over with, and be gone. so choking back her emotion, she wiped her face, smoothed her dress, and, followed by gippie, stepped into the dining-room. the minister was seated by the fire reading to his wife. he got up when he saw 'tilda jane, gave her a chair, then went on with his book. after some time he laid it down. his caller was composed now, and something told him that she was ready to consult him. he smiled a beautiful, gentle smile at her, and thus encouraged, she swallowed the lump in her throat and began: "i'm 'bliged to you, sir, for lettin' me sleep an' givin' me some breakfus, an' can i tell you somethin' 'bout myself? i'm all kind o' scatter-wise." "and you wish some one to straighten you out?" he asked, benevolently. "yes, sir--an' i thought the best person would be a minister--they said you was the best here." mrs. tracy smiled in a gratified fashion, while 'tilda jane went earnestly on, "i'm all mixy-maxy, an' i feel as if i hadn't started right. i guess i'll tell you jus' where i come from--i s'pose you know the middle marsden orphan 'sylum?" the minister told her that he had heard of it. he did not tell her that he had heard it was one of the few badly managed institutions for orphans in the state, that the children were kept strictly, fed poorly, and were rapidly "institutionalised" while under the care of uneducated, ignorant women, who were only partially supervised by a vacillating board of lady managers. "well, i was riz there," continued 'tilda jane, "rizzed mostly in trouble, but still i was riz, an' the ladies paid for me, an' i didn't take that into 'count when i run away." "so you ran away," he said, encouragingly. "yes, sir, 'count o' this dog, i said," and she pointed to gippie, "but i guess inside o' me, 'twas as much for myself. i didn't like the 'sylum, i wanted to run away, even when there was no talk o' the dog, an' i'll tell you what happened," and while the minister and his wife courteously listened, she gave a full and entire account of her wanderings during the time that she had been absent from the asylum. she told them of hank dillson, of her sojourn at vanceboro, and her experience with the lucases, and finally her story brought her down to the events of the day before. "when that ole man keeled over my dog," she said, brokenly, "that dog as had saved my life, i wanted murder. i wished something would strike him dead. but he didn't fall dead, an' then i thought it was time for me to chip in an' do somethin'. i took them crutches as he can't move without, an' i burnt 'em most up--all but a little bit at the top with the gold writin', 'cause he sits an' gazes at it, an' i guess sets store by it." "you burnt hobart dillson's crutches!" exclaimed mrs. tracy, in surprise. "yes, ma'am--'cause he'd killed my dog." "i wonder he had not struck you down," said the lady, with a shudder. "he is said to be a man with a very violent temper." 'tilda jane sprang up, her face as white as a sheet. "i mos' forgot. i s'pose he's sittin' there this minute. he can't move without 'em, an' nobody'll go near him. now, sir,"--and she turned in desperate haste to the little, dark, silent man,--"tell me quick what i ought to do." "you are a child with a conscience," he said, gravely; "you have been turning the matter over in your own mind. what conclusion have you reached?" "go on," said the parrot, hoarsely, and between intervals of climbing by means of bill and claw to the top of a chair, "go on, and don't croak. don't cr-r-r-r-oak!" [illustration: "'i've led another dog astray, an' now he's dead!'"] 'tilda jane turned her solemn face toward the bird. "walkin' to an' fro las' night, a verse o' scripter kep' comin' to me, 'children, obey your parents in the lord--' now, i ain't got any parents, but i had lady-boards. i oughtn't to 'a' run away. i ought to have give up the dog, an' trusted. i ought to 'a' begged them to get me a home. i ought to 'a' been a better girl. then i might 'a' been 'dopted. ever sence i've run away, there's been trouble--trouble, trouble, nothin' but trouble. i've led another dog astray, an' now he's dead!" mr. and mrs. tracy exchanged a pitying glance. the child was intensely in earnest. her black eyes were bent absently on the parrot who had fallen prey to an immense curiosity with regard to gippie, and having surveyed him from the back of the chair and the mantel, and finding him harmless, was now walking cautiously around him as he lay on the hearth-rug. presently, emboldened by his silence, she took the end of his tail in her beak. he did not move, and she gently pinched it. there was a squeal, a rush, and a discomfited parrot minus three tail feathers flying to her master's shoulder. "oh, my!" she exclaimed, "my, my! what a fuss--what a fuss!" very little attention was paid her. her master and mistress were taken up with the youthful owner of the dog, but mr. tracy mechanically stroked the bird as he put another question to 'tilda jane. "and what do you propose to do?" "i think i ought to go back," she said, earnestly. "i ought to say i'm sorry. i ought to say i'll do better." "go back--where?" asked mrs. tracy, eagerly. "first to the ole man. i ought to be civil to him. i ought to talk, an' not be mum like an oyster. i ought to ask him if he wants me to go 'way. i ought to write the lady-boards an' tell 'em where i be. i ought to say i'll go back." "do you wish to go back?" asked mr. tracy. a shiver passed over 'tilda jane's slight frame, but she spoke up bravely. "i ain't a-goin' to think o' that, sir. i've got to do what's right." "and what about your dog?" "oh, gippie ain't in it at all," she said, with animation. "he don't need to go. i guess i'll find some nice home for him with somebody as likes animiles," and a shrewd and melancholy smile hovered about her tense lips as she gazed at her host and hostess. "poor little girl," said mrs. tracy, sympathetically; "we will take your dog and you, too. you shall not go back--you shall live with us." as she spoke, her big blue eyes filled with tears, and she laid a caressing hand on 'tilda jane's shoulder. "please don't do that, ma'am," said the little girl, vehemently, and slipping her shoulder from under the embracing hand. "please don't do anything homey to me. treat me as if i was a real orphan." "a real orphan," repeated mrs. tracy, in slight bewilderment. "oh, i want a home," cried the little girl, clenching her hands, and raising her face to the ceiling. "i want some one to talk to me as if i had blue eyes and curly hair. i want a little rocking-chair an' a fire. i don't want to mind bells, an' run with a crowd o' orphans, but it ain't the will o' providence. i've got to give up," and her hands sank to her sides, and her head fell on her breast. mrs. tracy bit her lip, and pressed her hands together. "will you stay to dinner with us, my dear?" said mr. tracy, softly. "i will take you into my study where there is a fire and a rocking-chair, and you shall see some curiosities that i picked up in palestine." "oh, no, sir, i must go," and she again became animated. "that ole man--i mus' see him. tell me, sir, jus' what i am to do. i've been doin' all the talkin', an' i wanted to hear you. i guess i'm crazy," and she pressed her hands nervously over her ears. she was in a strange state of nervous exaltation that was the natural reaction from her terrible dejection of the evening before. she had decided to make a martyr of herself--a willing martyr, and mr. tracy would not detain her. "go back to mr. dillson's, my dear; you have mapped out your own course. i do not need to advise you. your conscience has spoken, and you are listening to its voice. go, and god bless you. you shall hear from us." 'tilda jane was about to rush away, but mrs. tracy detained her. "wait an instant. i have something for you," and she hurried from the room. chapter xx. waiting. mr. dillson had not passed a pleasant night. in the first place he had not been able to move for a long time after 'tilda jane's departure. for half an hour he had sat, hoping that she would return, or that some one would call on some errand. without his crutches he was helpless. strange to say, he was not in a rage with her. indeed, he had never felt more kindly disposed toward her, and he certainly had never so longed for a sight of her little thin, ungraceful figure. just at the moment of the burning of the crutches he could have felled her to the earth, but after it was an accomplished fact his lack of resentment was a marvel even to himself. possibly it was because she had saved the gold plate. possibly--as minute after minute went by--it was because a peculiar fear drove all vengeance from his mind. he had not liked the look in her eyes when she went out. suppose she should make way with herself? suppose she should jump into a hole in the ice, or throw herself in front of a locomotive, or do any other of the foolish things that desperate and maddened people were in the habit of doing? what would then be his position? not an enviable one, by any means. he was partly--not wholly, for he had some shreds of vanity left--aware of his neighbours' opinion respecting himself. there was an ugly word they might connect with his name--and he glowered over the fire, and felt sufficiently uncomfortable until a strange and marvellous thing happened. the kitchen was in an ell of the house, and, by hitching his chair around, he could command a view from the side window of a slice of the garden in front, and also of a narrow strip of the road before the house. he would watch this strip, and if a passer-by appeared, would hail him or her, and beg to have a new pair of crutches ordered from the town. it was while he was sitting in the gathering gloom watching this bit of highway, that the marvellous thing happened. just by the corner of the house was a black patch on the snow,--the hind legs and tail of the poor deceased poacher. the fore part of the body was beyond his vision. dillson had no particular dislike for the spectacle. a dead dog was a more pleasant sight than a living one to him, and he was just wondering whom he would get to remove the animal, when he imagined that he saw the tail move. no, it was only his imperfect vision, and he rubbed his eyes and moistened his glasses. now the tail was no longer there--the hind legs were no longer there. had some one come up the front walk and drawn the creature away? he pressed his face close against the window-pane. no--there was the dog himself on his feet and walking about--first in a staggering fashion, then more correctly. the old man eagerly raised the window. if the girl lived, and was going about saying that he had killed her dog, here was proof positive that he had not; and smacking his lips, and making a clicking sound with his tongue, he tried to attract the resuscitated poacher's attention. he must capture the animal and keep him. it was years since he had called a dog--not since he was a young man and had gone hunting on the marshes below the town. "here, dog, dog!" he said, impatiently; "good dog!" poacher gravely advanced to the window and stood below him. "good dog," repeated the old man. "hi--jump in," and he held the window higher. the dog would not jump while the enemy was there. he would not have jumped at all, if he had been at the back door, for he would have smelled his mistress's tracks and gone after her. now he suspected that she was in the house. though every movement gave him agony, the old man hobbled away from the window. the dog sprang in, and dillson clapped the sash down. he had the animal now. poacher was running around the room, sniffing vigorously. he stood on his hind legs and smelled at the peg where the hat and tippet had hung. then he ran to the wood-shed door. with a most unusual exertion of strength, the old man rose, pushed the chair before him, and breathing hard, and resting heavily on it, opened the cellar door. he would shut the dog down there out of sight, and where he could not run out if any one came in. "she's down there, dog," he said, and the boldness with which he told the story so impressed poacher, that after one inquiring glance which convinced him that his enemy's attitude had changed from that of a murderous to a semi-friendly one, he dashed down the steps into the cold cellar. dillson slammed the door, and chuckled. now to get back to the window. he tried to hitch his chair along, but he was weak and must rest. he sat for a few minutes, and when the few minutes were over, he found that his muscles had stiffened. he could not move. he sat a little longer. the fire went out, and the room got cold. he was so far from the window that he doubted if any one could hear him if he shouted. he lifted up his voice to try. he was as hoarse as a crow. he had a cold, and it was every minute getting worse. if he had the dog from the cellar, he might tie something to him and frighten him so that he would go dashing through a window. he began to feel that if the little girl did not return, he might sit there till he died. his case was not desperate yet, however. he waited and waited. the night came and went, and another morning dawned, and the weather changed outside, until a stiff frost began to transform the thaw into a return of winter weather--and still he waited, but the little girl did not come. chapter xxi. the tiger becomes a lamb. gippie was tired out, and in an execrable temper. he had had to trot home all the way from the tracys, for his mistress was carrying a long bundle under one arm, and a good-sized basket on the other. and now that she was in sight of the house, she was fairly running, and he could scarcely keep up with her. her head was turned far round, she was looking over her shoulder in the direction away from the front of the house, and yet she went right to the spot where the unfortunate poacher had fallen. gippie knew very well what all her emotion was about. like some deaf and partly blind human beings, he was more aware of happenings than people supposed. poacher was dead, and he was not sorry for it, for he had been desperately jealous of him, and limping up to his mistress he impatiently whined to claim recognition. "oh, gippie, what shall i do?" she moaned. "what shall i do? he was so good and gentle. i can't go in--i can't go in." she was on her knees on the snow. her hands were wandering over the depression where poacher had lain. her face was so pale and unhappy, that even gippie's selfish heart was touched, and standing on his hind legs to reach her shoulder, he tenderly licked her right ear inside and out, until she brushed him aside with a half laugh, half sob, and a murmured, "you tickle my ear, gippie." she got up and moved slowly toward the back door, while the dog trotted along nimbly on his three legs after her. why, what a vault! and gippie shivered and turned his short-sighted eyes in the direction of the kitchen stove. it was black and cold, and the old man, sitting in the draughtiest corner of the room, right by the cellar door, was a dull, mottled purple. he did not speak when the door opened. he was morose and silent, and his whole appearance was that of a man in extreme distress. gippie was an excellent hater, and it did him good to see the old man suffer. however, he did not care to suffer with him, and squealing dismally, he planted himself near the delinquent stove. 'tilda jane's listlessness and painful depression were gone. with a quick exclamation, she had dropped her basket and bundle, and had sprung to the kindling box. there was nothing in it. she rushed to the wood-shed, came back with a handful of sticks and paper, and by dint of extra quick movements had, in an astonishingly short space of time, a good fire roaring up the chimney. then she turned to the old man, who was still sitting in stony silence. "i'm 'fraid you're most froze, sir. can't you come nigher the fire?" dillson's eyelids were swollen with the cold, but there was still room for a disagreeable twinkle to glimmer through. he would say nothing, however, and 'tilda jane, approaching the long, peculiar looking bundle, opened it, took out a pair of crutches, and handed them to him with a humble, supplicating air. gippie crawled farther under the stove, and, lowering his head, awaited developments. but there was no danger of a blow from the old man. his hands were so benumbed that he could not hold the crutches. they slipped to the floor with a crash, and, opening his purple lips, he ejaculated the word, "tea!" "ain't you had nothin' sence i left?" inquired 'tilda jane, sharply. dillson shook his head. "you ain't been sittin' there all night?" he nodded his head this time. 'tilda jane's face took on an expression of dismay, and she flew around the kitchen. the warm atmosphere was now enwrapping the old man in a most agreeable manner, and when 'tilda jane handed him the big cup, he grunted something between an expression of thanks and a desire that she should hold it to his lips. while he greedily drank the hot liquid, 'tilda jane, with a queer choking in her throat, addressed broken remarks to him. "i didn't know, sir--i was hopin' some one would come in--i was mos' crazy 'bout the dog--i forgot all 'bout you till jus' now." "more," he said, shortly, when 'tilda jane put the cup down. she refilled it, then, as his hands began to get supple and he could manipulate it himself, she uncovered the basket mrs. tracy had given her. "i didn't look in before," she exclaimed. "oh, the beauty eggs!" and she carefully unrolled a napkin, "an' the white rolls, an' washington cake, an' a meat pie, an' a tart--i say, grampa, we'll have a good dinner!" the old man looked strangely at her, but she went on unheedingly: "they're jus' boss people. i'm glad i went an' talked to 'em--i'm sorry i was so ugly to you, grampa, an' if you don't want me, i guess i'd better go 'way." she spoke quite humbly and naturally, and, as she did so, she raised her head and glanced in dillson's direction. he made no response, and she went on: "i've been a very bad little girl, but i'm goin' to be better, an' you jus' tell me what you want me to do, grampa, an' i'll do it, an' if you don't want to talk, you jus' write it. i know you're a big man, an' mebbe you don't want to talk to a little girl like me, but i'll not lay it up agin you. you jus' do what you want, an' i'm not tryin' to come round you, 'cause i 'spect you'll send me off quicker'n a flash so soon as you get some one else." her lips were trembling, and her face was bright and expectant, but the old man gave her no satisfaction. "hand me some of that pie," he said, unexpectedly. "can you wait till i set the table an' make it look real pretty, grampa?" she said, coaxingly. dillson was nearly starved, and, without a word, held out his hand in a commanding fashion. "all right, grampa," she said, gently, and she handed him a generous slice; "anythin' you like. this is your house. it ain't mine." dillson ate his pie, watching her meanwhile out of a corner of his eye. "bread and meat," he said when he had finished. 'tilda jane supplied this want, and earnestly watched these viands going the way of the pie. "more tea," he said, when they were gone. when he had eaten and drunk to an alarming extent, he pointed to the crutches. "where did you get them?" "i saw 'em in a window, grampa,--a great big druggist's window,--an' i went in an' said to the man, 'can you trust me for 'em? i'll pay you, sure pop, if you'll gimme time. i'm goin' to be a good girl now, an' never tell no more lies nor steal, nor do anythin' bad,' but he jus' said ever so grumpy, 'this is a cast down, no credit system store,' but i wasn't cas' down, an' i said, 's'pose you was a lame man, an' a bad little girl burnt up your crutches, how would you feel? 'then he looked kind o' solemn, an' said, 'whose crutches was burnt up?' an' i said, 'mr. hobart dillson's crutches,' an' he said, 'what girl burnt 'em?' i said, 'a little girl that don't know where to look.' then he asked what you said when i burnt your crutches, an' i said you didn't say much, you jus' cussed. then he turned his face round to the bottles, an' when he looked out it was red, an' he was shakin' all over like as if he's been cryin', an' he jus' pointed to the crutches an' said, 'take 'em, an' welcome.'" dillson's head dropped on his breast. this girl had evidently gone to peter jerret's store,--peter jerret who had owed him a grudge ever since the day he went in and denounced him before a store full of customers for overcharging him for prescriptions. peter had actually dared to pity him--hobart dillson, and so had let the girl have the crutches, not caring whether he ever got paid or not. well, he hadn't thought peter would ever pity him, and, drawing his crutches toward him, dillson cautiously lifted himself, and tried his weight upon them. yes, he could walk, he would go to bed, and think over peter's conduct. it affected him, but he must not look soft. "open my door," he said to 'tilda jane. while she flew to obey his command, the old man heard a low whine near him, and remembered poacher. the dog had recognised the girl's voice, and would soon make himself known. he might as well have the credit of his discovery. if she had come home sulky he would have allowed her to find the dog for herself, but she was meek and biddable, and she had also secretly pleased him by addressing him as "grampa," in tones of such respect and affection. she had improved decidedly, and he exclaimed, peremptorily, "here, you!" 'tilda jane ran out from the bedroom, where she was turning down the icy sheets in the bed so that the chill might be taken from them. "open this door," ordered the old man. with a wondering air 'tilda jane threw back the cellar door. then she gave a joyful scream. there, standing on the top step, cold and shivering, half famished, but alive and well, was her beloved poacher. she tried to catch him around the neck, but he flew past her into the kitchen, came back like a shot, and, dashing up her back, licked her neck, sprang into the air, and again racing round and round the room, brought on what she herself would call a "combobberation." the old man was so near, that poacher, in his wild gyrations to and fro, swept one of his crutches from him. 'tilda jane, even in the midst of her astonished and ecstatic glee, perceived this, and stooped down to recover the lost article, but she could not lay her hand on it, for the excited dog, with his head in the air and his tongue hanging out, made repeated dashes at her, beside her, behind her,--he was everywhere that she was. and gippie was after him, for, snorting with rage and mortification at the resuscitation of his rival, he had bounded from under the stove, and, with his maimed tail wagging excitedly in the air, was biting, snapping, growling at poacher's heels, nipping him fiercely, if by chance he paused a second to rest. the noise and confusion were overcoming, and the old man, holding firmly to his remaining crutch, and grasping the back of a chair, grimly surveyed the scene. finally 'tilda jane secured the crutch, and, pantingly brushing back her dishevelled hair, she passed it to him across the dogs' backs. poacher had now sunk on the floor at her feet, while gippie was exerting his feeble strength in trying to crowd him away from 'tilda jane's stout shoes. "forgive us, grampa, dear grampa," she said, beseechingly; "but it's such a joyful 'casion--such a 'casion. my heart never felt so big in my life. it's all swolled up. oh, ain't you sweet to prepare this s'prise for me. when i come back jus' now i thought my pet was buried in the cold ground--oh, i jus' love you!" and, climbing over the quarrelling dogs, she seized the bunch of knuckles nearest her, and kissed them fervently. the old man slowly uncurled his fist and looked at it. how many years was it since any one had kissed him? he put the crutch under his arm, and turned toward the bedroom. "good night, grampa, dear grampa," floated sweetly after him. the girl was down on the floor with her dogs, her arm was around the hound's black neck, the three-legged atrocity was pressed to her side. she was happy, yes, happy--"as happy as a fool," he grumbled to himself. nothing to annoy her, nothing to trouble her. wait till she got older, and life's worries began to crowd around her, and with an impatient groan the old man flung himself down on the chair by his bed. chapter xxii. a troubled mind. 'tilda jane and grampa were sitting out in front of the house. the spring months had passed, the apple-trees had blossomed, and the young apples had formed. with the changing season had come happier days for 'tilda jane. little by little, as the weeks slipped by, a better understanding had arisen between her and "grampa." he still gave way occasionally to terrible fits of temper and sullenness, but 'tilda jane understood him better now, and was quick to soothe and pacify him, or, if he was unmanageable, to keep out of his presence until he recovered. just now he was in an unusually amiable frame of mind,--a frame of mind so accommodating that it boded storms in the near future. however, 'tilda jane did not care. she accepted the present peace and was thankful. she had dragged out his big rocking-chair for him to sit on, and had given him an evening paper to read, while she herself was curled up on her favourite seat on the door-step. the old man was not inclined to read his paper, and dropping it on his knees he took off his glasses, put them in his pocket, and let his eyes wander to the apple-trees. the river was flowing blue and open now, birds were singing, and all things betokened a fine summer. "when you hear those robins sing, don't it feel as if there was a little string squeakin' inside o' you?" said 'tilda jane, gleefully. dillson made no reply, and seeing that he was in no mood for a sympathetic comparison of emotions, she diplomatically started another topic of conversation. "i guess the birds make me glad, 'cause i'm so happy you let me bide with you, grampa--an' you've been so noble an' generous to lend me money to pay for the matron's shawl i took for gippie. an' it was so kind in the lady-boards to write back that they was glad to get rid of me." [illustration: "'they was glad to get rid of me.'"] the old man laughed a toothless laugh at her whimsical view of the lady-boards' reply, but said nothing. "i ain't told you much of my travels yet, grampa," she said, agreeably. "i've been so busy house-cleanin'. i guess you'd like to hear about vanceboro." the old man did not display any particular interest in vanceboro, but having assured herself by a swift examination of his features that the subject was not disagreeable to him, she went on, "it's a great ole place. i'd like you to go there sometime, grampa. such goings-on with them furriners! i saw one woman walkin' up and down wringin' her hands an' cryin' 'cause they wouldn't let her bring her ole mother into this nation." she waited for her hearer to ask why the mother was forbidden to come where the daughter could enter, but he did not do so, and she continued, "she was a poor woman from boston, an' her mother was a poor woman from canada, an' they said if she come in 'twould be two poor women together, an' first thing they knowed they'd be both in the poorhouse. so her mother had to go back to canada." dillson looked entirely uninterested in the case of the would-be immigrant, so, after a farewell announcement that sometimes as many as two hundred "furriners" went through vanceboro in a single day, 'tilda jane passed on to another branch of her subject. "it's a reg'lar jubilee, grampa, when the trains come in--a boy runnin' to a big bell an' ringin' it, an' people pourin' into the lunch-room, an' jus' chasin' the food into their mouths an' lookin' hunted-like, as if there was somethin' after them, an' some don't take time to go to the tables. they step up to the lunch-counter, which is shaped jus' like a moon when it ain't full. there's glass dishes on it, with oranges, an' bananas, an' cakes an' pies, an' sangwiches, an' a funny machine where you drop a nickel in a crack, an' if the hand points to five, or ten or fifteen, you get twenty-five cents' worth of candy, an' if you don't get candy you get good advice like as, 'you've been keepin' bad comp'ny, quit it or you will never prosper,' or 'you've run away from home, an' the perlice is on your track,' or 'smokin is a bad thing for your health.'" grampa was not very much interested, so 'tilda jane tried something more startling. "there's great talk of railroad accidents there. men get killed awful. i heard a table-girl ask a brakeman how he could go on a train for fear he'd be hurt, an' he said he dassent stop to think, he had to take chances. i used to see 'em runnin' like cats on top o' them cars, slippery with snow an' ice. if you're inside one o' them cars, grampa, an' there's goin' to be a turnover, jus' grip hard on somethin' steady, 'cause then you're not so apt to get killed. i heard a conductor say that." grampa's travelling days were over, yet it pleased him to be talked to as if he were still a strong and active man, and he said, shortly, "i'm not likely to be going far from home." "you don't know, grampa," she said, soothingly. "some day when you get nice and well, i'd like to travel with you, but first you must be very quiet like one of job's mice, an' not have anythin' gnawin' at you--i guess you've had lots of plague times in your life." grampa looked unheedingly beyond her to the apple-trees. her face was shrewd and puckered, and she was surveying him like a cunning little cat. "sometimes, grampa, i hear you fussin' in your sleep--moanin' an' cryin' like a poor dog what's lost her pups." the old man turned and looked at her sharply. she went on boldly, "can i lie in my soft, warm bed up-stairs an' you a-sufferin'? no, i creepy, creepy down, to see if i can do anythin'." "don't you do that again," said the old man, his face becoming red. "you stay in your bed at night." "all right, grampa," she said, meekly, "but i've heard things already." "things--what things?" he asked, sharply. 'tilda jane folded together the apron she was hemming, and getting up, opened a door of retreat behind her into the house. "about losin' that money," she said, sadly. she paused, and as he neither spoke or made any motion to throw a crutch at her, she proceeded, "grampa, i jus' know it's like a little pain hawk pickin' at your skin." grampa was still silent, painfully so, and she hurried on, "you haven't got much money, an' you have me an' the dogs to take care of. now, grampa, won't you let me get some work to do outside to help us?" and she screwed her features into their most persuasive appearance. grampa had his head turned away over his shoulder, and when he after a long time twisted it around, 'tilda jane rose, and prudently and swiftly retired into the hall. he must be in a rage. his face was fiery, and he was making a choking, spluttering sound in his throat,--a sound that only came from him in moments of agitation. "don't you--don't you," he stammered, "spy on me again, and bother your young head about things you know nothing of. do you hear?" and he accentuated his remarks by a tap of his crutch on the door-step. "i've had a way all my life of talking over things in my sleep. and you've got enough to do at home. i'll not have you working for other people." "all right, grampa," said 'tilda jane, submissively, and she made a step toward him. she had planned to fly through the hall to his bedroom, and remove his wash bowl and pitcher, for since she had come to the cottage he had broken several in his fits of rage. but grampa was not angry in a violent way this time. "he's more bothered than mad," she murmured, dispiritedly, and she drew aside to allow him to pass by her into the house. "the dew's falling," he muttered, as he went by her. "i'll go sit in the kitchen a spell." 'tilda jane went mournfully to sit under the trees on a wooden bench that grampa had had made for her. the two dogs curled themselves up at her feet, and with a sigh she picked up a writing pad beside her. it was almost too dark to see the lines, but she must finish a letter that she had begun to write to hank. his former custom had been to scratch a line to his father once in six months to say he was alive and well, but since 'tilda jane's arrival he had written every week, and had addressed his letters to her. it was a great pleasure to the little girl to get these letters, and an equal pleasure to answer them. she related to him every occurrence of her daily life, all details of his father's conduct except disagreeable ones, and her letters always ended with an urgent request that he would come and visit them. this evening she had as usual made an appeal at the end of her letter. "dear mr. hank, it seems a long time sence the snow was on the ground. i guess if you knew how much we want to see you you'd come hurryin' home. the dogs send love, gippie specially 'cause he knows you. poacher says he'd be happy to make your acquaintance--and, mr. hank, your father's kind of worried about somethin'. i guess he'd like to see you." chapter xxiii. an unexpected appearance. while 'tilda jane wrote, poacher suddenly made a stealthy movement, and gippie, deaf as he was, had enough of the dog spirit left in him to know that some one was coming, and to elevate the tiny v-shaped flaps over his ears. the gate clicked, there was a rustling along the ribbon-grass bordering the narrow path, and then 'tilda jane's writing-pad fell to the ground, and she sprang up with a delighted scream. for peering forward in the gathering gloom, she discovered hank, the long-absent hank, moving heavily and awkwardly up the path toward her. he had grown thin; his clothes hung loosely on him, and he was pale and worried in appearance, but 'tilda jane did not criticise him. he was the person who had most helped her in her search for a home, and, springing toward him, she caught his arm and ejaculated: "oh, hank! mr. hank--is it truly you i'm pinchin', or is it a ghost?" he smiled faintly, and, in return, pinched her cheek. "i ain't a ghost yet, though 'pon my word i didn't know but what i'd soon be one." as he spoke, he threw himself wearily on the seat. "well, 'tilda, how does ciscasset treat you? coronation! you're getting fat," and he scanned her in satisfaction. "i wouldn't know you for the little runaway that held me up last march out at marsden." "i guess i'm gettin' fat 'cause i'm peaceful in my mind," said 'tilda jane, demurely; "i don't have no one to fight. i'm jus' havin' the softest time!" "so father really treats you well?" "of course--don't i write you? he's jus' as sweet as a peach. he lets me wash, an' scrub, an' cook, an' never says a word excep' not to work too hard, an' if he wants to be jus' a little bit cranky, jus' a teeny little bit, he goes in his room an' shuts the door till the bad spirit gets out of him." "did he ever hurt you?" "no, he never struck me--he usen't to like the dogs." hank had never been told of poacher's adventure, but his attention wandered to the dog, and he absently stroked his head. "you've done the old man a lot of good," he said at last. "i--no, sir," said 'tilda jane, earnestly. "i guess it's the dogs. but he wants more good done to him. he's in a regular slouch of despond sometimes, mr. hank." "is he?" said the young man, listlessly; "what's he desponding about?" "about money, mr. hank. he lost some in the street, and never got it back--then it costs something to keep me and the dogs. i feel dreadful about it. i try to eat jus' as little as possible, but i'm as hungry as a bear mos' all the time." hank's attention was aroused. "you must not stent yourself, sissy. this is too bad. i'm to blame. i've been intending to send you some money, but i've had a run of bad luck." his face was so disturbed that 'tilda jane made haste to change the subject. "oh, i'm so worked up to see you--i'm perfectly 'tossicated. i feel jus' like the teakettle afore it boils, an' that 'minds me--i mus' go set it on. you mus' be starvin'." "no, i ain't hungry; i haven't had an appetite for a week. how much did father lose?" "sixty dollars," said the little girl, reluctantly. hank relapsed into silence after this information. he was evidently not inclined to talk, but 'tilda jane was brimful of questions, and presently burst out with one of them. "mr. hank, what did you do with that beauty horse of yours?" "had to sell it," he said, bitterly. "i've lost everything i had. those farmers are all against me. every potato top among them. i'm played out in this state. they'd like to jail me if they could." "jail you," said 'tilda jane, resentfully, "i guess i'd come and pound at the door of the jail if they did." "you ought to pound," said hank, in an ungrateful and ungallant tone, "'cause i ain't had a mite of luck since you crossed my path." 'tilda jane fell into blank astonishment for the space of one minute, then she asked, wistfully, "do you mean that--did i truly bring you bad luck?" "you truly did," he said, peevishly. "i'm all broken up in my business, cleaned out, done for." 'tilda jane pushed the hair back from her forehead with a bewildered gesture. her benefactor was in trouble--perhaps ruined, and through her. but this was no time for reflection, the urgency of the case demanded action. "mr. hank," she said, softly, "warn't it a roguey kind of a business, anyway?" "all business is roguey," he said, gruffly. "i guess you don't mean that," she said, mildly. "i know you don't mean that i've done you harm. i guess you're jus' in trouble like the river in the spring, when the ice goes mixy-maxy every way." he smiled slightly as he rose, and looked down into the shrewd little face, "well, ta, ta, 'tilda--be a good girl." "where are you goin'?" she asked, helplessly. "blest if i know--somewhere to earn a living, to canada, maybe." "don't you go through vanceboro," she said, sharply, then she pressed her hands to her head. "i think i'm crazy--are you hank dillson, standin' there sayin' you're goin' to leave us like this?" "don't take on, 'tilda," he said, consolingly. "i'm real sorry. i wouldn't have come out of my way this much if i hadn't promised you, and if you hadn't been such a nice little girl. of course you haven't hurt me. i guess you've done me good, for i've had a kind of disgust with my business ever since you set foot in my life." she paid no attention to the latter part of his speech. "you say you've got to go, an' i can't keep you," she murmured, stupidly, "an' you don't know where you're goin'." "i don't know, an' i don't want to know. i'll loaf along till my money gives out, then i'll go to work." "hank, do you think of orstralia?" "no, i ain't got dough enough to get that far." "do you mean bread?" "no, i mean cash." "why don't you stay here?" "nothing to do that i know of. this is a one-horse place." "hank, you ain't seen your father," she cried, catching at his coat sleeve, as he turned toward the gate. "'pon my word, i forgot the old man. i believe i'll go in for sixty seconds. you say his health's better?" "yes," said 'tilda jane, hurriedly, "i didn't write you that he had a fit not long sence, and it seemed to straighten him out. he goes to town on his crutches every day, an' gippie limps after him--oh, hank dillson, hank dillson, i'm mos' loony about this business of your goin' away." hank smiled wearily at her, and went slowly toward the house. "how long can you stay?" she asked, running after him. "how long will you give us?" he took out his watch, and held it close to his face. "i guess i'll take the eleven o'clock train. it's nine now--i thought i'd look up some of the boys." "give us all the time," she said, pleadingly, "stay with your father an' me. oh, promise, will you?" "all right," he said, obligingly. "i don't care if i do. i'm beat out, anyway." "i have to go some place, but i'll be back soon," she called after him, then she threw up both hands and pressed them over her ears,--a favourite gesture with her when she was doing hard thinking. "mr. waysmith or mr. tracy," she repeated, half aloud. "mr. waysmith or mr. tracy. mr. tracy," she said, at last, "he's most likely," and whirling on her heel, she flew down the path, out the gate, and into the street. poacher, silent, graceful, and swift, kept close to her, but the battered gippie soon gave up the chase with a howl of protest, and went limping home. hank, to his surprise, had, on the whole, the most agreeable talk of his life with his father. the old man was altered. he had been, at the same time, the stiffest and the most demonstrative of parents, the young man reflected. there really was a remarkable change for the better in him, and yet, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, hank got up to take his leave. they were nearly always absent from each other, they had got out of the way of taking an active interest in each other's concerns--there was not yet sufficiently firm footing and enough of it to bridge to the shaky background of the past, and parting would be a mutual relief. yet the old man's eyes twinkled wistfully as they followed his son to the door. hank had told him nothing of his troubles, yet his father saw that he had lost flesh, that he had not a prosperous air, and he acutely guessed that all was not going well with him. he would find out from the young girl, and with a sigh he settled back in his chair. "i'll try to come home soon again, father," said hank, dispiritedly, as he looked over his shoulder before closing the bedroom door, and he was just shrugging his shoulders at the promise, when something dark and panting caught at him in the unlighted kitchen, and made him jump. chapter xxiv. a friend in need. it was 'tilda jane, breathing like a race-horse. "what's up with you, sissy?" he asked. she could not speak for a few seconds, then she gasped with difficulty, "hank, dear old hank, he's in there--the loveliest man--he's always ready to do a turn for any one--go in--tell him your business. i've said a little, mind what he tells you, an' you'll get on. he's helped lots of people. he was in the midst of a dinner party. he's so good--he jus' left it an' come. go--" and she gave him a gentle push and sent him into the parlour, where he blinked his eyes alternately at the lamp on the table, and at a small, dark, quiet man who sat with his hat on his knee. the small man was breathing hard, as if he, too, had been walking fast, but on seeing hank, he rose and stood with outstretched hand. "my name is tracy," he said, kindly, "and i have come to this town since you left it, but i know your family." "i know you, too," said hank, bluntly, "from her letters," and he jerked his head backward, but 'tilda jane, after softly closing the door, had disappeared. mr. tracy sat down again, and hank sat opposite him. a slight and awkward pause ensued, broken speedily, however, by the minister. "young man, you are in trouble." "yes, i am that," said hank, gruffly. "state your trouble," said the minister, kindly. hank hesitated an instant, then his words came with a rush. "you've visited creameries, sir?" "i have." "well, there's good creameries and bad creameries. a few years ago, when i was casting about in my mind for something to do, i got in with a chicago firm known as the white elephant firm--owing to so many states being spotted with their buildings, loaded on the farmers, and costing too much to keep up. being a maine man, they sent me to my own state. i was one of their most go-ahead sharks, now they've fired me to fix themselves right with the farmers. do you know how they take in a community, sir?" "no, i don't." "well, s'pose you're a shark. you navigate round among the farmers, and make a smother of big talk about hauling in buckets full of money. you get a committee to visit some creamery where the outfit is salted to make an extra showing. you pay the farmers' expenses, you offer 'em a block of stock, and up goes the creamery in their district with machinery from the promoting company, costing two or three times over what everything is worth. when the whole thing's up, it'll usually dawn on the minds of your stockholders that a creamery ain't much without cows, and their cows ain't got enough milk to pay for the fuel they burn. 'way back here fifty miles, i had whipped up a creamery; i had a man to run the machinery, but he was a simpleton. he ruined the separator, it had to be sent back to the shop, an' i got mad with him. "then he blabbed, told everything he knew, an' a lot he didn't, an' the farmers stopped counting their cows long enough to listen. hasty words flew round, about fraudulent subscriptions, vitiated transactions, no contracts, ruined farms, going to law--an' i thought it was time to skip. the firm had made me stop there up to this, an' as soon as i ran, they bounced me--i'm all played out here, sir. my native state bids me farewell!" hank suddenly ceased speaking, his head dropped on his breast, yet before it did so, he shot one appealing, hopeful glance at his listener. despite his "don't-care" tone, and off-hand manner, it was plainly to be seen that he felt himself in trouble, and knew that there was one at hand who would help him. "you've been in a poor business," observed mr. tracy, quietly. "you want to quit it?" "yes, sir," said hank, meekly. "listen then--" and his companion in his turn began to speak rapidly. 'tilda jane, flying about the house, sent many an anxious thought to the closed parlour. what was the minister saying to hank? would hank talk to him freely? "o lord! lord! lord!" she cried, suddenly stopping and raising her clasped hands to the ceiling, "do make his heart soft--soft as mush, an' don't let him be sassy. the minister is smooth an' nice, an' he would stand sass, but it's awful bad for hank. he's got to sober down. o lord, make him solemn--jus' like an owl!" she dashed a tear from the corner of her eye, and went on with her occupation of wrapping various articles in a red handkerchief. when the parlour door opened, she ran to the front hall, and as mr. tracy passed her, she caught his hand and pressed it fervently. he said nothing, but smiling with the more than earthly sweetness of one who truly loved his fellow men, he hurried back to his deserted guests. hank followed close at his heels, and as he stood in the hall doorway, looking already straighter and taller, he smiled patronisingly down at 'tilda jane. "you're a mighty fine girl, sissy, how old are you now?" "thirteen o'clock las' week--struck fourteen this--oh, what did the minister say?" hank thumped his chest. "he's got me a situation, sissy,--a situation that means bread and butter for you and father, and maybe cake and jam." the little girl locked her hands in intense excitement. "where, hank, oh, where?" "here, sissy." "in ciscasset?" "yes." 'tilda jane suppressed a scream. "an' you can live at home?" "well, i rather guess so." 'tilda jane's pleasure was too deep for words. she stood gaping speechlessly at him. hank, in high good humour, beamed benevolently on the orphan girl as she stood beside him. "what are you sticking your head up an down for like a chicken taking a drink?" he said at last. "hank, i'm givin' thanks," she said, reverently, "givin' thanks that you've got led out of that roguey business." "i'll not get into anything of that kind again, sissy," he said, with a shamefaced air. "you may just be sure of that. i've had a great talk with that friend of yours--and sissy, i'm obliged to you." there was a queer break in his voice. an end had suddenly come to his troubles. he would now be in the way of earning an honest living. and it would be a pleasure to live with his father and this young girl who would look up to him and admire him. "sissy," he said, abruptly, "where do you think my new berth is?" "i don't know--oh, tell me quick." "in the waysmith lumber mill. mr. waysmith offered a place to your friend tracy to-day for some young man, and i'm the young man." "with the waysmiths?" murmured 'tilda jane, "where your father used to be?" "the same, sissy." 'tilda jane could stand no more. "o lord, i thank thee!" she cried, with a burst of tears, and running into the kitchen, she buried her face in the roller towel hanging on a door. hank sauntered after her, and on his way stumbled over a bundle done up in a spotted red handkerchief. he stooped down, picked it up, and opened it. it contained a few lumps of sugar, a bible, a pair of socks, two handkerchiefs, half a loaf of cake, and fifty cents wrapped in a piece of newspaper. "my travelling kit," he murmured; "well, if she ain't the best little creature!" "hello, 'tilda!" he called out; "stop that whimpering, and come and tell grampa the news." the little girl hastily dried her face on the towel, and ran into the bedroom where grampa sat surveying them in bewilderment from the edge of his bed. some time ago he had come to his room with the intention of undressing. his son's visit had upset him, and he had been sitting confusedly listening to the scraps of conversation he caught from different parts of the house. "grampa, grampa!" cried 'tilda jane, running in, and excitedly waving her hands, "hank's goin' to live at home with you, an' me, an' the dogs. we'll be a real family. oh, ain't it lovely, ain't it lovely?" and catching hold of her skirts she began a sidling and peculiar dance about the room. hank laughed till the tears came into his eyes. 'tilda jane was good, but she was not graceful. then his merriment over, he began to yawn, and 'tilda jane, as keen of observation as ever, immediately espied this sign of fatigue. she caught up gippie, who alone showed no pleasure at the prospect of having another inmate of the house, and danced out to the kitchen. "come out, grampa dear," she called, "we'll all have a good supper, 'cause this is a most joyful 'casion." as grampa started to limp out to the kitchen, hank quietly placed himself by his side. the old man looked at him. "i'm not sorry you're going to stay," he remarked, gruffly. "they say there's no place like home." "you'd better believe that's true, father," said hank, warmly; "a fellow gets sick of hotels and boarding-houses. we'll have some more funds now that i'm going to get at some decent kind of work. you mustn't bother your head about expenses." the old man sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. his face was working strangely. last year at this time he was alone and miserable in a cheerless house. now his son was with him, a brisk young girl was flying about his kitchen, a bright fire burned in the stove, a fire that was not unpleasantly warm to his aged limbs even on this summer night. a white cloth covered his formerly bare and uninviting table; he was going to have pie, and coffee, and toast and cake for supper,--surely the coming of this orphan had been a fortunate thing for him, and he slowly chafed his hands as he gazed at the glowing bed of coals. hank was following 'tilda jane from kitchen to pantry, and from pantry to kitchen. "you're getting to be a great housekeeper," he said, admiringly; "but we must not forget the schooling. it's a great thing to be educated. you can't hold your own in this world unless you know something. you wrote me mrs. tracy was teaching you some, didn't you?" 'tilda jane paused as she filled a sugar-bowl. "yes, three evenin's a week. she's a boss--i mean a good teacher. i learned some at the 'sylum,--no, the asylum, when i warn't--no, when i werent'--no, when i wasn't in the kitchen. and grampa talks to me some. he's a fine scholar." "that's good--get all you can; but three evenings a week ain't enough. as soon as i can compass it, i'll have some one to take care of father daytimes, and let you go to school." "to school!" said the little girl, "to learn more--to know how to speak proper! oh, oh, i'm mos' too happy to live! hank dillson, i think you're the mos' beautiful man that was ever made!" and, dropping her sugar-bowl on the shelf, she seized a hand of the ex-creamery shark, and warmly pressed it between her little lean palms. hank, in some embarrassment, murmured, "oh, fudge, i'm not as good as the next one." "you're a million times better!" exclaimed 'tilda jane. "oh, what a glad man mr. waysmith will be to have you in his mill! come now, let's have supper. dear ole grampa mus' get to bed. you wouldn't like to kill him with joy the first night you're home." a few minutes later 'tilda jane was beaming behind the big coffee-pot. at last she had become a member of a really happy family. her dogs were stretched luxuriously on their rag mat by the stove, grampa, calm and quiet, was sipping his coffee, and listening to some of hank's travelling adventures. she could not contain her delight. her heart was too full, and presently she burst into low, irrepressible laughter. her companions stopped talking and stared at her. "oh, i can't help it!" she exclaimed, wildly, "i feel as if i'd come through a big sea of troubles to reach the promised land! i'm crazy--i'm crazy!" and too excited to keep still she pushed her chair aside, and rocked back and forth on her feet. she saw stretching before her a long vista of happy years--the sight was almost too much for her, yet even in her ecstasy she thought of other children less fortunate. "hank, brother hank!" she called suddenly, "the tracys say to pass on blessings. all the world ain't joyful like us. when you make a little money will you let me write to the lady-boards for another orphan,--the ugliest little orphan they've got,--worse than me, if it's not unpossible." "you just write it down that i will," said hank, gazing kindly and benevolently at her flushed face. "we'll do it," cried 'tilda jane. "we'll be good to that other orphan. i know they'll have one, but how can i wait? what shall i do? i mus' hug some one, i'm so happy!" she flashed a glance at the dogs. they were sleepy and comfortable. "grampa, i guess it'll have to be you," she said, gaily, and, running to the old man, she threw her arms around his wrinkled neck, kissed his bald head, and fulfilled her promise of a hugging so vigorously that at last he called for mercy. "now, i'll go take something," she said, demurely, and, with a last caress, "you darlin' ole grampa--i could eat you--lord, give me a thankful heart for all these mercies," then, reverently bending her head over her plate, she took up her knife and fork with a long and happy sigh. the end. l. c. page & company's cosy corner series of charming juveniles each one volume, mo, cloth, illustrated, cents =ole mammy's torment.= by annie fellows-johnston. author of "the little colonel," etc. =the little colonel.= by annie fellows-johnston. author of "big brother." =big brother.= by annie fellows-johnston. author of "the little colonel," etc. =the gate of the giant scissors.= by annie fellows-johnston. author of "the little colonel," etc. =two little knights of kentucky,= who were "the little colonel's" neighbors. by annie fellows-johnston. a sequel to "the little colonel." =the story of dago.= by annie fellows-johnston. author of "the little colonel," etc. =farmer brown and the birds.= by frances margaret fox. a little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =story of a short life.= by juliana horatia ewing. this beautiful and pathetic story is a part of the world's literature and will never die. =jackanapes.= by juliana horatia ewing. a new edition, with new illustrations, of this exquisite and touching story, dear alike to young and old. =the little lame prince.= by miss mulock. a delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =the adventures of a brownie.= by miss mulock. the story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children. =his little mother.= by miss mulock. miss mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "his little mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of readers. =little sunshine's holiday.= by miss mulock. "little sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which miss mulock is so justly famous. =wee dorothy.= by laura updegraff. a story of two orphan children, the tender devotion of the eldest, a boy, for his sister being its theme. =rab and his friends.= by dr. john brown. doctor brown's little masterpiece is too well known to need description. =the water people.= by charles lee sleight. relating the further adventures of "harry," the little hero of "the prince of the pin elves." =the prince of the pin elves.= by chas. lee sleight. a fascinating story of the underground adventures of a sturdy, reliant american boy among the elves and gnomes. =helena's wonderworld.= by frances hodges white. a delightful tale of the adventures of a little girl in the mysterious regions beneath the sea. =for his country.= by marshall saunders. a beautiful story of a patriotic little american lad. =a little puritan's first christmas.= by edith robinson. =a little daughter of liberty.= by edith robinson. author of "a loyal little maid," "a little puritan rebel," etc. a true story of the revolution. =a little puritan rebel.= by edith robinson. an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant sir harry vane was governor of massachusetts. =a loyal little maid.= by edith robinson. a delightful and interesting story of revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, betsey schuyler, renders important services to george washington and alexander hamilton. =a dog of flanders.= a christmas story. by louise de la ramÉe (ouida). =the nurnberg stove.= by louise de la ramÉe (ouida). this beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. =the king of the golden river.= a legend of stiria. by john ruskin. written fifty years or more ago, this little fairy tale soon became known and made a place for itself. =la belle nivernaise.= the story of an old boat and her crew. by alphonse daudet. it has been out of print for some time, and is now offered in cheap but dainty form in this new edition. =the young king.= =the star child.= two stories chosen from a recent volume by a gifted author, on account of their rare beauty, great power, and deep significance. =a great emergency.= by mrs. ewing. =the trinity flower.= by juliana horatia ewing. in this little volume are collected three of mrs. ewing's best short stories for the young people. =the adventures of beatrice and jessie.= by richard mansfield. a bright and amusing story of the strange adventures of two little girls in the "realms of unreality." =a child's garden of verses.= by r. l. stevenson. this little classic is undoubtedly the best of all volumes of poetry for children. =little king davie.= by nellie hellis. it is sufficient to say of this book that it has sold over , copies in england, and consequently should well be worthy of a place in "the cosy corner series." =little peterkin vandike.= by charles stuart pratt. the author's dedication furnishes a key to this charming story. "i dedicate this book, made for the amusement of the boys who may read it, to the memory of one boy, who would have enjoyed as much as peterkin the plays of the poetry party." =the making of zimri bunker.= a tale of nantucket. by w. j. long. the story deals with a sturdy american fisher lad during the war of . =the fortunes of the fellow.= by will allen dromgoole. a sequel to "the farrier's dog and his fellow." =the farrier's dog and his fellow.= by will allen dromgoole. this story, written by the gifted young southern woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of her many admirers. =the sleeping beauty.= a modern version. by martha b. dunn. a charming story of a little fishermaid of maine, intellectually "asleep," until she meets the "fairy prince." =the young archer.= by charles e. brimblecom. a strong and wholesome story of a boy who accompanied columbus on his voyage to the new world. new juveniles our devoted friend the dog by sarah k. bolton author of "girls who have become famous," etc. _fully illustrated with many reproductions from original photographs._ vol., small quarto, $ . this book of the dog and his friends does for the canine member of the household what helen m. winslow's book, "concerning cats," did for the feline. no one who cares for dogs--and that class includes nearly all who do not care for cats, and some who do--will admit that the subject of mrs. bolton's book is a less felicitous choice than that of its predecessor; while the author's well-known ability as a writer and lecturer, as well as her sympathy with her subject, are a sufficient guarantee of a happy treatment. send for circulars, etc. new juveniles the rosamond tales by cuyler reynolds _with many full-page illustrations from original photographs by the author, together with a frontispiece from a drawing by maud humphreys._ large mo, cloth, $ . these are just the bedtime stories that children always ask for, but do not always get. rosamond and rosalind are the hero and heroine of many happy adventures in town and on their grandfather's farm; and the happy listeners to their story will unconsciously absorb a vast amount of interesting knowledge of birds, animals, and flowers, just the things about which the curiosity of children from four to twelve years old is most insatiable. the book will be a boon to tired mothers, as a delight to wide-awake children. send for circulars, etc. new juveniles the little cousin series by mary f. wade four volumes, each illustrated, cloth, mo, cents volume i. our little japanese cousin volume ii. our little brown cousin volume iii. our little indian cousin volume iv. our little russian cousin these are the most interesting and delightful accounts possible of child-life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings and adventures. the "little japanese cousin," with her toys in her wide sleeve and her tiny bag of paper handkerchiefs; the "little brown cousin," in whose home the leaves of the breadfruit-tree serve for plates and the halves of the cocoanut shells for cups; the "little indian cousin," who lives the free life of the forest, and the "little russian cousin," who dwells by the wintry neva, are truly fascinating characters to the little cousins who will read about them. send for circulars, etc. new juveniles the cosy corner series a series of charming illustrated juveniles by well-known authors we shall issue ten new volumes in this well-known series of child classics, and announce three as follows: a little puritan pioneer by edith robinson author of "a loyal little maid," "a little puritan's first christmas," etc. madam liberality by mrs. ewing author of "jackanapes," "a great emergency," "story of a short life," etc., etc. a bad penny by john t. wheelwright the other seven will include new stories by louise de la ramée, miss mulock, nellie hellis, will allen dromgoole, etc., etc. _forty-four volumes previously published_ send for circulars, etc. selections from l. c. page & company's books for young people =old father gander:= or, the better-half of mother goose. rhymes, chimes, and jingles scratched from his own goose-quill for american goslings. illustrated with impossible geese, hatched and raised by walter scott howard. vol., oblong quarto, cloth decorative $ . the illustrations are so striking and fascinating that the book will appeal to the young people aside from the fact even of the charm and humor of the songs and rhymes. there are thirty-two full-page plates, of which many are in color. the color illustrations are a distinct and successful departure from the old-fashioned lithographic work hitherto invariably used for children's books. =the crock of gold:= a new book of fairy tales. by s. baring gould. author of "mehalah," "old country life," "old english fairy tales," etc. with twenty-five full-page illustrations by f. d. bedford. vol., tall mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $ . this volume will prove a source of delight to the children of two continents, answering their always increasing demand for "more fairy stories." =shireen and her friends:= the autobiography of a persian cat. by gordon stables. illustrated by harrison weir. vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . a more charming book about animals dr. stables himself has not written. it is similar in character to "black beauty," "beautiful joe," and other books which teach us to love and protect the dumb animals. =bully, fag, and hero.= by charles j. mansford. with six full-page illustrations by s. h. vedder. vol., large mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $ . an interesting story of schoolboy life and adventure in school and during the holidays. =the adventures of a boy reporter= in the philippines. by harry steele morrison. author of "a yankee boy's success." vol., large mo, cloth, illustrated $ . a true story of the courage and enterprise of an american lad. it is a splendid boys' book, filled with healthy interest, and will tend to stimulate and encourage the proper ambition of the young reader. =tales told in the zoo.= by f. c. gould. with many illustrations from original drawings. vol., large quarto $ . a new book for young people on entirely original lines. the tales are supposed to be told by an old adjutant stork in the zoological gardens to the assembled birds located there, and they deal with legendary and folk-lore stories of the origins of various creatures, mostly birds, and their characteristics. =philip:= the story of a boy violinist. by t. w. o. vol., mo, cloth $ . the life-story of a boy, reared among surroundings singular enough to awaken interest at the start, is described by the present author as it could be described only by one thoroughly familiar with the scene. the reader is carried from the cottages of the humblest coal-miners into the realms of music and art; and the _finale_ of this charming tale is a masterpiece of pathetic interest. =black beauty:= the autobiography of a horse. by anna sewell. _new illustrated edition._ with twenty-five full-page drawings by winifred austin. vol., large mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $ . there have been many editions of this classic, but we confidently offer this one as the most appropriate and handsome yet produced. the illustrations are of special value and beauty, and should make this the standard edition wherever illustrations worthy of the story are desired. =the voyage of the avenger:= in the days of the dashing drake. by henry st. john. author of "a middy of nelson's day," etc. with twenty-five full-page illustrations by paul hardy. vol., tall mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, pages $ . a book of adventure, the scene of which is laid in that stirring period of colonial extension when england's famous naval heroes encountered the ships of spain, both at home and in the west indies. mr. st. john has given his boy readers a rattling good story of the sea. there is plenty of adventure, sufficient in fact to keep a boy fixed near the fireside until the last page is reached. =a child's history of spain.= by leonard williams. author of "ballads and songs of spain," etc. vol., small mo, with frontispiece, cloth, gilt top $ . although the recent war with spain has aroused general interest and caused a great demand for literature relating to the subject, there has not as yet been published a condensed history of spain for young people. mr. williams's little book will prove a desirable addition to the children's historical library. =fairy folk from far and near.= by a. c. woolf, m. a. with numerous full-page color illustrations by hans reitz. vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . it is long since there has appeared such a thoroughly delightful volume of fairy tales as that of annie c. woolf. an added attraction to the book is found in the exquisite colored illustrations, the work of hans reitz. as a christmas gift-book to children, these tales will be hard to excel. =the magnet stories.= by lynde palmer. a new edition; new binding and larger size volume, vols., mo. reduced price. drifting and steering $ . one day's weaving . archie's shadow . john-jack . jeannette's cisterns . new juveniles the woodranger tales volume iii. the hero of the hills by g. waldo browne volume i. the woodranger by g. waldo browne volume ii. the young gunbearer by g. waldo browne each large mo, cloth, fully illustrated, $ . there is the reality of history behind these stories, the successful series of "woodranger tales," the scope and trend of which are accurately set forth in the title. while full of adventure, the interest in which sometimes rises to the pitch of excitement, the stories are not sensational, for mr. browne writes with dignity, if with liveliness. the books will not fail to interest any lively, wholesome-minded boy. send for circulars, etc. new juveniles prince harold a fairy story by l. f. brown _with ninety full-page illustrations_ large mo, cloth, $ . a delightful fairy tale for children, dealing with the life of a charming young prince, who, aided by the moon spirit, discovers, after many adventures, a beautiful girl whom he makes his princess. he is so enamored that he dwells with his bride in complete seclusion for a while, entrusting the conduct of his kingdom meantime to his monkey servant, longtail. the latter marries a monkey princess from amfalulu, and their joint reign is described with the drollest humor. the real rulers finally return and upset the reign of the pretenders. an original and fascinating story for young people. send for circulars, etc. l. c. page & company's gift book series for boys and girls each one volume, tall mo, cloth, illustrated, $ . =the little colonel's house party.= by annie fellows-johnston. author of "little colonel," etc. illustrated by e. b. barry. mrs. johnston has endeared herself to the children by her charming little books published in the cosy corner series. accordingly, a longer story by her will be eagerly welcomed by the little ones who have so much enjoyed each story from her pen. =chums.= by maria louise pool. author of "little bermuda," etc. illustrated by l. j. bridgman. "chums" is a girls' book, about girls and for girls. it relates the adventures, in school, and during vacation, of two friends. =three little crackers.= from down in dixie. by will allen dromgoole. author of "the farrier's dog." a fascinating story for boys and girls, of the adventures of a family of alabama children who move to florida and grow up in the south. =miss gray's girls:= or, summer days in the scottish highlands. by jeannette a. grant. a delightfully told story of a summer trip through scotland, somewhat out of the beaten track. a teacher, starting at glasgow, takes a lively party of girls, her pupils, through the trossachs to oban, through the caledonian canal to inverness, and as far north as brora. =king pippin:= a story for children. by mrs. gerard ford. author of "pixie." one of the most charming books for young folks which has been issued for some time. the hero is a lovable little fellow, whose frank and winning ways disarm even the crustiest of grandmothers, and win for him the affection of all manner of unlikely people. =feats on the fiord:= a tale of norwegian life. by harriet martineau. this admirable book, read and enjoyed by so many young people, deserves to be brought to the attention of parents in search of wholesome reading for their children to-day. it is something more than a juvenile book, being really one of the most instructive books about norway and norwegian life and manners ever written. =songs and rhymes for the little ones.= compiled by mary whitney morrison (jenny wallis). new edition, with an introduction by mrs. a. d. t. whitney. no better description of this admirable book can be given than mrs. whitney's happy introduction: "one might almost as well offer june roses with the assurance of their sweetness, as to present this lovely little gathering of verse, which announces itself, like them, by its own deliciousness. yet, as mrs. morrison's charming volume has long been a delight to me, i am only too happy to declare that it is to me--and to two families of my grandchildren--the most bewitching book of songs for little people that we have ever known." =the young pearl divers:= a story of australian adventure by land and by sea. by lieut. h. phelps whitmarsh. this is a splendid story for boys, by an author who writes in vigorous and interesting language, of scenes and adventures with which he is personally acquainted. =the woodranger.= by g. waldo browne. the first of a series of five volumes entitled "the woodranger tales." although based strictly on historical facts the book is an interesting and exciting tale of adventure, which will delight all boys, and be by no means unwelcome to their elders. =three children of galilee:= a life of christ for the young. by john gordon. there has long been a need for a life of christ for the young, and this book has been written in answer to this demand. that it will meet with great favor is beyond question, for parents have recognized that their boys and girls want something more than a bible story, a dry statement of facts, and that, in order to hold the attention of the youthful readers, a book on this subject should have life and movement as well as scrupulous accuracy and religious sentiment. =little bermuda.= by maria louise pool. author of "dally," "a redbridge neighborhood," "in a dike shanty," "friendship and folly," etc. the adventures of "little bermuda" from her home in the tropics to a fashionable american boarding-school. the resulting conflict between the two elements in her nature, the one inherited from her new england ancestry, and the other developed by her west indian surroundings, gave miss pool unusual opportunity for creating an original and fascinating heroine. =the wild ruthvens:= a home story. by curtis york. a story illustrating the mistakes, failures, and successes of a family of unruly but warm-hearted boys and girls. they are ultimately softened and civilized by the influence of an invalid cousin, dick trevanion, who comes to live with them. =the adventures of a siberian cub.= translated from the russian of slibitski by leon golschmann. this is indeed a book which will be hailed with delight, especially by children who love to read about animals. the interesting and pathetic adventures of the orphan-bear, mishook, will appeal to old and young in much the same way as have "black beauty" and "beautiful joe." =timothy dole.= by juniata salsbury. the youthful hero, and a genuine hero he proves to be, starts from home, loses his way, meets with startling adventures, finds friends, kind and many, and grows to be a manly man. it is a wholesome and vigorous book, that boys and girls, and parents as well, will read and enjoy. transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. for example: writing-pad, writing pad; cocoanut; curtsey; beshawled. pg , 'onct our washerwoman' replaced by 'once our washerwoman'. pg , 'onct i took' replaced by 'once i took'. pg , 'onct when cats come' replaced by 'once when cats come'. pg , 'dare the undarable' replaced by 'dare the undareable'. pg , 'only onct a day?' replaced by 'only once a day?'. pg , 'onct have blue eyes' replaced by 'once have blue eyes'. pg , "you mus' he" replaced by "you mus' be". publisher's book catalog: in the cosy corner series, 'and announce four' replaced by 'and announce three'. a page from 'gift series for boys and girls' has been moved to its proper position at the end of that section. this page described 'three children of galilee' through 'timothy dole'. [illustration: emil edward kusel] humanitarian philosophy * * * * * by emil edward kusel extracts from his letters fourth edition * * * * * thou shalt not kill.--bible. the individuality created by god is not carnivorous.--mary baker g. eddy. kill not but have regard for life.--buddha. * * * * * los angeles, california copyright by emil edward kusel. all rights reserved. [illustration: decorative border] note. when one meets with adversity and all the world seems bitterly against him or when one realizes the short duration of life and hopes for a splendid immortality, no doubt it is a consolation for many to read the inspired and lofty sentiments of the bible. therefore in writing the following epigrams condemning inhumanity, i felt confident that kindly people would see that it is far from my motive to cast reflection upon any individual inclined to accept the comforting and humane passages of either the old or new testament. i merely aimed to prove the inhuman mosaical law giving man the idea to kill is not a law of a kind and loving god. i also aimed to prove that the flesh-eating religionist is an accessory to a crime more bestial in the sight of god than any other sin known to the human family. emil e. kusel. [illustration: decorative border] [illustration: decorative border] kind words. "humanitarian philosophy" has taught me that god and conscience are in unison. i would have liked to condemn the writer for opening my eyes to the truth, but the lord is on his side. "humanitarian philosophy" is an eye opener for the true religionist who never before thought on the wickedness of killing. "humanitarian philosophy" is a blessing for those who wish to live the christ life, although it will not appeal to the religionist who is inhumanly self-righteous. since digesting "humanitarian philosophy" i know a conscientious person can read the stinging truth without a selfish protest. the truth is mighty. "humanitarian philosophy" at first reading made me angry, but praise god, the vegetarian's heart is in the right place. "humanitarian philosophy" is an inspiration. [illustration: decorative border] [illustration: decorative border] complimentary. have always been very much interested in the subjects of our able ministers, but since receiving a copy of mr. kusel's philosophy against flesh eating i am a convert to the doctrine that neither minister nor congregation can be "a child of god" until they are vegetarians. it is impossible for me to now believe otherwise on account of the tremendous cruelty and horror of taking the life of animals. i never thought of the truth as mr. kusel puts it forth, and i am surprised to think preachers never preached against blood food. i also thought it would be meet and proper to criticise shoe, glove and belt wearing, but the leather using is a secondary proposition; the animal is first killed for food purposes and secondarily to avoid the waste we may utilize the hide, and still we should discourage that argument. mr. kusel is defending god almighty nobly in his "humanitarian philosophy" and has given the church doctrines a slap no man can gainsay. when we favor meat eating we favor killing, and when we favor killing in the name of god we know we are liars and murderers, for god is kind and loving, and surely opposes the taking of life. let churches preach the murder of animals, but pray do not say wickedness (killing) is god's will. the world needs more conscientious men like mr. kusel to protect god almighty from defamation. t. j. w. (from los angeles herald.) [illustration: decorative border] [illustration: decorative border] a noble woman. mr. emil edward kusel, los angeles, cal. dear mr. kusel:--i have been wonderfully guided and blessed by reading "humanitarian philosophy" as it is truly an inspired work that should be thought upon by all religious people. the beauty of your blessed reasoning is that you cast all biblical chaff to the four winds and look to god in the true light of love and mercy. yes indeed, you show the inconsistency of a religion that gives us an evil right to kill things while every last one of us, without exception, cling to life with the tenacity of a coward. you fully convince me that false prophets had a hand in writing the scriptures because god in his infinite love could not have created the dear innocent lamb our savior carried in his bosom to be killed nor could he have created the sweet little baby calf to be slain and eaten by human beings. you convince me that god is not in the slaughter-house, neither in the midst of those who patronize the butcher any more than he is in the heart of the wild beast of prey. i do believe in a personal god as i could not live without hope for a blissful future life beyond the grave. this pilgrimage, to me, without religion would make this world a very dreary and lonesome place. heretofore i lived a carnivorous life, always wondering why god created poor sentient things for human food but now, thank god, i realize, without humanitarianism spirituality is not a reality and i applaud such men as mr. kusel for standing out boldly on a grand philosophy that puts all church doctrines to shame and presents a religion consistent with reason. your trend of thought, my dear brother, is indeed marvelous from a gracious heart and i believe some mighty power is preparing you for a special great work. yours very truly, mrs. j. r. b. st. paul, minn., may , . [illustration: decorative border] the hermit. no flocks that roam the valley free, to slaughter i condemn, taught by the power that pities me, i learn to pity them. --goldsmith. * * * * * in religion, what damned error but some sober brow will bless it and approve it with a text, hiding the grossness with fair ornament. --shakespeare. * * * * * the untold suffering the human family sanctions through a wrong conception of what is right, should make every christian heart ache. --platt. * * * * * when men go hunting (to kill) they call it sport but when the hunted animal (perhaps wounded) turns to fight for its life, they call _that_ ferocity.--shaw. * * * * * let all creatures live, as we desire to live. --tolstoy. [illustration: decorative border] the religion of buddha. (an idea from "light of asia.") 'twere good to be humane to the helpless beast; better than to deplore the sins of the world with priests who pray for mankind, and yet have no mercy on god's dumb creatures-- "they pray for mercy whilst they themselves are merciless." --kusel. [illustration: decorative border] humanitarian philosophy by emil edward kusel no doubt some of the conscience-stricken readers will brand the author of the sentiments herein as an extremist rather than a humane enthusiast, but bethink yourself it is far better to be "an extremist" on a logical, noble basis than to be inconsistent under false pretense. * * * * * the author is presenting truths from an absolutely rational standpoint standing firmly on a real philosophical basis that cannot be overthrown by a cyclone of protests from the "religious" flesh-eating faction. the idea is to show that man, when he gets "right with god," drifts away from the customs of ancient times and reasons from the golden rule foundation which is consistent with a higher life and makes him religiously humane as well as "pious." * * * * * you may allow your quasi-religious principle to prevail against reason; you may pout and cry against the humanitarian's noble philosophy; you may dream of the imps of hell awaiting his quietus; you may consult your bible to bless your inhumanity and yet mercy for our dumb fellow-creatures is unselfish, pure and gentle, resultant from a proper conception of man's superiority and his god. if a man's religion is pure and good and undefiled it would be wrong to present facts to blast his belief (be it ever so superstitious); however, when he insists upon inhumanity toward any sentient creature, he should be severely criticised. * * * * * the scriptural passages that are well flavored with indecency and the scriptural inhumanity written in god's name are not one whit more inspired than are the objectionable lines of sensational literature. * * * * * the bible has caused more bloodshed, more hatred; made more hypocrites and caused more suffering than all else combined. it is a book containing some lofty ideas and moral laws by good men, but the many inconsistencies therein have caused superstition, imagination, insanity, contemptibility and horrible cruelty that haunts the brain of the honorable thinking masses. * * * * * it is proper to impress indelibly in the minds of the pretenders of the several creeds "thou shalt not kill;" neither shalt thou be accessory in the killing by encouraging the slaughter through patronage. you may erect your massive temples and dedicate them to jehovah; you may pray to your heart's content and sing psalms until doomsday, yet the earthquake, the cyclone, the tornado, the volcano overthrows the synagogue, the cathedral, the church, the brothel and the saloon without distinction. evidently the god of abraham, isaac and jacob is not omnipresent to protect an institution that stands for inhumanity. * * * * * one of the most noticeable inconsistencies ever presented to thinking people is the representation of "divine love" portrayed under the title "peace," symbolized by a child leading the cow, the calf, the lion, the leopard and the lamb. this taken from the bible, is supposed to represent, "and a little child shall lead them." just think of symbolizing "peace" with an innocent child leading animals we actually murder! no doubt every religionist looks upon that painting as a masterpiece--an inspiration. yet most of them sanction the slaughter of innocence by relishing a lamb chop or a veal cutlet. "and a little child shall lead them!" whither? to the slaughter? is not that a miserable symbolization of "divine love" and "peace?" such inconsistency painted in the name of religion is an abomination and deserves strenuous criticism. not the least in the realm of inconsistency are the jewish people who fast on their day of atonement and break the sabbath fifty-two times a year by bartering. now where is the consistency in such an atonement when the bible says explicitly: "remember the sabbath day and keep it holy." such incongruity is practised universally among the orthodox as well as the reformed element. like the gentile, the jewish religionist, notwithstanding that he admits the horror of viewing the death throes of a butchered animal, eats his flesh food "kosher" to satisfy his palate rather than live up to the promptings of conscience. * * * * * judaism, catholicism, protestantism, and christian sciencism alike disregard the sacredness of all animal kingdom, and yet, after admitting the horror of the slaughter pen, they all encourage the merciless killing under the cloak of the bible. * * * * * "the devil can cite scripture for his purpose" may well be applied to the religionist who upholds the killing of our dumb fellow creatures. * * * * * the fact that the bible encourages the murder of an animal proves it is not entirely from the pen of holy men. the individual who professes religion and says it is right to slay and eat when he can live without taking sentient life, on the vegetation which nature so bountifully provides, is a liar, a murderer and a hypocrite in his own higher conscience. * * * * * the so-called devout man wants to live and enjoy life, but he eats of the innocent animal that has been battered to death by the blow of the ax; he contends that a body which suffers pain was created for slaughter to satisfy his beastly palate. such a man is destitute of the very essence of god-life be he minister, church-goer or layman. * * * * * above all things the minister of the gospel and the church attendant should be kind and considerate toward all animal creation and should construe the scriptures and preach to prove the sacredness of their holy bible. they should do god's will one earth as it is in heaven, absolutely abstaining from the fleshpots of egypt, thereby discouraging the blotting out of animal life, proving conclusively by their lives that their god is just and kind and merciful. * * * * * the man who opposes the spilling of life blood of nature's creatures is on the higher plane of life. after searching for a mode of living through which we might find perfect peace on earth and good will toward our fellow-men, we become partially interested in the different religions, but we cannot conscientiously close our eyes and believe a meat-eating, gormandizing religionist is undefiled and passing on to spiritual perfection to ultimately, at dissolution, burst into a glorious immortality. * * * * * read the memorable sermon on the mount, supposed to have been delivered by christ jesus, and note the humility, the tenderness, the love and all therein that is grand and noble--then decide that such a meek and lowly nazarene could have eaten of the fleshpots or even have sanctioned the killing of any living creature, and you deprive that character of the very essence of divinity. * * * * * flesh eating man's religion cannot emanate from a kindly heart because with all his intellectuality and knowledge of right and wrong, his animalistic tendencies are in excess. his horror for the slaughter pen is conclusive and positive evidence that the higher consciousness is dormant proving that carnivorous man hath no pre-eminence above the beast. we fail to see any christianity in the present-day sunday churchianity, and we positively know there is nothing sacred in the person upholding the merciless slaughter of animals. through all this we are made to fully realize the inconsistency of nearly all religious professions. we finally study the laws of nature, and we live from that time on according to the dictates of conscience and reason, with some little faith in addition. the first thought that impresses us is the inhuman custom of taking life blood, knowing that every man, woman and child, who possesses an atom of feeling, would shudder to look upon the butchery of our dumb fellow-creatures, and we know if the horror of the slaughter pen is admitted, it surely is a heinous crime to slaughter. then we begin to delve deep into the real scientific subjects of real scientific men and really discover the real body builders are proper food, proper mastication, proper air and proper breathing, and occasional proper fasting, etc. we live the life as recommended by these noble logicians and benefactors. now we look from the heights to the vast expanse of empty faith cure, cults and isms, creeds and dogmas, and theories, and realize how narrow they all are by not embodying humanitarianism and the laws of health and hygiene in their teachings. * * * * * from a spiritual conception, it is just as reasonable to recommend human cannibalism as the eating of butcher shop carrion. the th day of december is the day set aside to present gifts to our sweethearts, wives and friends; the day santa claus brings toys to our little ones to overflow their little hearts with gladness, but mainly to commemorate the birth of one of the kindliest characters the world has ever known. that holy day is horribly desecrated by the quasi-pious element throughout our christian land in the killing of countless numbers of nature's sentient creation. thanksgiving day, likewise set aside for a sacred purpose--to thank god for the many blessings bestowed upon our great nation--is also desecrated by religious people as well as by the laity. on the day we should send our thanks to that invisible something (the first great cause) we praise an imaginary personal deity by killing things to satiate the craving of the palate. * * * * * the bible condemns the eating of swine flesh (deut. : ; is. : ), but what care the pharisee so long as he intends pleasing the palate rather than obey the law of his god and conscience? * * * * * when we reach the holy mountain (consistent religion) we will abstain from eating flesh food and have a heartfelt desire for all creatures to live and enjoy life as we wish to live (golden rule.) selfish civilized intellectual human takes his gun and repairs to the forest and wantonly slaughters wild game. perhaps he kills outright; perhaps he wounds; perhaps the animal he has wounded is dying a slow, painful death; perhaps he wounds or kills a mother and the young are starving in nest or lair, and perhaps a professed jew, catholic, protestant or christian scientist is relishing the seasoned carrion while the little ones are dying for the want of that mother's care. god forbid the belief in such a god! * * * * * the huntsman, who wounds the wild game, goes to his couch and rests peacefully while the poor dumb, wounded animal is dying in the forest, suffering most excruciating pain. the deer, the dove, the quail and all of nature's blood creation must suffer with horrifying wounds at the hands of the thoughtless, cruel hunter; upheld by so-called religious people who contend that such inhumanity is permissible in god's sight. this very day thousands upon thousands of our dumb fellow-creatures are suffering agonizing deaths caused through wounds inflicted by the merciless hunter; and thousands upon thousands of professed jews, catholics, protestants and christian scientists worship the god that tolerates such cruelty. hypocrisy! inconsistency! shame! sift mankind down to his noblest thought, and he must admit the life of an animal is just as sacred as his own. * * * * * knowing that all humanity feels the horrors of taking the life blood of defenseless animals, you are compelled to condemn every religious institution that does not embody within its creed the vegetarian diet. * * * * * animals instinctively flee from danger, and suffer pain, which proves the brute creation has a right to an appointed time upon the earth. when man slaughters these helpless creatures under the selfish idea that they were created for that purpose, he is destitute of divine principle. * * * * * the almighty dollar is the god of the civilized people--mankind takes the sacred life blood of god's creatures and barters the carcass in exchange for money. nearly all clergymen and the laity eat of the murdered animal. shame! * * * * * let us be at least considerate and reason on the side of mercy. if your religion sanctions the killing of innocent animals, well then, in the name of all that is pure and good, lay aside your religion and get your soul in tune with the infinite, and then use your faculties of reason to develop up to the highest ideal. condemn the killing of innocent, defenseless animals, and do away with the fleshpots of egypt, and praise deity for endowing you with reason sufficient to realize the wrong of shedding life blood, and then sing hosannas for the nobility of living according to the promptings of higher conscience. * * * * * do not think of the savory beef and mutton as it hangs in the market place, but turn your mind and heart to the abattoirs and see the horror of slaughter and then acknowledge that if god is not in the slaughter house to hinder the killing of a dumb brute he is surely not in the churches reserving crowns and halos for a sanctimonious element whose palate takes precedence of principle. * * * * * the church folk encourage the killing of quadruped, fish and fowl and then have the audacity to say grace at meal time, thanking god and imploring him to shower blessings upon them. * * * * * you believe in all that elevates man to the highest standard of excellence and yet in the eating of a slaughtered animal you are an accessory to the crime of murder--a crime that is far more morally wrong and horrible than any so-called venial sin. the man who "believes" and has "faith" solely for his soul's safety through fear rather than through love; the man who affiliates with the church with mercenary motive; the man who testifies with lying tongue to the virtue of his carnivorous unfeeling religion; the man who shifts the blame of his cussedness to the mythical satan; the man who is weak and bent toward religious emotionalism; the man who sees the mote in every eye but his own; the man who stands on the street corner preaching hell and damnation, "fighting the devil," are the sorts of men who decry that all beings have an equal right to live. * * * * * if perchance a fellow human becomes tired and weary of the vicissitudes of this world and cancels his own captivity (suicide), we frantically throw up our hands realizing the enormity of such a crime. his life is his own and he may do as he pleases; his sin of self-destruction is between himself and his god, and yet we grieve at such a sad exit. the very same man who shudders at the uncanny thought of another's self-murder will uphold the killing of a dumb brute to satiate the "human" palate. the animal does not want to die yet the intelligent man who has a "merciful loving god" makes murder permissible taking his authority from the book he calls "the sacred bible." the proverbs, the psalms, the sermon on the mount, and many other portions of the good book are beautiful, and no doubt the writers of the select passages were inspired, but the evil spirit was surely predominant in the man who depicted the prince of peace, in all his humility, as a flesh eater. * * * * * a pitiful story to be told about a little girl whose father was supposed to be very devout, and in whose residence the motto, "godi s now here i nour home" adorned the wall, confusedly printed by her illiterate parent. one beautiful day, as all nature seemed in perfect harmony, the child strolled to the barnyard where the hired man was killing the petted calf preparatory to having a great feast in honor of the son, returning from a western college of theology. a thought struck the child as she saw the life blood of an innocent animal ebbing away, through a horrible knife wound. she hastened back to her father's home, sad but wiser, and appropriately divided the motto on the wall: god is no where in our home. or as daniel interpreted king belshazzar's dream, the thinking child weighed her papa in the balances and found him very much wanting in god principle. many so-called pious people throughout the land condemn theaters, dancing, sociable drinking, prize-fighting, card playing, pastime smoking, sunday recreation, the innocent custom of santa claus and the comic supplements of our sunday newspapers, yet none of these pleasures and pastimes could be half so abominable and sinful as the encouragement of slaughter. * * * * * every church member construes the scriptures to please his own individuality; sometimes he construes literally but when the passage does not coincide with his appetite or manner of living he invariably finds a figurative meaning. * * * * * we justify almost any sort of life by the holy bible, but we cannot pull the blinds over the eyes of conscience. * * * * * the women's christian temperance union cannot influence towards reformation effectively; the women of this religious order are trying to defeat liquor and cigarette traffic, yet loth to realize under their profession of christianity, they are sinners greater than either the unfortunate cigarette fiend or the drunkard, because they all admit the horror of killing, at the same time relishing a mess of carrion, thereby virtually encouraging the killer to kill more. the tiger pounces upon the giraffe and rides it to death, all the while tearing the flesh from the bleeding animal; the puma pounces upon the mountain goat; the hyena tears the entrails from its living prey and the cat pounces upon the beautiful song bird and takes its innocent life--where is your merciful, loving, personal god? * * * * * the religionist who lives on hallucination or believes that faith alone "is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," and will not reason, is living in the dark ages still. * * * * * if one desires going into absolute truth concerning the killing of helpless animals, he may justly condemn the wearing of leather shoes, gloves, etc., all of which are worn contrary to nature's law. * * * * * the self-styled religious element send missionaries to foreign lands to spread the gospel of love when they, themselves, as well as those they send, are insufficiently human to recognize the brutality of slaughter. * * * * * take man to the slaughter house to view the butchery, and then if he contends god created helpless, dumb brutes for the slaughter pen, he is positively heartless. if he shudders to witness the hideous butchery, that proves conclusively that god is not omnipresent. if man wishes to disregard spirituality and remain an agnostic, infidel or an atheist, that is his privilege and he may continue eating carrion and encouraging slaughter, from the lower animal plane, but when he steps over the threshold into religion and affiliates with the churches and talks of man's pre-eminence above the beast he must of necessity be in sympathy with his dumb fellow creatures and abstain from flesh-eating to discourage all things not in harmony with god. (higher self). * * * * * does it not hurt the innocent lamb when you cut its little throat? does it not hurt the little calf when you take its tender life? does it not hurt the cow when you wield the axe with tremendous force against its forehead? does it not hurt the sheep when in the agonies of death? does it not hurt when the goat pitifully gurgles the sound "oh lord," as its life-blood is passing the butcher's knife? if pain does attend this horrible inhumanity of man, what right then has he to establish for himself a god in heaven when in reality he hath no more feeling in his miserable carcass than hath the cannibal of the uncivilized isles. * * * * * all things may be possible to god, but the idea of placing the breath of life into our fellow-beings to be snuffed out by a superior intellectual animal is the absurdest of all absurdities. dancing, theater-going, rag-time music, and all other pleasures to kill the monotony of daily routine, are under the ban of the churches. we carry ourselves aloof from these awful (?) sins and walk in the attitude of solemnity to impress almighty god with our piety. we preach against liquor and tobacco while we ourselves are addicted to the use of tea and coffee (stimulants). we condemn everything we ourselves do not care for and we jealously admonish others to be just like us. now if dancing, theater-going, rag-time music, etc., and the immoralities of life are sins of venial proportion, of what colossal magnitude must be the sin of taking life we cannot restore and how immeasurably hellish are the churches that uphold the killing in the name of a merciful god! * * * * * the dumb animals were created by nature same as man (except that we are a little above the animal in intellect), and have a divine right to live out their respective allotted time same as man (minister, church-goer or layman.) * * * * * the buddhist who regards all animal life sacred is on the right path to spirituality, while the carnivorous jew, catholic and protestant are drifting in the rut of dark age fantasy and fanaticism. questions and answers q. are you not a little bit radical on the subject of humanitarianism? a. to you i may be "a little bit radical" because i oppose all religions (yours inclusive) which make mankind selfish and unfeeling. q. if the bible teaches me to slay and eat have i not a right to eat flesh? a. yes, a legal right and your bible right, but not a moral right. q. do not some people believe it is right to slay and eat lower animals? a. yes, from their palate, but all honorable conscientious men see a wrong in taking life. q. has not environment throughout one's life something to do with our eating of flesh? a. yes, but come out of it and be in line with a grander, nobler and consistent life. lay aside your palate and let your conscience rule. q. is not the devil in your philosophy? a. it seems so to you because it is an exposé of churchianity, proving beyond question the nothingness of the flesh eating religionist's piety. q. suppose man lives in a country where he cannot find vegetarian food? a. then he might be justified in eating flesh to preserve his life. q. if there is no personal god, who created this world? a. it is a scientific proposition, and so acknowledged by all thinking men. q. do church people get angry at your philosophy? a. yes, sometimes, as when their conscience is seared by a hot iron. q. have not vegetables life? a. not life which suffers an evident pain nor do they flee when you threaten to pluck them. such a question is invariably asked by a carnivorous wiseacre. q. why are all vegetarians lank, lean and skinny? a. because you like the taste of meat and intend to continue eating it. q. i know animals have fear and pain, but supposing god did place them on earth for man to slay and eat, what then? a. "god" is no better then than your "devil." q. what were animals created for? a. what were you created for? q. what is your conception of god? a. nature. higher self--conscience. q. do you not kill insects when you drink water; and do you not cripple and trample harmless bugs to death with every step you take? a. yes, but involuntarily and not with pre-meditation and not selfishly to satisfy an inhuman desire or appetite. q. would you "swat" a fly or kill a flea or a snake? a. if a pest or venomous reptile disturbed my peace and quiet i would be justified in protecting myself. q. is not the survival of the fittest a natural law; consequently being superior i may slay and eat? a. that's your idea because the "fittest" is yourself--in your own estimation and power; but there's no godliness in such a contention. it is your selfish conclusion that might is right at the expense of sentient life. q. do i not work hard and do i not know that i need meat to sustain me in my manual labor? do i not know what my system needs. a. your system does not require food which must come from a murdered animal! when you contend that you must subsist on flesh, you know not whereof you speak. you are talking to uphold your inhuman appetite. q. where would medical research be were it not for vivisection (torture) and killing animals for experiment in the interest of science? a. i do not know, but i do know scientific men have not a moral right to torture and kill harmless, helpless animals. experimenting in surgery, etc., should be done on humans who believe in the advancement of medical science at the expense of life. q. do you object to the infidel eating flesh food? a. i do not object to anyone eating flesh food--eat whatever you like, but i do point out the wrong of taking life and i emphatically say the religious institution upholding slaughter is a farce and a pharisaical monument to a man-made deity. q. do you actually consider flesh eating the most abominable of sins? a. yes, absolutely the most abominable. q. what do you think of religious emotionalism and ecstasy? a. if from the mouth of a carnivorous worshipper it is sham and pretense--a mockery. q. is not your feeling toward animals mawkish sentimentality? a. there is no such thing as mawkish sentimentality in decrying inhumanity. q. do not the lower animals prey upon one another, and do not the big fish eat the little fish? a. you profess to be above the inferior animals and you profess to have a soul; you also have a golden rule supposed to have been handed down by a kind and merciful creator. q. what shall we do with all the animals if we do not kill them? a. is that why you eat flesh? q. do you really think carnivorous churchites are not of god? a. i don't _think_ it, i _know_ it _absolutely_, because i know it is wrong to kill and i know they know it and i know they search the scriptures for "proof" to satisfy palate while conscience rebels. q. what do you think of a religionist who says, "i am living under a new dispensation since christ came and went, and i now eat anything the lord sets before me?" a. if he means he can eat at the expense of sentient life he is not a godly man; he is not living in harmony with the golden rule; he is not living according to the promptings of a higher self, consequently the god spirit is dormant. the church carnivora's favorite bible quotations to justify his inhumanity are invariably quoted from a petrified conscience and the region of the palate. here are several of the passages: "there is nothing from without a man, entering into him can defile him; but the things which come out of him, those are they that defile the man." * * * * * "for one believeth that he may eat all things; another, who is weak, eateth herbs. but to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean to him it is unclean." * * * * * "now the spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils. speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron; commanding to abstain from meats, which god hath created to be received with thanksgiving of them, which believe and know the truth. for every creature of god is good, and nothing to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving; for it is sanctified by the word of god and prayer." * * * * * "in a trance i saw a vision; a certain vessel descend as it had been a great sheet let down from heaven by four corners. i considered and saw four-footed beasts of the earth and beasts and creeping things and fowls of the air; and a voice said unto me, arise, peter, slay and eat." in and between the lines the bible says: be not among eaters of flesh. the bible says: it is better to hear the rebuke of the wise than to hear the hymns of fools. the bible says: if an animal dieth of itself do not eat it but give it to thy neighbor and let him eat thereof. the bible says: who knoweth that the spirit of man goeth upward and the spirit of the beast goeth downward? the bible says: your stomachs are an open sepulchre. the bible says: blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. the bible says: prove all things and hold fast of that which is good. the bible says: do not be as the hypocrites are, testifying in public places and yet living apart from god. the bible says: reason is too high for a fool. the bible says: he that follows after mercy findeth life. the bible says: the wise man's eyes are in his head (he reasons), but the fool's eyes are neither here nor there, he walketh in darkness. the bible says: when a man's ways are in harmony with higher consciousness he maketh his enemies be at peace with him. the bible says: the spirit of god made samson a murderer. the bible says: the beasts of the field shall honor me. the bible says: fool thou art to believe all that the prophets have said. the bible says: god sent plagues to torment his people. the bible says: shed not innocent blood. the bible says: praise the lord every living creature--the beasts of the field, the birds of the air and earth, the fish of the waters and all mankind. the bible says: thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. the bible says: thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting. the bible says: there are many false lords and false gods the people are worshipping. the bible says: come now, let us reason together. the bible says: faith without works is dead. the bible says: he that killeth an ox is as if he slew a human. the bible says: beast and man have one breath; so that man hath no pre-eminence above the beast; as one dieth so dieth the other. the bible says: thou hast neither part nor lot in this matter for thy heart is not right in the sight of god. the bible says: every moving thing that liveth (grain, fruits, vegetables, nuts, etc.) shall be food for you, but flesh with the life thereof which is blood shall ye not eat. the bible says: god blessed every creature. the bible says: behold i have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of the earth and every tree, on the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for food. the bible says: all that cry lord, lord, are not of god. the bible says: they shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain. the bible says: i am god, i change not. the bible says: do a little consistent heart cleaning so that the human mind's eye shall be spiritual to see and segregate right from wrong. the bible says: christ taught love, leniency, forgiveness, tenderness and mercy. the bible says: dead flies cause the apothecary's ointment to send forth a stinking savour. capital punishment or legalized murder is another miscarriage of consistency; it does not dovetail into mercy and it does not blend into the law that god has given man an allotted time upon the earth. what right have twelve jurors to virtually cancel the life of a murderer? incarcerate the offender under a life sentence with proper food and training, and ultimately that murderer's heart and soul might be purer than judge, jurors and all connected with the courts of justice. * * * * * if a criminal under excitement or cool pre-meditation takes the life of a human being, the cool, considerate jurors, responsible for the death penalty, are just as guilty of murder as the prisoner. * * * * * the butcher is rejected as a juror on a murder trial on the ground that his business has hardened his heart, and yet the judge of the superior court, the sheriff and his deputies and the eligible jurors all eat of the beef the butcher slaughters. * * * * * despite the protests that may come to the surface in reading the inspired, pointed truths, the fact should be reiterated that justice, kindness and mercy for every living creature is in the heart and soul of the true religionist. the sand-blind carnivorous faith curist (who reads his bible through a pair of eye-glasses not made by god almighty) tells us of a divine healing power. we hear many testimonies from the lips of these people praising this wonderful (?) curative agency, but when sensibly considered we know the "power" removes only visionary ills. imaginary tumors, etc., hypochondria and other nervous troubles readily yield to this mythical physician, but no disease or defect in reality, can be removed until we remove the physical cause. if we continue living regardless of natural health laws all the "belief" and all the "faith" and all the "blood" cannot offset the inevitable result of continued disobedience. they sometimes speculate as to the stubbornness and apparent incurability of an ailment and finally lay the blame to a spiritual insufficiency. ridiculous! * * * * * mankind is filled with patriotism when a victorious war is ended, forgetting the awful gloom pervading some poor mother's home. the higher self should make us grieve with those that grieve rather than be exultant at the loss or downfall of any nation. we should love all nations and nationalities as we do our own, and be bound together by inseparable bonds, realizing that we all must pass to the final tomb of man on the same level. a bow of horse hair coming in contact with the gut strings of a violin produces exquisite harmony that thrills every fibre of our being with ecstasy. we can attribute the melody to the spirit of the deceased animal appealing to the human heart. strange that after life has departed we can charm the muses with tones produced on a stringed instrument. what human being has ever bequeathed to the world a substance to awaken the emotions of our soul through concord of sweet sounds like unto the gut of a deceased animal? evidently there is more harmony in the entrails of lower creatures than we find in the entire carcass of religious civilized carnivorous man. * * * * * the scientist who upholds painful experimental surgery in the interest of science should give over his own body for experiment instead of encouraging the cruelties of vivisection. it hurts being "cut to pieces," consequently the heartless scientific fellow, instead of offering his own body for the dissecting table, tortures a poor friendless dog or other animal. the horrible suffering thousands of helpless creatures have undergone through the process of vivisection is heartrending. there should be stringent law against such inhumanity. a devout (?) admonition. e. e. kusel, los angeles, cal. sir: i read your "humanitarian philosophy" booklet and i take it as a mass of devil talk. it is not in favor of the holy bible and it says it is wrong to kill animals. this is crossing god's word. you say it says swine meat is forbidden. that is the only true statement in your book but that is the law for the jews only. you say it says thou shalt not kill; of course it does, and that has references to the human family only. you say the religious man that does not shudder at the works of a butcher is heartless and godless. you tell a falsehood there. i have been a believer fifteen years and i know all animals were made for man. i can see the devil has a powerful influence over you as it had over voltaire, paine, ingersoll, edison, hubbard and other non-believers. you infidels preach against god's bible and will be burned in the everlasting fires of hell for it. you will be glad to have a drop of cold water in your suffering, but god will not have mercy--it will be too late then. hell is full of agnostics and infidels and non-believers burning and suffering and i warn you to have a care as to what you say. the catholics and christian scientists are as much of the devil's doings as you are, so you'll have company if you do not repent of your infidelity. you are adding to god's word and it is punishable by his wrath (rev. : .) your book is a lot of lies and infidelity. n. s. w. birmingham, ala., jan. , . a reply. mr. n. s. w., birmingham, ala. my dear sir: in reply to your letter of jan. th, concerning my "humanitarian philosophy," i wish to candidly tell you that i am not at all afraid of your sort of god. the god i worship is not very likely to materialize in a selfish fanatical subject, but always comes to the surface in the heart and soul of honorable, conscientious thinking men--men who either profess nothing and live according to custom or in men who profess religion and uphold their god as kind, loving and merciful. this latter man is an ethical vegetarian and will not accept the cruelties and inconsistencies of the bible but says "it is an error in translation." as to the lower animals, one preying upon the other, the conscientious, devout bible believer presents the theory of his own freeing god almighty from the sinful responsibility. he divides bible truth from bible error--he accepts the lofty and beautiful and holds fast to that which is good. if you intend to preach a gospel of love you will find it an utter impossibility to do so if you do not live a humanitarian life--a life that forbids the killing of any thing that suffers pain, and fear of death as you yourself may sometimes suffer. in conclusion i wish to impress you with the fact that your letter is sufficient proof that you read the bible in a haphazard style and know not its contents. every assertion, every quotation and every conclusion in my "humanitarian philosophy," my dear sir, is absolutely true and justified. respectfully, e. e. kusel. from the w. a. t. l. the tobacco smoking on street cars has been very much discussed in your valuable paper recently. now, i will suggest that all persons who object to the poisonous effects of tobacco register a protest every chance they get and spend some good money, as i am doing, to back up their argument against the most deadly plant used by human beings. there is no traffic so degrading in its influence and effect as tobacco. it goes hand in hand with liquor, and when we stop the youth of the land from using the weed, then the saloon will have no customers. g. l. r. founder world's anti-tobacco league, los angeles, cal. (from los angeles herald.) the "worst" sin. the church element construe the bible to blend into their own desires and appetites and then in the name of their god (little g) they commit every iniquity under the sun, the most abominable of which is the eating of "a beef which has been battered in the head by the blow of an ax or mutton which has had its throat cut from ear to ear." get yourself in touch with the infinite and you will see that the taking of animal life for food is a greater sin than smoking, drinking or satisfying animal desires. the three last named are only sinning against the body but not commendable by any means, while the first is the horrible sin of taking life. carnivorous reader (church people included) think these lines over well and then move thy tongue seven times before thou speakest of sin! e. e. kusel. los angeles, cal. (from los angeles herald.) man and beast. what queer and wild notions religious faddists get into their heads. t. j. w. wants us to quit killing cattle and hogs, etc., in fact all kinds of animals and birds because god has put them on earth. i would like mr w. to tell us what would become of us if we followed his advice. why, the animals would crowd man off the earth in a short while. the farmer could not raise any crops. cattle, deer, hares and sheep would eat his grain, the coyotes his chickens and the lions would eat him. c. v. pasadena, cal. (from los angeles herald.) vegetarian's reply. if you please, mr. v., i am not a "religious faddist." i am not religious at all. i am a firm believer in the golden rule, applying it to man and beast. in reply to your query, mr. v. i will answer briefly: self-preservation is the first law of nature, so protect yourself against the presumed invasion of tame and wild beasts, birds, etc., but do not presume we have the right to take life of anything which endures pain or runs away from impending danger unless occasion calls for it. my letter to the herald, if you please, was for those who profess to be godly and "in the kingdom." religious people must be strictly humane or they are minus the god character and their profession is either a phantom or hypocrisy. of course men like yourself, who are afraid of being crowded off the earth, have a special self-given right to raise and cruelly slaughter any living creature for eating. meat eating will continue until the end of the world, no doubt, but the humanitarian will not eat it; it will be devoured by ungodly church people and outsiders who like the flavor of flesh food, regardless of the wrong of premeditated killing. t. j. w. compton, cal. (from los angeles herald.) * * * * * transcriber's notes obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. the repetition of the headings "questions and answers" on five and "in and between the lines" on three consecutive pages has been removed. italics are represented thus _italics_. scamp and i a story of city by-ways by l.t. meade published by john f. shaw and co, paternoster row, london ec. this edition dated . scamp and i, by l.t. meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ scamp and i, by l.t. meade. chapter one. i'd choose to be a queen. the time was the height of the london season for ; the height of that gay time when the parks, and streets, and shops are full, when pleasure-promoters are busy keeping up a fresh supply of every form of entertainment, when pleasure-seekers are flocking to the garden parties, and strawberry parties, the operas, and theatres, and all other amusements provided for them; when the world--the world at least of regent street, and piccadilly, of eaton square, and all belgravia--looks so rich and prosperous, so full of life and all that makes life enjoyable. it was that gay time when no one thinks of gloom, when ambitious men dream of fame, and vain women of vanity, when the thoughtless think less than any other time, and when money seems to be the one god that rules in every breast. this was the time in the merry month of may, when one afternoon, at the hour when regent street is brightest and fullest, a little ragged urchin of about ten pushed his way boldly through the crowd of carriages and people surrounding swan and edgar's, and began staring eagerly and fearlessly in at the windows. he was the only ragged child, the only representative of poverty, within sight, and he looked singularly out of place, quite a little shadow in the midst of the splendid carriages, and brilliant and prosperous men and women. the few who noticed him wondered languidly what brought him there, why he intruded his disreputable little person in the midst of scenes and people with which he never had, and never could have, anything in common. the little fellow seemed to guess the thoughts which a few in the crowd favoured him with, and in his own way to resent them. in and out among the rich and fashionable people his small head kept bobbing, his agile body kept pushing. he avoided the police, he escaped unhurt from under the impatient horses' legs, he was never stationary, and yet he was always there. he pressed his dirty little form against more than one fine lady's dress, and received more than one sharp reprimand, and sharper tap on the head, from the powdered and liveried footmen. still he held his ground and remained faithful to swan and edgar's. he was a dirty, troublesome little imp, but on his worn and prematurely old face might have been seen a curious, bright expression. those who looked at him might have pronounced him hungry, certainly poor, but, for the time being, not at all unhappy. round and round the splendid establishment he dodged rather than walked, examining with a critical eye the mantles and costumes on view in the windows; then he carefully looked over and reckoned the carriages, gazed up with a full, bright, impudent stare into the face of more than one proud and titled dame, and at last, apparently satisfied, turned his back on the gay shop and gay crowd, and set off down regent street at a swinging pace. presently, by means of a series of short cuts, he found himself in old compton street, from thence he proceeded through seven dials into a street which we will call duncan street. he had come this distance very quickly, and had withstood several temptations to linger on his road. a band of musical niggers, who danced, and sang, and played the bones, had waylaid him in vain; his own particular chum, jenks, had met him, and called to him to stop, but he had not obeyed; the shrimp man, who always gave him a handful, had come directly in his path. he had paused for nothing, and now dashing headlong, not into a house, but through a hole in the pavement, down a slippery ladder, into a cellar, he called out "flo." from the bright sunshine outside, the gloom of this place, lit by the flickering flame of one tallow candle, was profound. its roof was on a level with the road, its floor several feet below the gas-pipes and sewage; it had no window, and its only means of light and ventilation was through the narrow opening in the pavement, against which a ladder was placed. the ragged boy, rushing down these steps, made his way to a cobbler's stool, in the middle of the room, on which was seated a little girl busily repairing an old boot, while a heap of boots and shoes, apparently in the last stage of decay, were scattered round her. this child, a year or so younger than the boy, had the utterly colourless appearance of a flower shut away from the sunshine. "flo," said her companion eagerly. a little voice, very thin, but just as eager, responded with,-- "yes, dick dear." "is you up to a bit o' 'joyment this 'ere blessed minit, flo?" "oh, dick! _is_ it the shops, and the picters, and the fine ladies? _is_ it, dick?" "yes; queens, and ladies, and lords goin' about in golden carriages, and shops full up to bustin', and we a standin' and a lookin' on. better'n wittles, eh?" "oh yes, dick!" she threw aside the old boot, held out her dirty little hand to dick, and together the children scampered up the broken, rickety ladder into the air and light of day. "now, flo, you 'as got to put your best foot forrard, 'cos we 'as a goodish bit o' a way to tramp it. then i'll plant you front o' me, flo; and when we gets there, you never mind the perleece, but look yer fill. oh, my heyes! them is hosses!" flo, seen by daylight, had brown eyes, very large and soft; curling, golden brown hair, and a sweet gentle little face. had she been a lady she would have been pronounced a lovely child, and in all probability would have been a lovely child, but her cellar-life had produced sharp shoulders, a complexion of greyish-white, and a certain look of premature age and wisdom, which all children so brought up possess. she raised her hand now to shade her face, as though the daylight pained her, looked round eagerly, then tightened her clasp of dick. "is there blue, and yaller, and red, and majinta dresses in them 'ere winders, dick? and is there lace on 'em? and is there welwet and silk dresses, dick?" dick winked, and looked mysterious. "silk gownds, and satin gownds, and welwet gownds," he replied, "and gownds--some trimmed with wot looks like paper cut into 'oles, and gownds made o' little round 'oles hall over. and the bonnets in them shops! my heyes, flo! them bonnets 'ave got about hevery bird in saint martin's lane killed and stuffed, and stuck in 'em. but come," he added, hastily bringing his vivid description to a close, "the lords and ladies will be gone." he held the slight little fingers placed in his, with a firm hold, and together they trotted swiftly from their dark saint giles's cellar, to the bright fairy-land of regent street. there were plenty of people, and carriages, and grand ladies and gentlemen still there; and the dresses were so fine, and the feathers so gay, that flo, when she found herself really in their midst, was speechless, and almost stunned. she had dreamed of this day for months--this day, when dick was to show her the other side of london life, and she had meant when the time came to enter into it all, to realise it if possible. she and dick were to carry out quite a pretty play; they were to suppose _themselves_ a grand lady and gentleman; flo was to single out the nicest looking and most beautifully dressed lady present, and imagine _herself_ that lady; those clothes were _her_ clothes, those silken dresses, those elegant boots and gloves, that perfect little bonnet, were all flo's; the carriage with its spirited horses was hers, and the fine gentleman with the splendid moustache seated by her side, was none other than dick. they had arranged the whole programme; the carriage was to drive off rapidly--where? well, _first_ dick said they would stop at a restaurant, and instead of, as the real flo and dick did, standing a sniffin' and a sniffin' outside, they would walk boldly in, and order--well, beef, and potatoes, and plum-pudding were vulgar certainly, but once in a way they _would_ order these for dinner. then back in the carriage to swan and edgar's, where flo would have the creamiest of silk dresses, and a new bonnet with a pink tip, and dick, who was supposed to be in perfect attire as it was, would talk loudly of "my tailor," and buy the most beautiful flower, from the first flower-girl he met, to put in his button-hole. then at night they would have a box at the theatre. their whole plan was very brilliantly constructed, and dick, having got flo into a capital position, just opposite a row of lovely dresses, with carriages close up to the footway, and grand ladies sweeping against her tattered gown each moment, was very anxious for her to begin to carry out their play. "come, flo," he said, giving her a nudge. "s'pose a bit, flo. which fine lady'll yer be? look at that 'ere little 'un, in blue and white, i guess she's an hearl's wife. come, flo, choose to be her. i'll be the hearl, and you the hearl's wife, flo." "be hearls the biggest swells?" asked flo. dick opened his eyes. "bless us!" he said. "why, flo, i'm 'shamed o' yer hignorance. why there's markises, and dooks, and there's kings and queens--all them's bigger than hearls, flo." "is queens the biggest of all swells?" asked flo. "sartinly, they be the biggest woman swells." "then, dick, i'll s'pose to be the biggest swell, i'll s'pose to be a queen. find me hout a queen to take pattern of, dick." "oh! flo, there ain't none yere, there be but one queen, flo, and 'ers away, locked hup at bucknam palace. you can't s'pose to be the queen, flo, but i guess we'll be the hearl and the hearl's wife, and let us s'pose now as we is turnin' in fur our dinners, and the kivers is orf the roast beef, and the taters is 'ot and mealy, and a whackin' big puddin' is to foller." at this juncture, when dick's imagination was running riot over his supposed dinner, and flo's little face was raised to his with a decided gesture of dissent, a hand was laid familiarly on his shoulder, and turning quickly he discerned the smiling, mischievous face of his friend jenks. "wot ails the young 'un?" said jenks. dick was ashamed of his play beside his tall friend (jenks was fourteen), and answered hastily-- "nothing." but flo replied innocently, and in an injured tone-- "i wants fur to be a queen, and there is no queens hout this arternoon fur me to take pattern of." the black eyes of jenks sparkled more mischievously than ever; but he liked flo, and knew she was fond of supposing herself a great lady. "look at that 'ere 'oman," he said, pointing to a stout old lady in black velvet and white lace shawl; "s'pose you is 'er, flo. my heyes! wot a precious big swell you would look in that 'ere gownd." here dick and jenks both laughed uproariously, but the ambitious little flo still answered in a fretful tone-- "i'll not be that 'ere swell, i'll choose to be a queen." "then come along both o' yers," said jenks, "and see the queen. she 'ave got to pass hout of bucknam palace in arf an 'our, on 'er way to victoria station. come, flo, i'll 'old yer 'and. come, dick, old pal." the children, only too delighted to be seen anywhere in jenks's company, followed eagerly, and led by their clever friend down several by-ways, soon found themselves in the midst of the crowd which had already collected outside buckingham palace gates to see the queen. flo was excited and trembling. _now_ she should behold with her own eyes the biggest swell in all the world, and for ever after in her dark saint giles's cellar she could suppose, and go over in her imagination, the whole scene. no vulgar "dook" or "markis" could satisfy flo's ambition; when she soared she would soar high, and when she saw the queen she would really know how to act the queen to perfection. so excited was she that she never observed that she was really alone in the crowd, that jenks and dick had left her side. she was a timid child, not bold and brazen like many of her class, and had she noticed this she would have been too frightened even to look out for the greatest woman in the world. but before she had time to take in this fact there was a cheer, a glittering pageant passed before flo's eyes,--she had never seen the life guards before!--a carriage appeared amidst other carriages, a lady amidst other ladies, and some instinct told the child that this quietly-dressed, dignified woman was the queen of england. the eager crowd had pushed the little girl almost to the front, and the queen, bowing graciously on all sides, looked for an instant full at flo. she was probably unconscious of it, but the child was not. her brown eyes sparkled joyfully; she had seen the queen, and the _queen had seen her_. they were to meet again. chapter two. a hot supper. when the royal carriage had passed by, the crowd immediately scattered, and then for the first time flo perceived that she was deserted by her companions. she looked to right and left, before and behind her, but the little rough and ragged figures she sought for were nowhere visible. she was still excited by the sight she had witnessed, and was consequently not much frightened though it did occur to her to wonder how ever she should find her way home again. she turned a few steps,-- saint james's park with the summer sunshine on it lay before her. she sat down on the grass, and pulled a few blades and smelt them--they were withered, trampled, and dry, but to flo their yellow, sickly green was beautiful. she gathered a few more blades and tucked them tenderly into the bosom of her frock--they would serve to remind her of the queen, they had sprouted and grown up within sight of the queen's house, perhaps one day the queen had looked at them, as to-day she had looked at flo. the child sat for half-an-hour unperceived, and therefore undisturbed, drinking in the soft summer air, when suddenly a familiar voice sounded in her ears, and the absent figures danced before her. "i say, flo, would yer like somethink _real_, not an ony s'pose?" flo raised her eyes and fixed them earnestly on dick. "no, dick," she replied slowly, "there beant but one queen, and i've seen the queen, and she's beautiful and good, and she looked at me, dick, and i'm not a goin' to take 'er place, so i'll be the hearl's wife please, dick dear." the two boys laughed louder than ever, and then jenks, coming forward and bowing obsequiously, said in a mock serious tone-- "will my lady countess, the hearl's wife, conderscend to a 'elpin' o' taters and beef along o' her 'umble servants, and will she conderscend to rise orf this 'ere grass, as hotherwise the perleece might feel obligated to give 'er in charge, it being contrary to the rules, that even a hearl's wife should make this 'ere grass 'er cushion." considerably frightened, as jenks intended she should be, flo tumbled to her feet, and the three children walked away. dick nudged his sister and looked intensely mysterious, his bright eyes were dancing, his shock of rough hair was pushed like a hay-stack above his forehead, his dirty freckled face was flushed. jenks preceded the brother and sister by a few steps, getting over the ground in a light and leisurely manner, most refreshing to the eyes of dick. "ain't 'ee a mate worth 'avin'?" he whispered to flo. "but wot about the meat and taters?" asked flo, who by this time was very hungry; "ain't it nothink but another `s'pose' arter all?" "wait and you'll see," replied dick with a broad grin. "here we 'ere," said jenks, drawing up at the door of an eating-house, not quite so high in the social scale as verrey's, but a real and substantial eating-house nevertheless. "now, my lady countess, the hearl's wife, which shall it be? smokin' 'ot roast beef and taters, or roast goose full hup to chokin' o' sage and onions? there, flo," he added, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking and looking like a different jenks, "you 'as but to say one or t'other, so speak the word, little matey." seeing that there was a genuine eating-house, and that jenks was in earnest, flo dropped her assumed character, and confessed that she had _once_ tasted 'ot fat roast beef, long ago in mother's time, but had never so much as _seen_ roast goose; accordingly that delicacy was decided on, and jenks having purchased a goodly portion, brought it into the outer air in a fair-sized wooden bowl, which the owner of the eating-house had kindly presented to him for the large sum of four pence. at sight of the tempting mess cooling rapidly in the breeze, all flo's housewifely instincts were awakened. "it won't be _'ot_ roast goose, and mother always did tell 'as it should be heat up 'ot," she said pitifully. "'ere, dick, 'ere's my little shawl, wrap it round it fur to keep it 'ot, do." flo's ragged scrap of a shawl was accordingly unfastened and tied round the savoury dish, and dick, being appointed bowl-bearer, the children trudged off as rapidly as possible in the direction of duncan street. they were all three intensely merry, though it is quite possible that a close observer might have remarked, that dick's mirth was a little forced. he laughed louder and oftener than either of the others, but for all that, he was not quite the same dick who had stared so impudently about him an hour or two ago in regent street. he was excited and pleased, but he was no longer a fearless boy. an hour ago he could have stared the world in the face, now even at a distant sight of a policeman he shrank behind jenks, until at last that young gentleman, exasperated by his rather sneaking manner, requested him in no very gentle terms not to make such a fool of himself. then dick, grinning more than ever, declared vehemently that "_'ee_ wasn't afraid of nothink, not 'ee." but just then something, or some one, gave a vicious pull to his ragged trouser, and he felt himself turning pale, and very nearly in his consternation dropping the dish, with that delicious supper. the cause of this alarm was a wretched, half-starved dog, which, attracted doubtless by the smell of the supper, had come behind him and brought him to a sense of his presence in this peremptory way. "no, don't 'it 'im," said flo, as jenks raised his hand to strike, for the pitiable, shivering creature had got up on its hind legs, and with coaxing, pleading eyes was glancing from the bowl to the children. "ain't 'ee just 'ungry?" said flo again, for her heart was moved with pity for the miserable little animal. "well, so is we," said dick in a fretful voice, and turning, he trudged on with his load. "come, flo, do," said jenks, "don't waste time with that little sight o' misery any more, 'ees ony a street cur." "no 'ee ain't," said flo half to herself, for jenks had not waited for her, "'ees a good dawg." "good-bye, good dawg," and she patted his dirty sides. "ef i wasn't so werry 'ungry, and ef dick wasn't the least bit in the world crusty, i'd give you a bite o' my supper," and she turned away hastily after jenks. "wy, i never! 'ee's a follerin' o' yer still, flo," said jenks. so he was; now begging in front of her, paying not the least attention to jenks--dick was far ahead--but fixing his starved, eager, anxious eyes on the one in whose tone he had detected kindness. "oh! 'ee _is_ starvin', i must give 'im one bite o' my supper," said flo, her little heart utterly melting, and then the knowing animal came closer, and crouched at her feet. "poor brute! hall 'is ribs is stickin' hout," said jenks, examining him more critically. "i 'spects 'ees strayed from 'ome. yer right, flo, 'ees not such a bad dawg, not by no means, 'ee 'ave game in 'im. i ses, flo, would you like to take 'im 'ome?" "oh, jenks! but wouldn't dick be hangry?" "never you mind dick, i'll settle matters wid 'im, ef you likes to give the little scamp a bite o' supper, you may." "may be scamp's 'ees name; see! 'ee wags 'is little tail." "scamp shall come 'ome then wid us," said jenks, and lifting the little animal in his arms, he and flo passed quickly through seven dials, into duncan street, and from thence, through a gap in the pavement, into the deep, black cellar, which was their home. chapter three. what the children promised their mother. in the cellar there was never daylight, so though the sun was shining outside, flo had to strike a match, and poking about for a small end of tallow candle, she applied it to it. then, seating herself on her cobbler's stool, while jenks and dick squatted on the floor, and scamp sat on his hind legs, she unpacked the yellow bowl; and its contents of roast goose, sage and onions, with a plentiful supply of gravy and potatoes, being found still hot, the gutter children and gutter dog commenced their supper. "i do think 'ees a dawg of the right sort," said jenks, taking scamp's head between his knees. "we'll take 'im round to maxey, and see wot 'ee ses, dick." "arter supper?" inquired dick indistinctly, for his mouth was full. "no, i wants you arter supper for somethink else; and look yere, dick, i gives you warning that ef you gets reg'lar in the blues, as you did this arternoon, i'll 'ave no callin' to you." "i'll not funk," said dick, into whose spirit roast goose had put an immense accession of courage. "lor! bless yer silly young heyes, where 'ud be yer supper ef you did? no, we'll go on hour bis'ness to-night, and we'll leave the little dawg with flo. he's lost, por little willan, and 'ave no father nor mother. he's an horfan, is scamp, and 'as come to us fur shelter." the boys and girl laughed, the supper, however good and plentiful, came to an end, and then dick in rather a shamefaced way prepared to follow jenks; the two lads ran up the ladder and disappeared, and flo stood still to watch them with a somewhat puzzled look on her woman's face. she was eight years old, a very little girl in any other rank of life, but in this saint giles's cellar she was a woman. she had been a woman for a whole year now; ever since her mother died, and she had worked from morning to night for her scanty living, she had put childish things away, and taken on herself the anxieties, the hopes, and fears, of womanhood. dick was ten, but in reality, partly on account of her sex, partly on account of the nature within her, flo was much older than her little brother. it was she who worked all day over those old shoes and boots, translating them, for what she called truly "starvegut" pay, into new ones. it was dick's trade, but flo really did the work, for he was always out, looking, as he said, for better employment. but the better employment did not come to dick, perhaps because dick did not know how to come to it, and flo's little fingers toiled bravely over this hard work, and the wolf was barely kept from the door. her mother had taught her the trade, and she was really a skilful little work-woman. comforted now by her good meal, by her run in the open air, by the wonderful sights, and by the crowning sight of all she had seen; comforted also not a little by scamp's company, she resumed her employment. the dog, satisfied and well pleased, rolled himself up as close as possible to her ragged gown, and went to sleep; and flo, feeling sure that she would be now undisturbed, arranged quite a nice amusement for herself. she would begin supposing now in earnest. she had seen the queen, she had seen fine ladies, she knew at last what velvet and silk, what lace and feathers, what horses and carriages were like. she could suppose to any amount. she had no longer need to draw wholly on her own resources, she knew what the real things were, at last. she had a very vivid imagination, and she dropped her work, and her big brown eyes looked far away from the real and ugly things about her, to beautiful things elsewhere. but somehow, and this was strange, unpleasant thoughts would intrude, a present anxiety would shut away imaginary joys, and with a sigh the little girl resumed her work and her cares. her trouble was this. what railed dick? his embarrassment, his fear of the police, his forced mirth, had none of them escaped flo's observant eyes. generally he was the merriest little fellow in the world, but to-night, even while partaking of a supper that would have rejoiced any heart, even while eating those exasperatingly delicious morsels, he had been grave, subdued, and his laugh (for through it all he laughed constantly) had no true ring in it. he was also the bravest little boy possible; he had never in all his life funked any one or anything, and yet to-night at the sight of a policeman even in the far distance he had got in the most cowardly way behind jenks. there was some cause for this. there was also something else to be accounted for. how was that supper bought? where had the money come from? flo knew well that 'ot roast goose, with sage and onions, with taters and gravy, not to make any mention of the bowl that held them, had not been purchased for a few pence; so where, where had the money come from? dick had it not, and jenks, though _werry_ liberal, liberal to the amount of now and then presenting her with a whole red herring for their supper, was to all appearance as poor and as hard up as themselves. true, flo did not know how jenks made his living; his trade--for he told her he had a trade--was a secret, which he might enlighten her about some time, but certainly not at present. jenks got his money, what little money he had, in some mysterious way, of that there was no doubt. she thought over it all to-night, and very grave were her fears and suspicions. was it possible that jenks was a bad boy, and that he was teaching dick to be a bad boy? was it possible that jenks was not honest, and that the delicious supper they had just eaten was not honestly come by? what a pity if this was so, for 'ot roast goose _was_ so good. perhaps dick had helped some old lady to find a cab, and she had given him a shilling, and perhaps jenks, who was _werry_ good-natured, had kindly assisted some other body, and thus earned 'arf-a-crown; this sum would pay for their supper, good as it was! but no; had they earned the money in that way, they would have told flo, they would have been proud to tell flo, whereas the word money had never been mentioned at all between them! had dick got the money rightly he would have been only too glad to speak of it; so it was clear to flo that in some wrong manner alone had it come into his possession! well! why should she care? they were very poor, they were as low down in the world as they well could be; nobody loved them, nobody had ever taught them to do right. dick and flo were "horfans," same as scamp was an orphan. the world was hard on them, as it is on all defenceless creatures. if dick _could_ "prig" something from that rich and greedy world that was letting them both starve, would it be so very wrong? if he could do this without the police finding out, without fear of discovery, would it not be rather a good and easy way of getting breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers? for surely some people had _too_ much; surely it was not fair that all those buns and cakes, all those endless, countless good things in the west end shops should go to the rich people; surely the little hungry boys and girls who lived, and felt, and suffered in the east end should have their share! and if only by stealing they could taste roast goose, was it very wrong, was it wrong at all to steal? flo knew nothing about god, she had never heard of the eighth commandment, but nevertheless, poor ignorant little child, she had a memory that kept her right, a memory that made it impossible for her, even had she really starved, to touch knowingly what was not her own. the memory was this. a year ago flo's mother had died in this cellar. she was a young woman, not more than thirty, but the damp of the miserable cellar, together with endless troubles and hardships, had fanned the seeds of consumption within her, and before her thirty-first birthday she had passed away. she knew she was dying, and in her poor way had done her best to prepare her children for her loss. she taught them both her trade, that of a translator,--not a literary translator, poor mrs darrell could not read,--but a translator of old boots and shoes into new; and flo and dick, young as they were, learned the least difficult and lighter parts of the business before her death. she had no money to leave them, no knowledge beyond that of her trade; she knew nothing of god or of heaven, but she had one deeply-instilled principle, and this she endeavoured by every means in her power to impart to the children. living in a place, and belonging to a grade of society, where _any_ honesty was rare, she was nevertheless a perfectly honest woman. she had never touched a penny that was not her own, she was just and true in all her dealings. she was proud of saying--and the pride had caused her sunken, dying eyes to brighten even at the last--that none of her belongings, however low they had fallen, had ever seen the inside of a prison, or ever stood in a prisoner's dock. they were honest people, and dick and flo must keep up the family character. come what might, happen what would, they must ever and always look every man in the face, with the proud consciousness, "i have stolen from none." on the night she died, she had called them both to her side, and got them to promise her this. with pathetic and solemn earnestness, she had held their little hands and looked into their little faces, and implored of them, as they loved their dead father and mother, never, never to disgrace the unstained name they had left to them. "'tis just hevery think," said the dying woman. "arter hall my 'ard life, 'tis real comfa'ble to look back on. remember, dick and flo, i dies trustin' yer. you'll never, wot hever 'appins, be jail-birds-- promise me that?" "never, mother," said flo, kissing her and weeping; and dick promised, and kissed her, and wept also, and then the two children climbed up on the bed and lay down one at each side of her, and the poor dying woman closed her eyes and was cheered by their words. "is you dying to-night, mother?" asked flo, gazing with awe at her clammy cold face. "yes, dearie." "where'll you be to-morrer, then, mother?" a shadow passed over the peaceful, ignorant face, the brown eyes, so like her little daughter's, were opened wide. "oh! i doesn't know--yes, it be _werry_ dark, but i guess it 'ull be all right." then after a pause, very slowly, "i doesn't mind the grave, i'd like a good bit o' a rest, for i'm awful--awful tired." before the morning came the weary life was ended, and dick and flo were really orphans. then the undertaker's men came, and a coffin was brought, and the poor, thin, worn body was placed in it, and hauled up by ropes into the outer world, and the children saw their mother no more. but they remembered her words, and tried hard to fight out an honest living for themselves. this was no easy task; it sent them supperless to bed, it gave them mouldy crusts for dinner, it gave them cold water breakfasts; still they persevered, flo working all day long at her cobbling, while dick, now tried a broom and crossing, now stood by the metropolitan stations waiting for chance errands, now presented himself at every shop where an advertisement in the window declared a boy was wanting, now wandered about the streets doing nothing, and occasionally, as a last resource, helped flo with her cobbling. but the damp, dark cellar was unendurable to the bright little fellow, and he had to be, as he himself expressed it, a goodish bit peckish before he could bear it. so flo uncomplainingly worked in the dismal room, and paid the small rent, and provided the greater part of the scanty meals, and dick thought this arrangement fair enough; "for was not flo a gel? _she_ could bear the lonely, dark, unwholesome place better'n him, who was a boy, would one day be a man, and--in course it was the place of womens to kep at 'ome." so flo stayed at home and was honest, and dick went abroad and was honest, and the consciousness of this made them both happy and contented. but about a month before this evening dick returned from his day's roaming very hungry as usual, but this time not alone, a tall boy with merry twinkling eyes accompanied him. he was a funny boy, and had no end of pleasant droll things to say, and dick and flo laughed, as they had not laughed since mother died. he brought his share of supper in his pocket, in the shape of a red herring, and a large piece of cold bacon, and the three made quite merry over it. before the evening came to an end he had offered to share the cellar, which was, he said, quite wasted on two, pay half the rent, and bring in his portion of the meals, and after a time, he whispered mysteriously, he would go "pardeners" with dick in his trade. "why not at once?" asked dick. "i'd like to be arter a trade as gives folks red 'errings and bacon fur supper." but jenks would neither teach his trade then, nor tell what it was; he however took up his abode in the cellar, and since his arrival flo was much more comfortable, and had a much less hard time. scarcely an evening passed that some dainty hitherto unknown did not find its way out of jenks's pocket. such funny things too. now it was a fresh egg, which they bored a tiny hole in, and sucked by turns; now a few carrots, or some other vegetables, which when eaten raw gave such a relish to the dry, hard bread; now some cherries; and on one occasion a great big cucumber. but this unfortunately flo did not like, as it made her sick, and she begged of jenks very earnestly not to waste no more money on cowcumburs. on the whole she and dick enjoyed his society very much. dick indeed looked on him with unfeigned admiration, and waited patiently for the day when he should teach him his trade. flo too wondered, and hoped it was a girl's trade, as anythink would be better and less hard than translating, and one day she screwed up all her courage, and asked jenks if it would be possible for him when he taught dick to teach her also. "wot?" said jenks eagerly; "you'd like to be bringin' carrots and heggs out o' yer pocket fur supper? eh!" "yes, jenks, i fell clemmed down yere, fur ever 'n ever." then jenks turned her round to the light, and gazed long into her innocent face, and finally declared that "she'd do; and he'd be blowed ef she wouldn't do better'n dick, and make her fortin quite tidy." so it was arranged that when dick learned, flo should learn also. she had never guessed what it meant, she had never the least clue to what it all was, until to-night. but now a glimmering of the real state of the case stole over her. that supper was not honestly come by, so far things were plain. once in his life dick had broken his word to his dying mother, once at least he had been a thief. this accounted for his forced mirth, for his shamefaced manner. he and jenks had stolen something, they were thieves. but perhaps--and here flo trembled and turned pale--perhaps there were worse things behind, perhaps the mysterious trade that jenks was to teach them both was the trade of a thief, perhaps those nice eggs and carrots, those red herrings and bits of bacon, were stolen. she shivered again at the thought. flo was, as i said, a totally ignorant child; she knew nothing of god, of christ, of the gospel. nevertheless she had a gospel and a law. that law was honesty, that gospel was her mother. she had seen so much pilfering, and small and great stealing about her, she had witnessed so many apparently pleasant results arising from it, so many little luxuries at other tables, and by other firesides, that the law that debarred her from these things had often seemed a hard law to her. nevertheless for her mother's sake she loved that law, and would have died sooner than have broken it. dick had loved it also. dick and she had many a conversation, when they sat over the embers in the grate last winter, on the virtues of honesty. in the end they felt sure honesty would pay. and dick told her lots of stories about the boys who snatched things off the old women's stalls, or carried bread out of the bakers' shops; and however juicy those red apples were, and however crisp and brown those nice fresh loaves, the boys who took them had guilty looks, had downcast faces, and had constant fear of the police in their hearts. and dick used to delight his sister by informing her how, ragged and hungry as he was, he feared nobody, and how intensely he enjoyed staring a "p'leece-man" out of countenance. but to-night dick had been afraid of the "p'leece." tears rolled down flo's cheeks at the thought. how she wished she had never tasted that 'ot roast goose, but had supped instead off the dry crust in the cupboard! "i'm feared as mother won't lay com'fable to-night," she sobbed, "that is, ef mother knows. oh! i wish as dick wasn't a thief. s'pose as it disturbs mother; and she was so awful tired." the little girl sobbed bitterly, longing vainly that she had stayed at home in her dark cellar, that she had never gone with dick to regent street, had never seen those fine dresses and feathers, those grand ladies and gentlemen, above all, that in her supposing she had not soared so high, that she had been content to be a humble hearl's wife, and had not wished to be the queen; for when flo had seen the great queen of england going by, then must have been the moment when dick first learned to be a thief. chapter four. a dog and his story. if ever a creature possessed the knowledge which is designated "knowing," the dog scamp was that creature. it shone out of his eyes, it shaped the expression of his countenance, it lurked in every corner and crevice of his brain. his career previous to this night was influenced by it, his career subsequent to this night was actuated by it. only once in all his existence did it desert him, and on that occasion his life was the forfeit. but as then it was a pure and simple case of heart preponderating over head, we can scarcely blame the dog, or deny him his full share of the great intellect which belongs to the knowing ones. on this evening he was reaping the fruits of his cleverness. he had just partaken of a most refreshing meal, he had wormed himself into what to him were very fair quarters, and warmed, fed, and comforted, was sleeping sweetly. by birth he was a mongrel, if not a pure untainted street cur; he was shabby, vulgar, utterly ugly and common-place looking. he had however good eyes and teeth, and both these advantages of nature he was not slow in availing himself of. by the pathos of his eyes, and a certain knack he had of balancing himself on the hinder part of his body, he had won flo's pity, and secured a shelter and a home. he guessed very accurately the feelings of his hosts and hostess towards him. dick's hospitality was niggardly and forced, jenks made him welcome to his supper, for he regarded him with an eye to business, but flo gave him of her best, from pure kindness of heart. the wise dog therefore resolved to take no notice of dick, to avoid jenks, and as much as possible to devote himself to flo. he had passed through a terrible day, had scamp. in the morning he had been led out to execution. to avoid the dog-tax, his master, who truth to tell had never regarded him with much affection, had decreed that scamp should be drowned. in vain had the poor faithful creature, who loved his brutal master, notwithstanding the cruel treatment to which he so often subjected him, looked in his face with all the pathetic appeal of his soft brown eyes, in vain he licked his hand as he fastened the rope with a stone attached to it round his neck. drowned he was to be, and drowned he would have been, but for his own unequalled knowingness. scamp guessed what was coming, hence that appeal in his eyes; but scamp was prepared for his fate, rather he was prepared to resist his fate. as his master was about to raise him in his arms and fling him far into the stream, he anticipated him, and leaped gently in himself, when, the stone being round his neck, he sank at once to the bottom. his master, well pleased, and thinking how nicely he had "done" scamp, laughed aloud, and walked away. the dog, not wasting his breath in any useless struggles, heard the laugh as he lay quietly in the bottom of the stream, he heard also the retreating footsteps. now was _his_ time. he had managed to sink so near the edge of the stream as to be barely out of his depth, he dragged himself upright, pulled and lurched the heavy stone until his head was above water, and then biting through the rope with those wonderful teeth, was a free dog once more. quite useless for him to go home; he must turn his back on that shelter, and come what may, face the great world of london. so all day long he had wandered, foot-sore, exhausted, and hungry, over many a mile of street, until at last the smell of hot roast goose had so overcome him, that he had in his desperation fastened his teeth into dick's trousers, thereby ultimately securing for himself a supper, and another home. now after all his troubles, hardships, and alarms, he was sleeping sweetly, enjoying the repose of the weary. it was unpleasant to be disturbed, it was truly annoying to have to open those heavy brown eyes, but scamp had a heart, and sobs of distress had roused him from his pleasant dreams. he cocked his ears, stretched himself, rose, and pushing his big awkward head against flo's, bent low in her hands, began licking her face with his small, rough tongue. finding she took no notice of this, he forced her to look up and attend to him, by jumping wholesale into her lap. "oh! scamp," said the child, putting her arms round him, "does _you_ know as dick isn't an honest boy no more." had scamp comprehended the words addressed to him, he would not have considered them a subject for sorrow, as any means by which such a supper as they had just eaten was attained would have been thought by him quite justifiable. it was however his wisest course at present to sympathise with flo, and this he did by means of his tail, tongue, and eyes. "oh! you _be_ a nice dawg," said the little girl, comforted by his caressing. she laid her head on his shaggy coat, and in a few moments both were asleep. two hours later jenks and dick returned. dick's cheeks were now flushed, and his eyes bright. jenks, on the contrary, was as cool as usual. "shall we take orf the dawg now, or in the mornin'?" asked the little boy of his companion. "no, no, in the mornin', or maybe to-morrow night; old maxey's sure ter be shut up afore now." "how much 'ull he give us, jenks?" "well, scamp's a likely lookin' tyke, and good size. i 'spect he'll about suit fur 'is young 'un. maybe, ef we're lucky, we may get a matter o' a bob, or a bob and a tanner, but wot i'll count on more, and bargain fur, is a sight o' the fight." "oh, jenks! is it werry jolly?" "awful--real pretty sport," said jenks, "partic'lar ef yer cur 'ave a bit of blood in 'im, as i 'spects this 'un 'ave." "will you bring me to see it, jenks?" "i can't rightly say yet, but don't tell nothink to the little 'un," jerking his thumb over his shoulders at flo. "now come to bed, and don't let us talk no more." they lay down, and soon jenks was asleep. yes, jenks was asleep--his hardened heart knew no fears, his conscience did not trouble him. flo, wearied with her sorrow, was also slumbering, and gentle breathings of sweet content and rest came from scamp, who knew nothing of his impending fate, and felt that he had done his duty. but dick could not sleep; he lay in the dark tired enough, but wide awake and trembling. on that very bed in this cellar had lain not quite a year ago the still, stiff, and cold form of his mother; of the mother who, with her thin arms round his neck, and her beseeching eyes looking into his, had begged of him to keep from bad ways, and to be honest. he had promised that never, happen what might, would he touch what was not his own, he had promised her solemnly, as even such ignorant little children will promise their dying mothers, that he would ever and always be an honest boy; and until to-day he had kept his word bravely, kept it too in the midst of very great temptations, for he was only a street arab, a gutter child, living on his wits, and for such children to live on their wits without prigging off stalls and snatching off counters, is very hard work indeed. he was such a clever little fellow too, and had such a taking innocent face, that he could have made quite a nice living, and have had, as he expressed it, quite a jolly time, if only he had consented to yield to his many temptations, and do as his companions did. but he never had yielded. one by one, as the temptations arose, as the opportunities for thieving came, he had turned from them and overcome them. not that he thought thieving wrong--by no means. whatever he might say to flo, he had in his heart of hearts a strong admiration for those plucky young thieves, his companions, and though they _were_ afraid of the "p'leece," and often did disappear for longer or shorter periods altogether from their gay life, yet still they had a jolly time of it on the whole. then, how splendidly the robbers acted at those delightful 'penny gaffs!--oh, yes! it was nonsense to starve rather than take from those who had more than they could use themselves. nevertheless dick had often passed a day from morning to night without food rather than steal--why was that? ah! how strongly we cling to our first and tenderest memories! dick could never forget the time when poor as they were, when, struggling as they were, he and flo were rich, as the richest of all children, in love. he could never forget the pressure of his mother's arms, he could never forget the sweetness of the dry crust eaten on his mother's knee. had he an ache or a trouble, his mother was sorry for him. even when he was bad and vexed her, his mother forgave him. she was always working for her children; never resting on account of her children. she stood between them and the cold world, a great shelter, a sure refuge. they thought it mighty and everlasting, they did not know that it was mortal, and passing away. she grew tired--awful tired, as she herself expressed it, so weary that not even her love for dick and flo could keep her with them, so exhausted that no rest but the rest of the grave could do her any good. so she went to her grave, but before she went her children had promised her to keep honest boy and girl, to grow up honest man and woman, and this promise was to them both more precious than their lives. they kept it faithfully,--it was a great principle for light in the minds of these little children. yes, they had both kept their promise carefully and faithfully until to-day; but to-day, in a moment of great and sudden temptation, goaded and led on by jenks, dick had slipped his clever little hand into a lady's pocket, and drawn out a purse with six bright new shillings in it. the theft had been most cleverly done, and triumphant with his success, and elated by the praise jenks had lavished on him, he had felt little compunction until now. but remorse was visiting him sternly now. he was frightened, he was miserable; he had let go the rudder that kept him fast to anything good,--he was drifting away. but the act of thieving gave him no pain, he was not at all sorry for that smiling, good-natured looking woman whose purse he had taken; he was quite sure _she_ never knew what hunger was; he quite agreed with jenks in his remark, that "'ee and dick and flo wanted 'ot roast goose more'n 'er." no; the agony was the memory of his mother's face. he was afraid even to open his eyes, afraid, sore afraid, that if he did he should see her standing before him, asking him to answer to her for this day's deed. he was afraid that tired, awful tired as she was, she would get up out of her grave to reproach him with his broken promise, to tell him that on account of him there now could be no more rest for her. and he loved his mother,--oh, how he loved his mother! a second time that night was scamp disturbed by sobs, but the sobs did not proceed from flo this time. the tired little girl was sleeping heavily, her head on the dog's neck. scamp could only open his eyes, which he did very wide; if he moved the least bit in the world he would wake flo. the sounds of distress grew louder, he gave a low growl, then a bark, then with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he was off flo's lap and on the bed with dick,--he was cuddling down by dick, fawning on him, and licking the tears off his face. the boy repulsed him rudely. it was quite beyond the capacity of scamp, great as his powers were, to comfort him. nevertheless, scamp had again done his duty. in his rude exit from flo's lap he had effectually awakened her. she, too, heard the low smothered sobs of distress, and rising from her cobbler's stool, she lay down on the straw beside her little brother. "i'm real glad as you is cryin', dick," said flo. this speech of flo's was an immense relief to dick. of all things he had dreaded telling his sister of his theft. he dreaded telling her, and yet he longed for her to know. now by her words he felt sure that in some way she did know. he nestled close to her, and put his arms round her neck. "is mother in the room, flo?" "no, no, dick; wot makes you say that? mother's in her grave, 'avin' a good tidy bit o' a sleep." "you ain't sure," said dick, half-defiantly, "you ain't sure but ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you mightn't see mother--just there, acrost our bed and jenks'--standin' and a shakin' her 'ead." "why, ef she were i couldn't see," said flo. "it be as dark as dark,--i couldn't see nothink ef i was to look ever so." "oh yes, you could," said dick, "you could see ghosts, and mother's a ghost. i seed ghosts at the gaff, and them is hall in wite, with blue lights about 'em. ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you could see, flo." "well, i 'as 'em open," said flo, "and i tell you there ain't no ghosts, nor nothink." "are you sure?" asked dick. "no doubt on it," responded flo encouragingly. "mother ain't yere, mother's in 'er grave, 'avin' a good time, and restin' fine." "are you quite sure?" persisted dick. "are you quite sartin as she ain't turnin' round in 'er corfin, and cryin'?" "oh no; she's restin' straight and easy," said flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case. "then she don't know, flo?" "it ain't reached 'er yet, i 'spect," said flo. then hastening to turn the conversation-- "wot was it as you took, dick?" "a purse," said dick. "a purse full o' money?" questioned flo. "there was six bobs and a tanner," said dick, "and jenks said as i did it real clever." "that was wot bought us the 'ot roasted goose," continued flo. "yes. jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should 'ave a rare treat. they cost three bobs, that 'ere goose and taters. i say, worn't they jist prime?" "'ave you any more o' that money?" asked flo, taking no notice of this last query. "yes, i 'ave a bob and i 'ave the purse. jenks said as i was to have the purse, and i means the purse for you, flo." "you needn't mean it for me, then," said flo, raising her gentle little voice, "fur i'd rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you 'as got to give back that 'ere bob to jenks, dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won't neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. i thought as you was sorry, dick, when i heard you cryin', but no, you ain't, and you 'ave furgot mother, that you 'ave." at these words dick burst out crying afresh. flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise. "no, i 'aven't forgot, flo--i be real orfle sorry." "you won't never do it again?" "no." "and you'll give back the purse and bob to jenks, and tell 'im yer'll 'ave no more to do wid 'is way?" "oh! i doesn't know," said dick, "'ee would be real hangry." "very well," replied flo; "good-night to you, dick. i ain't goin' to sleep 'long of a thief," and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler's stool. but this proposal filled dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him. "'zactly wot i ses?" asked flo. "yes, flo, i'll stick fast to you and never funk." "you'll translate the old boots and shoes wid me fur the next week?" "yes." "and you'll break orf wid jenks, and be his pardener no more?" "yes," with a sinking heart. "werry well--good-night." "but, flo," after a long pause, "is you _sure_ as mother isn't ris from her grave?" "no, i'm not sure," answered flo slowly, "but i thinks at the most, she 'ave on'y got a sort o' a wake, and i thinks, dick, ef you never, never is a thief no more, as mother'll 'ave a good longish rest yet." chapter five. jenks passes his word. but flo knew even better than her little brother that it would be easier for dick to steal the second time than the first. very few boys and girls she had ever heard of, none indeed, had left off prigging from stalls, and snatching from bakers' shops, and thrusting their hands into old gentlemen's pockets, when once they had begun to do so. not punishment, not even prison, could break them. they had their time of confinement, and then out they came, with more thieving propensities than ever. her mother had told her stories upon stories of what these children, who looked some of them so innocent, and began in this small way, had ended with--penal servitude for life--sometimes even the gallows. she had made her hair stand on end with frightful accounts of their last days in the murderers' cells--how day and night the warder watched them, and how when being led out to execution they passed in some cases over their own graves. and children once as innocent as flo and dick had come to this. now flo knew that as mother had not appeared the first time dick stole, she might not the second, and then he would gradually cease to be afraid, and learn to be a regular thief. the only chance was to save him from temptation, to part him from jenks. flo liked jenks very much--he had a bright way about him, he was never rough with her, but, on the contrary, had not only helped to keep the pot boiling, but had cobbled vigorously over her old boots and shoes, when he happened to come home in time in the evenings. still, nice as he was, if he was a thief, and they meant never to be thieves, the sooner they parted company the better. she knew well that dick would never have courage to say to jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers. accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, flo, rising softly, for fear of waking dick, followed him. "jenks," she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, "i wants fur to speak to you." jenks turned round with merry eyes. "i'm yer 'umble servant, my lady, the hearl's wife," he said, with a mock bow to flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. "why, wot hever ails you, young 'un? you is all of a tremble. come along and 'ave a drop of 'ot coffee at the stalls." "no, jenks, i doesn't want to. jenks, i come fur to say as you, and me, and dick mustn't be pardeners no more. you mustn't come no more to this yere cellar, jenks." jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone. "my lady, you is alwis werry perlite--you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too 'igh and mighty to speak to a chap. might a poor and 'umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin' as to tell 'im the reason of this 'eart-breakin' horder." here jenks pretended to whimper. "yes, jenks, i'll tell you," said flo; "'tis because dick and me isn't never goin' to be _thiefs_, jenks. dick did prig the purse yesterday, but 'ees never, never goin' to do so no more." jenks was silent, and flo after a pause continued--"i wants fur to be perlite to you, jenks. i likes you, jenks, and now i'm goin' to tell you why." "oh! my heyes," said jenks, "that's an honour. oh! my stars! can i abear so big an honour? 'old me, flo, i feels kind of top 'eavy. now then, break it heasy, flo." "i never know'd as yer trade was that of a thief, jenks," quietly continued the little girl. "i thought as it wor a real nice trade as me and dick might larn, and we mustn't larn that, not ef we was to starve. dick and me must never be thiefs. but, jenks, i'm not a blamin' you--it ain't wrong fur you, jenks--you 'adn't never a mother, as telled you to keep an honest boy." at these words jenks started violently, the fun died out of his face, and he looked quite white and shaky. "why does you say that?" he asked rather savagely. "how does yer dare say as i 'av'n't a mother? as honest a woman as hever walked." "i doesn't say it, jenks. i on'y ses that _if_ you 'ad a mother as was alwis honest, and, no, not ef we was starvin' would prig anythink, and that mother lay a dyin', and she axed yer werry soft and lovin' to keep honest, and never, no never to steal nothink, and you promised yer mother 'cause you loved 'er; would you be a thief then, jenks?" "moonshine!" growled jenks. "no, but _would_ you, jenks?" "how can i tell?" replied jenks. "look yere, flo, leave _off_ about mothers, do. wot does i know of such? say wot yer 'as to say, as i must be gone." "i wants you not to come back no more, dear jenks, and never, never to speak to dick no more." "_dear_ jenks, come back no more," mimicked the boy. "and why not, little sweetheart?" "'cause you is a thief, and you is larnin' thiefin' to dick." "oh my! the precious young cove, i didn't know as 'ee was to be reared hup so tender. but why does you say as _i_ am a thief, flo--it wor dick tuk the purse yesterday." "but you larned 'im _'ow_ to take it, jenks." "no, i didn't, 'ee larned 'imself, 'ee wanted none of my coddlin' and dressin'. tell yer 'ee'd make a real stunnin' thief arter a bit. but i'll not teach 'im nothink, not i. no, flo," (this gravely), "i'll promise yer this, and yere's my 'and on it, ef i sees 'im touch so much as a brass farthing, i'll give 'im a whackin' as 'ull soon teach 'im to be an honest boy." "and you won't come back no more?" "i won't say that--the cellar's conwenient, and i pays fur 'arf. yes, i'll turn in to-night, and as long as i 'ave a mind to. now i'm orf to my work--wot _ain't_ that of a thief," and snapping his fingers disdainfully, jenks disappeared. flo stood for a moment, her hand over her eyes, looking up the hot street. her mission she felt was only half accomplished, but it was some consolation to know, that the next time dick acted the part of a thief, his companion, instead of loading him with praise, would bestow on him instead a far-sounding whacking. flo did not mind how hard it was, if only it saved her brother from following in the steps of those boys of whom her mother had so often told her. chapter six. give the poor dog a bone. that knowing dog scamp was rather puzzled on the evening after his arrival, at the marked change in the manners of dick and jenks towards him. clever as he was, their total change of manner threw him off his guard, and he began to accuse himself of ingratitude in supposing that at any time they had not wished for his company, that at any time they had treated him as an intruder. not a bit of it. here were they patting and making much of him; here was that good-natured fellow jenks allowing him to repose his big, awkward body across his knees, while flo and dick, who had been indoors all day very grave and silent, were now in fits of laughter over his rough attempts at play. "flo," said jenks, pulling some loose coppers out of his ragged vest pocket, "ef you'll buy wittles fur the dawg fur a week, i'll pay 'em." and then he further produced from some mysterious store a good-sized, juicy bone, cut from a shank of mutton, which bone he rubbed gently against the dog's nose, finally allowing him to place it between his teeth and take possession of it. as scamp on the floor munched, and worried, and gnawed that bone, so strong were his feelings of gratitude to jenks, that he would have found it easy, quite easy, to follow him to the world's end. and so jenks seemed to think, for when supper was over he arose, and giving dick an almost imperceptible nod, he called scamp, and the boys and the dog went out. they walked nearly to the end of the street, and then jenks caught up scamp, and endeavoured to hide him with his ragged jacket. this was no easy matter, for in every particular the dog was ungainly--too large in one part, too small in another. impossible for a tattered coat-sleeve to hide that great rough head, which in sheer affection, caused by the memory of that bone, would push itself up and lick his face. jenks bestowed upon him in return for this regard several severe cuffs, and was altogether rough and unpleasant in his treatment; and had scamp not been accustomed to, and, so to speak, hardened to such things, his feelings might and probably would have been considerably hurt. as it was, he took it philosophically, and perceiving that he was not at present to show affection, ceased to do so. the boys walked down several by-streets, and took some villainous-looking short cuts in absolute silence. dick went a little in advance of his companion, and kept his eyes well open, and at sight of any policeman exchanged, though without looking round, some signal with jenks; on which jenks and scamp would immediately, in some mysterious way, disappear from view, and dick would toss a marble or two out of his pocket and pretend to be aiming them one at the other, until, the danger gone by, jenks and scamp would once more make their appearance. at last they came to streets of so low a character, where the "nippers," as they called them, so seldom walked, that they could keep together, and even venture on a little conversation. dick, who had been sadly depressed all day, began to feel his spirits rising again. he had quite resolved never, never to be a thief no more, but this expedition would bring them in money in a way that even flo could hardly disapprove of; at least, even if flo did disapprove, she could hardly call it dishonest. the dog was theirs, had come to them. if they could get money for the dog would they not be right to take it? _they_ were too poor to keep scamp. just then dick turned round and encountered a loving, trusting glance from the dumb creature's affectionate eyes, a sudden fit of compunction came over him, for _he_ knew to _what_ they were selling scamp. "s'pose as scamp beats maxey's young 'un?" he questioned to his companion. "not 'ee," said jenks contemptuously, "'ee's nothink but a street cur, and that young 'un is a reg'lar tip-topper, _i_ can tell yer." "well, scamp 'ave sperrit too," said dick. "and ef 'ee 'adn't, would i bring 'im to maxey? would i insult maxey's young dawg wid an hout and hout street cur wid no good points? why, maxey wouldn't give a tanner fur a cur _widout_ sperrit, you little greenhorn." here they stopped at the door of a low ale-house, where the company were undoubtedly "doggy." jenks transferred scamp to dick's care, and disappeared into the public, from whence in a few moments he issued with a small stoutly-built man, of ill-looking and most repulsive aspect. "i 'ave named my price," said jenks, putting scamp down on the ground and beginning to exhibit his different points. "two bobs and a tanner, and a sight o' the fight fur me and this 'ere chap." "come, that's werry fine," said the man addressed as maxey; "but 'ow is it, you young willan, you dares to insinniwate as _i_ 'ave dog-fights? doesn't you know as dog-fight's 'gainst the law of the land? you wouldn't like to see the hinside of newgate fur bringin' this 'ere dog to me fur the purpose o' fightin' another dog? you didn't reckon _that_ in the price of the dog. come now, ef i doesn't give you into the hands of the perleece, and ef i takes the dog, and puts 'im away tidy, and gives you and yer pardener a tanner between yer? come, that's lettin yer off cheap, ain't it?" dick was considerably frightened, but jenks, taking these threats for what they were worth, held out firmly for two bobs and a tanner, which in the end he obtained a promise of, on condition that for one week he should tie up scamp at home and feed him well. at the end of that time maxey was to have him back, who further promised that jenks and dick should see the fight. "and that 'ere's pretty sport," said jenks, as well satisfied he turned away. "maxey's young 'uns are alwis tip-toppers. won't 'ee just give it to this willan! i guess there'll be an hawful row, and not much o' scamp left, by the time 'tis hover." but the further details with which jenks favoured his young companion are too horrible to relate here. in our christian england these things are done--done in the dark it is true, but still done. dog-fights, though punishable by law, are still held, and young boys and old men flock to them, and learn to be lower than the brutes in diabolical cruelty because of them. it may still however puzzle those who read scamp's history to know of what use he could be in a dog-fight, as only thorough-bred dogs can fight well. alas! scamp could be made use of; such dogs as scamp can further this wicked sport. such dogs are necessary in the training of the fighting-dogs. jenks knew this well, hence his desire to obtain the poor animal. his use was this--i here quote from mr greenwood's well-known "low life deeps." "he at once good-naturedly explained to me the way in which a young (fighting) dog is trained. "i was given to understand that the first practice a fighting pup had was with a `good old gummer,' that is to say, with a dog which had been a good one in his day, but was now old, and toothless, and incapable of doing more than `mumble' the juvenile antagonist that was set against him, the one great advantage being that the young dog gained practical experience in the making of `points.' "the next stage, as i was informed, in training the young aspirant for pit-honours was to treat him to a `real mouthful,' or, in other words, `to let him taste dog'..." what this means, mr greenwood goes on partially to explain, but the explanation is too fearful to be repeated here; suffice it to say that scamp was the dog that maxey's young 'un was to taste. considerably elated, the boys started off on their way home. the thought of two-and-sixpence, and a sight of a real dog-fight, was quite enough to silence all dick's scruples, and jenks never had any. yet once, long ago now, jenks had cried when the cat pounced on his canary, once jenks had a kind heart. it was not all hard yet, though very nearly so. still some things could touch him, some faces, some words, some tones, could reach a vulnerable part within him. he hardly knew himself that the better part of him, not yet quite dead, was touched, he only called it being in a fix. he was in a fix about dick. it had been his intention, it had been his motive, in coming to live in the saint giles's cellar, to train dick as a thief, and if possible flo also. he was a very expert young hand himself,--no boy in london with lighter fingers, or more clever in dodging the police, than he. he knew that the first requisite for any successful thief was to possess an innocent appearance, and the moment he saw dick and flo he knew that their faces would make their own, and probably his fortune, in this criminal trade. he had gone cautiously about his work, for eyes much less sharp than his must have perceived that the children were strictly honest. their honesty, their horror of theft, had filled him with surprise, and added greatly to his difficulties. he saw, however, that dick was the weaker of the two, and his scruples he determined first to overcome. it took him some time, a whole month, but at last dick fell, and jenks was triumphant. all now was smooth sailing with him, he was in high, the highest spirits. dick should be taken down skilfully step by step the broad descent, and presently flo would follow. the bad boy's plans were all laid, when suddenly there came an obstacle--such an obstacle too--such a feather of a thing,--only a child's pleading voice and tearful eyes. what a fool jenks was to mind so slight a thing! he _was_ a fool then, for mind it he did. he liked flo, in his way he was fond of flo, but she herself might go to ruin sooner than have any of his plans injured. it was not for her sake he hesitated. no. but she had told him _why_ they were honest, why hard crusts and lives full of hunger and want were sweeter to them than luxuries unfairly come by; and strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this motive for honesty approved itself to the boy, for some reason known only to himself it raised a pain in his hardened heart, it roused the nearly dead conscience within him. he said to himself that the children's conduct was plucky--real, awful plucky; that it would be a mean act of him to make thieves of them. for ten minutes after his interview with flo he resolved that nothing in the world should induce him to do so; he resolved to go away as she had asked him to go away, and leave them to pursue their honest career unmolested, untempted by such as he. but in half-an-hour he had wavered, had partly laughed off flo's words, and had called all that stuff about mothers--dead mothers--nonsense. all day long he was undecided--he came back to the cellar at night undecided; he had gone out with dick and scamp still not sure whether to keep his promise to flo or to break it. how was it that in returning from his interview with maxey his resolutions to do right wavered more and more? perhaps it was because he had committed another cruel and evil deed, and so the little good in him died quickly out; perhaps, as certainly was the case, satan was tempting him more than ever. be this as it may, before jenks fell asleep that night his mind was made up. flo's scruples were all folly, dick had yielded once, he could, would, and should yield again. if he proved obstinate jenks had means in his possession which would compel him to lead the life he wished. yes, jenks resolved that before many months were over their heads, not only dick, but flo herself should be a thief. it should not be his fault if dick and flo were not two of the cleverest little thieves in london. chapter seven. at the derby. scamp had spent a very patient but not unhappy week in the cellar. he knew nothing of his impending fate, consequently, as he had his meals regularly, he felt himself troubled by no present cares. _had_ he known of his fate it is doubtful whether it would have caused him uneasiness. "fight with another dog! with pleasure; with all the good will in the world, and never show signs of flight, or turn felon." so would have thought the dog whose father and mother were curs, but in whose breast reigned as brave a spirit as ever one of the canine species possessed. but scamp, alas for you, poor fellow! you are inexperienced, and you do not know how the trained bull-dog can fight. jenks had secured him with a piece of rope to the broken table, but when jenks and dick were out flo would unfasten him, and he would lie at her feet and never attempt to run away. flo felt happy too at her hard work, for scamp was such good company, and since his arrival none of the wicked boys and girls dared to throw down broken bits of crockery, or sticks, or other rubbish at her. knowing she was timid they had often led her a sorry life, but now one note of scamp's fine deep bay (a gift from an old ancestor) would send them flying, and flo could pursue her work in peace. for the present, too, her mind was at rest about dick--he was not only not thieving, but he was doing quite a profitable business in another way. every morning he carried away his broom, and every evening, the weather being rather wet, he brought her in a nice little handful of coppers, as the result of his day's brooming; quite enough money to buy honest red herrings and other dainties for supper and even breakfast. flo began to consider a broom and crossing quite a good trade, and rather contemplated taking it up herself. but in this desire both jenks and dick quite vehemently opposed her, and for the present she was happy over her never-ending cobbling. scamp's company was so pleasant, and so soothed the tedium of her life, that now and then little snatches of mother's old songs would rise to her lips. she was walking down duncan street one day singing one of these in quite a sweet, clear voice, when a little pale girl on crutches, who lived in a cellar some six doors off, stopped her with the question-- "does yer know the glory song?" "no," said flo; "wot is it?" "i doesn't know it hall," said the little pale girl, "on'y a bit. yere it is: "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.'" "go on," said flo, "that's pretty--that is." "oh! i doesn't know any more," said the little girl. "i larned that bit wen i wor in 'orspital, time my leg was tuk orf. sister evelina taught it to me. there wor a lot more, and it wor werry pretty, but i on'y 'members that bit." "well, sing it agen," said flo. the little girl sang. "wot's `read and pray'?" asked flo. "oh! doesn't you know? read! hout o' books of course; and pray! pray to god--you knows that?" "no, i doesn't," said flo. "oh dear," said the other child rather patronisingly, "doesn't you know, `our--father--chart--'eaven'? why, yer _be_ hignorant." "yes, i be," said flo, no way offended. "i knows nothink 'cept being honest. wot's `our father,' janey?" "oh! 'tis quite long," said janey, "you couldn't 'member it a bit. `our--father--chart 'eaven.' our father lives in 'eaven. there! that's hall--i'm in a 'urry." "then that ain't true," said flo, "that ain't a bit o' it true. my father ain't in 'eaven, wherehever that is, 'ee's dead and in 'is grave, and yer father is at the dolphin most times i guess. i wouldn't tell lies ef i was you." the pale girl flushed up angrily. "there now, yer real oncivil," she said, "and i'll 'ave no more words wid yer." and she disappeared down the ladder into her cellar. flo went back also to hers and resumed her work. she had a great deal to do, for that evening she, and dick, and jenks, were to start on foot for the derby. jenks went every year as long as he could remember, but dick and flo had never been. they had heard of it of course, as what london child has not? and were much excited at the prospect of at last joining the great and vast army of tramps who year by year find their way to epsom downs. jenks assured them, too, that money honestly come by was made wholesale at the derby. money come to you almost for the asking; sixpences were changed into sovereigns by some magic art at that wonderful place. the children were not going empty-handed. flo was to be a "little-doll" girl. some dozens of these bought for twopence a dozen were to be sold to-morrow for a penny a-piece, or perhaps for more. flo counted how much she could make on her six dozen of dolls, and quite expected to realise a sum that would make things comfortable in the cellar for some weeks. dick was to sell fusees, and jenks was to appear on the scenes in the character of a boot-cleaning boy, balancing a black-box and brushes on his head, and scamp was to stay at home and keep house. flo had proposed his coming with them, but to this the boys objected, and she, considering she would have more than enough use for her legs, hands, voice, and eyes, and _might_ find scamp an extra care, did not grieve much over their decision. what walking she would have, all the way from london to epsom downs; what use for her hands in holding her tray of dolls for so many hours; what use for her voice in advertising her property, in properly proclaiming the value of her property, and endeavouring to attract the gents with white hats, who were fond of wearing such goods in their button-holes, or stuck in a row round their head gear; above all, and this was the pleasant part, what use for her eyes! right and left, before and behind, pretty things would surround her, and flo _did_ so love pretty things. it would be a grander sight than regent street, or swan and edgar's, grander, because the fine ladies, and the smart dresses, and the lovely spirited horses would be there in such much vaster numbers! she had her own slight but essential toilet preparations too to make. her poor ragged cotton frock had got a rinse, and was drying by a small fire, which, hot as the day was, was lit for the purpose, and she meant to look up mother's old bonnet, and if it _could_ be made presentable, wear it. she hauled it out of a pasteboard band-box, and sat down on her cobbler's stool to contemplate it. it was a very shaky, indeed fall-to-pieces, affair. a bonnet that had once been of a delicate white, but in its journey through life, having had to put up at several pawn-shops, had now reached a hue as far removed from that colour as possible. flo, however, thought it quite fit to wear. she snipped it, and dusted it, and by the aid of some pins secured the battered old crown in its place. she unfolded carefully every leaf of the gorgeous bunch of artificial flowers with which mother had ornamented it before she died. that bunch, consisting of some full-blown roses, tulips, and poppies, which at a second-hand finery establishment had cost twopence, and to purchase which mother had once done without her dinner, that bunch was placed so as to rest on flo's forehead, while two dirty ribbons of flaming yellow were to do duty under her chin. but while she worked she thought of janey's words. she was sorry janey had turned crusty, for undoubtedly the words were pretty, prettier than any of mother's old songs. she would have liked to know more about them! "`i'm glad i hever saw the day,'" sang flo, catching the air with her quick ear and voice. but then she stopped to consider. what day was she glad to see? well! no day that she knew of, unless it was to-morrow, the derby day. she was not glad of the day she could read and pray, for that day had never come to her. in her duncan street cellar, "the board," that object of terror, had never reached her, therefore she could not read--and pray?--she did not even know what "pray" meant. why did janey go about singing such songs as nobody could understand? just then jenks and dick came rattling down the ladder crying noisily that it was full time to be off; and flo had to bustle about, and pack her dolls, and put on her clean frock and wonderful bonnet, and finally, when she thought no one was looking, to stoop down and kiss scamp on his forehead, in return for which he washed her face quite over again with his tongue. a basin of broken bread was set near the dog, then the children ran up the ladder, fastened down the door of the cellar, and set off. "will maxey know which is _hour_ cellar wid the door shut?" asked dick. this remark flo could make nothing of, but she was too much excited then to ask an explanation. it was eight o'clock when the children started, therefore the great heat was over. at first they walked alone, then two or three, going in the same direction, joined them, then half-a-dozen more, and so on, until they found themselves with quite a number of people all epsom bound. at first flo did not like this, she would have much preferred to trudge along, away past hot and dismal london, with only dick and jenks for company, but after a time she saw the advantage of this arrangement, for she was unaccustomed to walking, and soon her little feet grew very, very weary, and then the good-natured cadgers and tramps turned out agreeable acquaintances. one woman kindly carried her tray of dolls, and some men with a large barrow of fried fish, taking pity on her weary little face, allowed her to have a seat on one corner of their great barrow, and in this way she got over many a mile. but the way was very long, and by the time the weary multitude had reached epsom town it was nearly one in the morning. no rest for them here, however; whether they wished it or not, whether they could pay for food and shelter or not, the vigilant police would allow no halt in the town, they must move on. so on they moved, until at last flo and dick and jenks, with many other worn-out tramps, were very glad to huddle together against the walls of the grand stand, which, quiet enough now, would in a few hours blaze with such life and beauty. the little girl was in a sound sleep, dreaming confused dreams, in which janey's songs, scamp's face, and the epsom races were all mingled, when a hand laid on her shoulder roused her from her slumbers. "wot is it, jenks? is it time fur me to begin sellin'?" she exclaimed with a confused start. "no, no," said jenks, "it ain't time fur hages yet. wait till the folks begin to come. why, there's on'y us tramps yere yet." "then why did you wake me, jenks? i was so werry sound asleep." "well--see, flo--i wanted fur to tell yer--you see this is a big place, and we 'as come, you and me and dick, to do a trade yere, and wot i ses is this, as we mustn't keep together, we mustn't on no 'count keep together. you go one way wid the dolls, and a pretty penny _they'll_ fetch this blessed day, i hears said; dick 'ull start in another 'rection wid the fusees, and i must be yere, and there, and hevery wheres, to keep the gents' boots bright. so good mornin' to yer, flo; you meet us yere in the evenin' wid a good pocket full, and yere's sixpence fur yer breakfast," and before flo had time to open her lips from sheer astonishment, jenks was gone. she was alone, alone on epsom common. with that sea of strange faces round her she was utterly alone. very poor children, at least those children who have to fight the battle of life, never cry much. however tender their hearts may be--and many of them have most tender and loving hearts, god bless them!--there is a certain hardening upper crust which forbids the constant flow of tears. but something very smarting did come up now to the little girl's eyes. she sat down wearily,--so much fun had she expected roaming about with dick and jenks, how happy she thought she would have been with the country air blowing upon her, the country sun--he never shone like that in the town--shining on her face. and now she would be afraid--for she was a timid child--to stir. oh, it was wrong of jenks, though jenks was only her friend, but how truly _unkind_ it was of dick to leave her! just then another hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said-- "is anything the matter, little child?" flo raised her eyes, and a middle-aged woman, with a face as kind as her voice, and an appearance very much more respectable than the crowds about her, stood by her side. "are you waiting for your mother, my dear?" said the woman again, finding that flo only gazed at her, and did not speak. "or don't you want to come and get some breakfast?" "please, mum," said flo, suddenly starting to her feet, and remembering that she was very hungry, "may i go wid you and 'ave some breakfast? i 'ave got sixpence to buy it, mum." "come, then," said the woman, "i will take care of you. here, give me your dolls," and holding the dolls' tray in one hand, and the child herself by the other, she went across to where a bustling, hungry throng were surrounding the coffee-stalls. flo and her companion were presently served, and then they sat down on the first quiet spot they could find to enjoy their meal. "is you in the small-dolls, or the aunt sally, or the clothes' brusher's, or the shoe-blacker's line, mum?" asked flo, who observed that her companion was not carrying any goods for sale. "no, child, i don't do business here--i only come to look on." "oh, that's werry fine fur you!" said flo; "but is it as yer don't find sellin' make? why, i 'spects to make a penny, and maybe tuppence, on hevery one of these blessed dolls." "is this the first time you have been here?" asked the woman. "yes, mum." "and have you come alone?" "oh no, mum; i come along o' my brother, a little chap, and a bigger feller." "then you ought to be with them. this is not a safe place for a little girl to be all alone in." "oh, they doesn't want me," said flo; "the little chap's in the fusee line, and the big 'un's in the blackin' line, and they says as it 'ud spile the trade fur a small-dolls seller to be along o' them. that's 'ow i'm alone, ma'am," and here veritable tears did fill the child's eyes to overflowing. "well, i am alone too," said her companion in a kinder tone than ever; "so if you wish to stay with me you may; i can show you the best parts to sell your dolls in." and this was the beginning of one of the brightest days flo had ever yet spent. how she did enjoy the breezes on the common now that she had a companion, how she did gaze at the wonderful, ever-increasing crowd. she had soon told her story to her new friend; all about dick and herself, and their mother, and their promise to be honest; something too about scamp, and also about the big feller who she was afraid was a thief, but whose name somehow she forgot to mention. in return her companion told her something of her own story. "i come year after year out here," she said sadly. "not that i sells here, or knows anything of the derby; but i come looking for one that i love--one that has gone like the prodigal astray, but like the prodigal he'll come back--he'll come back." this speech was very strange and incomprehensible to flo; but she liked her companion more and more, and thought she had never met so kind a woman, she looked at her once or twice nearly as nicely as mother used to look. but now the business of the day began in earnest. the grand stand was filled; the men with betting lists were rushing with heated faces here and there; the cadgers and tramps, the vendors of small dolls, of pails of water, of fried fish, of coffee and buns, of ices, of fruit and sweeties, the vendors of every conceivable article under the sun were doing a roaring trade; and even flo, aided by her kind companion, made several shillings by her dolls. the races went on, and at last the great event of the day, the derby race, was to be run. by this time flo had sold all her dolls, and stood in the midst of the heaving, swaying mass of people, as eager as anybody else. an unwonted excitement had taken possession of the little girl, the joy of a fresher, brighter life than she had hitherto ever felt, drove the blood quickly through her languid veins, she stood by her companion's side, her large bonnet thrown back from her forehead, her cheeks flushed, her eyes quite bright with interest and pleasure. perhaps to her alone the beautiful, wonderful sight came without alloy-- she had no high stakes at issue, nothing either to gain or to lose. but when the race was over, and the name of _galopin_, the winning horse, was in everybody's mouth, and men, some pale and some flushed with their losses, turned broken-hearted away; and men, some pale and some ruddy with their gains, joined in the general cheer; then flo began again to think of and miss her absent companions. already vast numbers of tramps were returning to london--the kind little woman by her side had also expressed a wish to go, but nowhere were jenks and dick in sight. they had promised to meet her in the evening, but she could neither ask her companion to wait until then, nor wait herself alone in the midst of the vast, unruly multitude. "i will see you safe as far as our roads lie together," said the little woman, and flo, without a word, but no longer with an exultant, joyful heart, accompanied her. they walked slowly, keeping close to the other walkers, but still a little apart, and by themselves. now and then a good-natured neighbour gave them a lift, but they walked most of the way. "'as you found 'im whom you loves, mum?" questioned flo once; but the little woman shook her head, and shook it so sorrowfully that flo ventured to say no more. it was quite dusk when they got to london, or rather to the outskirts of london, for they went very slowly, and often paused on the road. by this time they were quite a vast army, fresh tramps arriving to swell their ranks each moment. here too they were met by numbers of londoners who had not gone to the races, but who now thronged the footways to see them return. at one particular angle of the road these crowds congregated so thickly that for a few moments there was quite a block, and neither multitude could proceed. as flo stood by her companion's side, two boys pushed quickly and roughly against her. they did not recognise or look at her, but she did them--they were jenks and dick. she was quite overjoyed at seeing them so near her, but how funny they looked! or rather, how funny dick looked! his face was blackened, and he had on a false nose; he carried a little fiddle which he capered about with, and pushing his way fearlessly into the very heart of the throng, made altogether such a droll appearance that many people looked at him, and laughed very heartily, and shied him halfpence jenks, on the contrary, was grave and sober, no one minding him. but suddenly, while all eyes and tongues were eagerly greeting some fresh arrivals, flo observed dick give a red-faced, stout old gentleman a tremendous push, and quick as lightning jenks had his hand in the old man's pocket, and out had come his purse and gold watch. and before the terrified and astonished child had time to utter an exclamation, or to draw a breath, police constable b. laid his hand heavily on jenks' shoulders, and with the other drawing dick towards him, informed them both that they were his prisoners. chapter eight. a ghost in the cellar. in the confusion that immediately ensued, flo found herself torn away from her kind companion, and brought very near to police constable b. and his charge. like most children of her class she had been taught to consider policemen very dreadful people, but she had no fear of this one now: her whole desire was to save dick. she went boldly up and laid her little dirty hand on the great tall man's arm. "please--please," said flo, "it ain't dick as tuk them things. indeed i thinks as dick _is_ an honest boy." "oh! yes, and i suppose you are an honest girl," said the policeman, looking down with some contempt at the queer disreputable-looking little figure. "tell me now, what do you know about dick? and which of the two is dick to begin with?" "that 'ere little chap wot yer 'ave such a grip of," said flo, "that's dick, and i be 'is sister, i be." "oh! so you are his sister. and what's the name of the big fellow? you are his sister too?" "no, i ain't," said flo, "i ain't that, but 'ee lives wid dick and me." "he does--does he? perhaps you saw what he did just now?" flo had seen--she coloured and hesitated. "you need not speak unless you wish to," said the policeman more kindly, "but i perceive you know all about these boys, so you must appear as witness. see! where do you live?" "cellar number , duncan street, saint giles," said flo promptly. "ah!" said the policeman, "i thought those cellars was shut up. they ain't fit for pigs. well, my dear, 'tis a nice-sounding, respectable address, and i'll serve you a notice to-morrow to appear as witness. don't you go hiding, for wherever you are i'll find you. on thursday morning at o'clock at q--police-station." and nodding to flo, he walked off, bearing his sullen, ashamed, crest-fallen prisoners with him. "come 'ome wid me, dear," said a poor miserable-looking neighbour, an occupant of another duncan street cellar. "come 'ome wid me," she said, touching the dazed, stunned-looking child; "i'll take care of yer the rest of the way," and she took her hand and led her out of the crowd. "there now," said the woman kindly, "don't yer fret, dearie--it ain't so bad, and it won't be so bad. dick, 'ee'll on'y get a month or two at the 'formatary, and t'other chap a bit longer, and hout they'll come none the worse. don't yer fret, dearie." "no, ma'am," answered flo with a little smile, "i ain't frettin'." nor was she exactly. she had an awful vision before her of mother's dead face, that was all. during the rest of the long walk home that patient, tired face was before her. she was not fretting, she was too stunned as yet--that would come by and by. her neighbour tried to make her talk, tried to smooth matters for her, but they could not be smoothed, nothing could soften the awful fact that dick was going to prison, that he had broken his word to his dying mother. it was quite dusk, past o'clock, when they reached duncan street, and the cellar door of number , which the children had fastened when they had started so light-hearted and happy for the derby the day before, was now open. flo hardly noticed this. she ran down, eager to throw her arms round scamp's neck, and weep out her heart with his faithful head on her bosom. "but--what had happened?" flo expected to hear his eager bark of welcome the moment she entered the cellar, but there was no sound. she called to him, no answer. she struck a match and lit the tallow candle,--scamp's place was empty, scamp was gone. she stooped down and examined the spot carefully. if he had freed himself there would have been some pieces of the rope hanging to the table, but no, all trace of it was gone. it was quite plain, then, some one had come and stolen scamp, some one had come meanly while they were away and carried him off--he was gone. one extra drop will overflow a full cup, and this extra trial completely upset the little tired, sad child. she sat down on the floor, that damp wretched floor, surely an unfit resting-place for any of god's creatures, and gave way to all the agony of intense desolation. had the dog been there he would have soothed her: the look in his eyes, the solemn slow wag of his unwieldy tail, would have comforted her, would have spoken to her of affection, would have prevented her feeling utterly alone in the world. and this now was flo's sensation. when this awful storm of loneliness comes to the rich, and things look truly hard for them, they still have their carpeted floors, and easy-chairs, and soft beds, and though at such times they profess not to value these things in the least, yet they are, and are meant to be, great alleviations. only the poor, the very, very poor know what this storm is in all its terrors, and the desolate little child sitting there in this dark cellar felt it in its full power that night. dick was gone from her, dick was a thief, he was in prison, gone perhaps never to come back--and jenks was gone, he had done wrong and tempted dick, and broken his word to her, so perhaps it was right for him to go--and scamp, dear scamp, who had done no harm whatever, was stolen away. yes, she was alone, alone with the thought of her mother's face, all alone in the damp, dark, foul cellar, and she knew nothing of god. just then a voice, and a sweet voice too, was heard very distinctly at the mouth of the cellar. "sing glory, glory, glory," tuned the voice. "janey," said flo, starting to her feet and speaking eagerly. "oh dear!" said the voice at the cellar door, "ain't you a fool to be settin' there in the dark. strike a light, do--i'm a comin' down." flo struck a match, and lit a small end of tallow candle, and the lame girl tumbled down the ladder and squatted on the floor by her side. "oh dear!" she said, "ain't this a stiflin' 'ole? why 'tis worse nor 'ourn." "wot's `read and pray,' janey?" asked flo. "my!" said janey, "ef yer ain't a real worry, flo darrell. read--that's wot the board teaches--and pray--our--father--chart--'eaven--that's pray." "and `sing glory,' wot's that?" continued flo. "that!" laughed janey, "why that's a choros, you little goose. niggers 'ave alwis choroses to their songs--that ain't nothink else." "well, 'tis pretty," sighed flo, "not that i cares for nothink pretty now no more." "oh! yes yer will," said janey with the air of a philosopher. "yer just a bit dumpy to-night, same as i wor wen i broke my leg, and i wor lyin' in the 'orspital, all awful full o' pain hup to my throat, but now i 'as on'y a stiff joint, and i doesn't mind it a bit. that's just 'ow you'll feel 'bout dick by and by. 'ee'll be lyin' in prison, and you won't care, no more nor i cares fur my stiff joint." flo was silent, not finding janey's conversation comforting. "come," said that young person after a pause, "i thought you'd want a bit o' livenin' hup. wot does yer say to a ghost story?" flo's eyes, slightly startled, were turned on her companion. "as big a ghost story as hever was got up in any gaff," continued janey, her naughty face growing full of mischief, "and it 'appened in this 'ere cellar, flo." "oh! it worn't mother come back, wor it?" asked flo. "just you wait heasy. no, it worn't yer mother, ef you _must_ know, but as real a ghost as hever walked fur all that." "tell us," said flo, really roused and interested. "oh, you wants fur to know at last! well, i must be paid. i'm poor and clemmed, and i can't tell my tale fur nothink, not i." "'ow can i pay you, janey?" "oh, yer can, heasy enough. why mother said as yer sold quite a 'eap o' dolls to-day at the races, there! i'll tell 'bout the ghost fur a penny, no fur three ha'pence--there!" "well, tell away," said flo, throwing the coins into her companion's lap. janey thrust them into her mouth, then taking them out rubbed them bright with her pinafore, and held them firmly in her bony little hand. "pease puddin' fur the ha'penny," she said, "meat and taters fur the penny--'tis real mean o' yer not to make it tuppence. now i'll begin. were's that ere dawg? were's that hawful, 'owlin' dawg?" "oh! i don't know," said flo, "i don't know nothink 'bout my dear scamp." "oh yes, 'ees dear scamp to be sure," said janey. "well, _i'll_ tell yer 'bout scamp, and hall i 'opes is that we may never lay heyes on 'im no more." "why?" asked flo. "there! i'm a comin' to wy. last night wen you, and dick, and jenks, and mother was orf to the derby, and i mad like at bein' left, which mother _would_ do 'cause i was lame, i came hover and sat close to the cellar, a-listenin' to scamp, who was 'owlin' real orfle, and i thought as it 'ud be a lark to go down into the cellar, fur i knew he wor tied, and hanger 'im a bit, and i tried the door, but it wor locked as firm as firm, so arter a bit i went away, and i got a little stool and sat up on the ground houtside our cellar, and there i dropped orf asleep. and wen i 'woke it wor dark, and on'y the `twinkle, twinkle, little stars' hout, and there wor a noise, and i looked, and hout o' your cellar, as was locked as firm as no one could move it, wor a man's 'ead a comin'--a man wid a round 'ead, and thick body, and bandy legs, and in 'is arms, a 'owlin' and a struggling that 'ere blessed dawg." "oh! the willan!" said flo. "'ee stole my dawg. did yer foller 'im, janey?" "no, i didn't," said janey; "_i_ foller 'im--i'd like it. wy, flo darrell, 'ee worn't a man at all. 'ow was a _man_ in yer locked hup cellar? no, 'ee wor a ghost--_that's_ wot 'ee wor. and scamp ain't a real dawg, but a ghost dawg, and yer well rid o' 'im, flo darrell." chapter nine. flo in the witness-box. a small knot of policemen stood outside q--police-court. they chatted and talked one to another, now and then alluding to the different cases to be tried that day, now and then dwelling on the ordinary topics of the times, now and then, too, speaking to a companion of home interests, and home, and personal hopes and fears. for these stalwart-looking myrmidons of the law are just human beings like the rest of mankind, and they are quite capable now and then even of feeling and showing pity for a prisoner. "any cases of interest coming on to-day?" asked a young policeman of constable b. "nothing of moment--a few thefts committed on the derby day. by the way, i have just brought in the drollest figure of a child to appear as witness in one of these cases." just then a little woman in a black dress, black, tight-fitting bonnet, and black veil, came up timidly to the constable and asked if she might see the trials. "certainly, missis; you have nothing to do but to walk in. stay, i will show you the way to the court. may i ask if there is hany particular case as you is wanting to hear?" "not--not--that is, i am not a witness," replied the little woman, whose lips trembled. "i have a curiosity to see the proceedings." "well, ma'am, the affairs coming on are mostly hacts of robbery committed on the derby day--but some of them may interest you. walk this way, ma'am," and the constable preceded the little woman into the court. "there," he said kindly, seeing that for some reason she appeared a good deal either upset or excited, "you need not stand where the crowd are, you may go up and seat yourself on that bench where the witnesses be. you'll be more quiet and comfortable hup there, and will see heverything." "thank you," replied the little woman, and she placed herself on the extreme edge of the witnesses' bench. there was a case then on hand, one of those sad cases which police-courts see so many of. a woman had been brought up to be tried for that sin which, more than any other, blights homes, ruins children, spreads destruction through the land, sends souls to hell,--she was accused of drunkenness and disorderly conduct. she stood in the prisoner's dock with a sullen, bleared, indifferent face, her half-dead, listless eyes gazing vacantly at the magistrate. she had appeared in that court charged with the same offence forty times. mr vernon, the gentleman before whom she was accused, asked her what she had to say for herself. even at this question the indifferent countenance never woke into life. "nothing," she answered listlessly, for the love of strong drink had killed all other love in that woman's breast. she hardly listened as mr vernon addressed her in a few solemn but kindly words, and when her sentence--a month at wandsworth with hard labour--was pronounced, received it with the same stoical indifference. then two boys were led in by the jailor, and constable b. appeared as the first witness against them. as he passed into his place in the witnesses' box he gave the little woman in black a nudge and an intelligent look, which would have told her, even if she had not known it before, that one of the derby robbery cases had come on. through her thick veil she looked at the two lads; one hung down his face, but the other gazed about him, apparently untroubled and unashamed. this hardened expression on the elder boy's face seemed to cause her much pain, she turned her head away, and some tears fell on her hands. and yet, could she but have seen into their hearts, she would have perceived something which would have kindled a little hope in her soul. each boy, standing in this dreadful position, thought of his mother. dick, with that sea of faces about him, with the eyes of the judge fixed on him, felt that the memory of his mother was the hardest thing of all to bear, for the conscience of the child who had stood out against temptation for so long was by no means yet hardened, and though he knew nothing of god, his mother's memory stood in the place of god to him. so the most ignorant among us have a light to guide us. let us be thankful if it is a star so bright as that of mother's love. for, strange to say, the older lad, the boy who stood in the dock with that brazen, unabashed face, the clever, accomplished london thief, who though not unknown to the police, had hitherto by his skill and cunning almost always escaped the hands of justice, he too, down deep in his heart of hearts, thought of his mother; he took one quick, furtive glance around as if to look for her, then, apparently relieved, folded his arms and fixed his bold eyes on mr vernon. then the trial, in the usual form in which such trials are conducted in police-courts, went on. the prisoners' names and ages were first ascertained. "william jenks, aged fourteen; richard darrell, aged ten," sounding distinctly in the small room. then police constable b. identified the boys as the same whom he had caught in the act of removing a gold watch and purse from a gentleman's pocket in the midst of the crowds who thronged the streets on tuesday. he described very accurately the whole proceedings, stating how and why his suspicions had been aroused--how he had dodged the boys for some little time, had observed them whispering together, had seen dick buy his false nose and sixpenny fiddle, had overheard a few words which gave him a further clue to some mischief, had seen them separate, had closely noticed dick's antics, had watched the violent push he gave the old gentleman, and finally had laid his hand on jenks as he drew forth the watch and purse from his victim's pocket. his statements, delivered slowly and impressively, were taken down by a clerk of the court, and then read over to him, and signed as quite correct; then the constable retiring, the old gentleman who had been the victim of the robbery appeared in the witness-box. very irate was this witness, and very indignant the glances he gave over his spectacles at the prisoners. those were the boys of course! well, he had been befooled by the small chap's funny nose and absurd antics--any one else would have been the same. well, he _had_ a personal interest in the great race, and had come out to meet some friends who were returning from epsom, he had given the small boy only a passing thought. when violently knocked by him, he had believed it to be accidental, and caused by the eagerness and swaying of the crowd--his was not a suspicious nature. no, he had felt no hand in his pocket--and knew nothing of any robbery until the policeman showed him his own purse and watch in the elder prisoner's hand. though obliged to the constable for his zeal, he must add he thought it _shameful_ that such a thing could happen in any well-governed land! "will you tell us precisely what your purse contained, and describe its appearance?" asked mr vernon. "i can do that to the letter," replied the angry man. "i am not likely to forget my own purse or my own money." "we must ask you to confine your remarks to answering the questions put to you," interfered the magistrate. "how much did your purse contain, and what kind of purse was it?" "the purse you wish me to describe, and which i repeat i _can_ describe, was a green russian leather one, with silver fastenings. it contained (i know to a farthing what it contained) five sovereigns in gold, a half-sovereign, two florins, and sixpence, besides in one pocket a cheque for twenty pounds on the city bank. the cheque was not signed." the purse being opened, and its contents found to answer to this description, it was handed back to the old gentleman, who was then requested to describe his watch; and on his doing so, and also getting back this property, he became much more gracious, and retired, with his anger considerably cooled, to his former place beside the little woman in black. "if you have a watch, ma'am, hold it safely," he whispered to her. "even here, and surrounded by the officers of the law, we are not safe from the light fingers of these young ruffians." just then there was a bustle, and a movement of fresh interest in the court. another witness was appearing. led by the hand of constable b. a little girl was led into the witnesses' box, a little girl with an old woman's face, grave, worn, pale. at the sight of this witness dick changed colour violently, and even jenks gave way to some passing emotion. for an instant a pair of sad dark eyes gazed steadily at both the boys. they were speaking eyes, and they said as plainly as possible--"i cannot save you. i would help you, even _you_, jenks, out of this, but i cannot. i have come here to speak the truth, and the truth _will_, the truth _must_ do you harm." flo, with all her deep ignorance, had one settled conviction, that no one was ever yet heard of who told a lie in the witnesses' box. "how old is the little girl?" asked mr vernon. the question was repeated to her. "don't know," she answered promptly. "have you no idea, child? try and think!" "no, i doesn't know," said flo. then she added after a pause, "_mother_ knowed me age, and she said ef i lived till this month (ain't this month june?) as i'd be nine." "nine years old," said the magistrate, and the clerk of the court took a note of the fact. "now, little girl, what is your name?" "darrell." "darrell, do you know the nature of an oath?" "eh?" questioned flo. "do you know who god is? you have got to take a solemn oath to god that you will speak nothing but the truth while you stand there." "yes," said flo, "i'll on'y speak the truth." "do you know about god?" "mother used to say `god 'elp me.' i don't know nothink else--'cept 'bout heve," she added after another pause. "what do you know about eve?" "she wor the first thief, she wor. she prigged the apple off god's tree." a laugh through the court; but the odd little figure in mother's old bonnet never smiled, her eyes were turned again reproachfully on dick-- he was following in the footsteps of "heve." "you may administer the oath," said the magistrate to the usher of the court, and then the bible was placed in flo's hands and the well-known solemn words addressed to her. "the evidence you shall give to the court, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else but the truth, so help you god." "yes," answered flo. "kiss the book," said the usher. she did so gravely, and handed it back to him. "now, darrell, just answer the questions put to you, and remember you are on your oath to speak the truth. who are these boys? do you know them?" "yes, yer washup." flo had heard mr vernon spoken to as "your worship," and had adopted the name with avidity. "what are they called?" "little 'un's dick--t'other jenks." "which of the two is your brother?" "little chap." "do you live together--you and your brother and jenks?" "yes; number seven, duncan street." "have you a father and mother?" "no. father fell from a 'ouse and wor killed--he wor a mason; and mother, she died a year ago. we 'ad scamp wid us too," added flo; "leastways we 'ad till the night o' the derby." "who is scamp?" "my dawg." a laugh. "do not mind about your dog now, darrell," said the magistrate. "tell me how you live." "'ow i lives? course i lives on wittles; and when i can't get wittles i lives on nothink." "mr vernon means, what do you do to earn money?" explained the constable. "oh! i translates." "you translate!" said mr vernon, raising his eye brows in wonder that anything literary should find its way to flo's hands; "i did not know that you could read." "no, more i can--i knows nothink 'bout `read and pray.' i never was glad to see that 'ere day. no--i translates; and ef they is down at the 'eel, and bust at the sides, and hout at the toes, wy i makes 'em as good as new fur hall that." "she cobbles old boots and shoes, your worship," explained the amused constable. "they call it translating down in duncan street." "oh! does your brother translate also, darrell?" "no, yer washup; dick 'ave a broom and crossin'. 'ee wor doin' a tidy lot lately wid 'is broom and crossin'." "now remember you are on your oath. how did you spend your time on the derby day?" "i sold small dolls to the gents." "were you with your brother and the other prisoner?" "no, yer washup. jenks 'ee said as we worn't to keep company." "did he tell you why?" "'ee said as we'd do better bis'ness apart. 'ee was in the blackin' line, and dick in the fusee line." "where were you at the time of the robbery?" "close ahint jenks and dick." "did they see you?" "no." "what were they doing? what did you see them do?" "dick, 'ee 'ad a funny little red nose on, and 'ee capered about, and played the fiddle." "well, go on." "the people, they was pressing hevery way, and the folks was cheerin', wen--hall on a sudden--" "well?" "dick--'ee gave a great leap in the hair, and down 'ee come slap-bang 'gainst that 'ere gent," pointing to the red-faced gentleman; "and jenks--" "what about jenks? don't forget your oath, darrell." "i'm not a forgettin'--i'm a comin' to jenks. no, jenks," suddenly turning round and addressing him, "i wouldn't tell on you ef i wasn't standin' yere where no lies was hever spoke. 'ee stepped forrard as soft as soft, and pulled hout a purse and a watch hout o' the gent's pocket." "are these the watch and purse?" "yes." the clerk of the court then read over flo's evidence, and as she could neither read nor write, she was shown how to put her mark to the paper. "you may go now," said the magistrate; "i don't wish to ask you anything further." constable b. took her arm, but she struggled against him, and held her ground. "please, yer washup, i 'ave spoke the truth." "indeed, i hope so." "may the little chap come 'ome wid me, and i'll--" but here official authority was called to interfere, and flo was summarily ejected from the witness-box. she found a seat at the other side of the little woman in black, who took the child's trembling hand in hers. a few moments of patient summing up of evidence, and then the magistrate asked the prisoners if they had anything to say for themselves. "please, i'll never do it no more," said poor little dick, in a tone which nearly broke his sister's heart; but jenks, the older and more hardened offender, was silent. then the sentence was made known. dick, in consideration of his youth, and its being a first offence, was only to go to a reformatory school, but jenks was doomed to wandsworth house of correction for nine long months. chapter ten. the little woman in black. "come home with me," said the little woman by flo's side. she had thrown up her veil now, and the face the child saw was nearly as pale and sad as her own. she hardly noticed it, however, she was absorbed in a recognition. the little woman in black had the gentle voice and kind eyes, the little woman in black _was_ her friend of the derby day. "my dear, i am real glad to find you again. you shall come to my house and have a bit of dinner." "no, ma'am," said flo, shaking away her hand, "i knows yer, ma'am, and you is werry kind. but i'm not a goin' 'ome wid yer, missis; i'm not 'spectable to be in yer 'ouse. dick, 'ee be a thief and in prison, i'm not 'spectable no more." flo said this without tears, and defiantly. "oh, my dear, you are quite respectable enough for me. you are poor and in trouble, child--just the one that jesus christ wants; and surely if the king of glory wants you, i may want you too." "wot's glory?" asked flo. "glory, child; that's where the king lives." "ain't kings and queens the same?" "oh! now, my dear, i see you don't know nothing about the matter, or you wouldn't speak of any king or queen in the breath with my king. come and have a bit of dinner with me, and then i'll tell you about my king." "i ain't 'ungry," said flo; "but i'd real like to 'ear o' that king as wants me. would 'ee make a swell o' me, missis?" "he can raise you very high, little girl," said the woman; and taking flo's hand, they walked together in silence. "you was fond of poor jenks?" said the little woman at last. "yes, ma'am; 'ee wasn't a bad sort o' a feller. but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted the little chap. i don't go fur to blame jenks, ma'am, fur 'ee 'adn't no mother--but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted dick." at these words the little woman withdrew her hand from flo's, and pulling out her handkerchief, applied it to her eyes; and flo, wondering what made her cry, and what made her appear so sad altogether, walked again by her side in silence. they passed down several streets until at last they came to one of those courts hidden away from the general thoroughfares, so well-known to london district visitors. there are sun streets in london, where the sun never shines--there are jubilee courts, where feasts are never held, where satan and his evil spirits are the only beings that can rejoice. this place was called pine apple court, and doubtless a few years ago it as nearly resembled cherry court and may-blossom court as three peas resemble each other; but now, as flo and the little woman walked into it, it really and truly, as far as sweetness and purity went, was worthy of its name. here, in the midst of london, was actually a place where the decent poor might live in comfort and respectability. [one of miss octavia hill's courts.] the freshly-painted, white-washed houses had creepers twining against them; and before the doors was a nicely-cared-for piece of ground, where trees were planted, where the women could dry their clothes, and where, out of school-hours, the children could play. the little woman conducted flo across this pleasant court into one of the freshest and cleanest of the white-washed houses, where she brought her into a room on the ground floor, as bright as gay chintz curtains to the windows, neat paper on the walls, and the perfect purity which the constant use of soap and water produces, could make it. the polished steels in the grate shone again, a little clock ticked on the mantel-piece, and a square of crimson drugget stood before the fire-place. the window-sash was wide open, and on the ledge stood two flower-pots, one containing a tea-rose, the other a geranium in full blossom. the rose was ticketed, prize st, and stood in a gaily ornamented pot, doubtless its prize at the last poor people's flower show. had flo ever heard of paradise she would have supposed that she had reached it; as it was she believed that she had come to some place of rest, some sweet spot where weary limbs, and weary hearts too, might get some repose. she sat down thankfully on a small stool pointed out to her by her hostess and gazed around. "please, ma'am," she said presently, "wot am i to call yer?" at this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. "why, now," she said, "that's a curious thing, but my name's jenks, same as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning--mrs jenks is my name, little darrell." "yes, missis," replied flo respectfully. she had admired mrs jenks very much on the derby day, but now her feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. for aught she could tell the owner of such a room might be a "dook's" wife in disguise. "you sit in this chair and rest," said mrs jenks, "and i'll see about dinner." and flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her. mrs jenks had made her take off mother's old bonnet, and had placed her in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes. there were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place, and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and mrs jenks made coffee, fragrant coffee, such as flo had never tasted, and toasted bread, and buttered it. then she drew a little table up close to the open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when all was ready she put a chair for flo, and another for herself. but before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened. the little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes, and said these words:-- "i thank thee, my god, for the dinner thou hast given me; but more than all i thank thee that thou hast let me have one of thy outcast little ones to share it with." then she opened her eyes, and bustled about, and helped flo. and flo, who had found her appetite come back in full vigour at the first smell of the coffee and bacon, ate very heartily of mrs jenks' liberal helpings, leaning back in her chair when she had finished, with quite a pink flush on her thin cheeks, and the hunger of bodily want gone out of her eyes. "now," said the little woman, after all the plates and dishes were washed up and put away, "now," she said, "i will get to my work, and you shall tell me all that story over again. all about your poor dear mother and the boys, and when that poor fellow with the same name as mine came to live with you." "yes," answered flo, whose little heart was so drawn to mrs jenks, and so comforted by her, that any words she asked her to say came easily to her lips; and the story of the derby day was repeated with fuller confidence by the child, and listened to with fuller understanding on the part of her kind listener. flo told over again all about her mother, and mother's death, and the promise they had given mother--then of their own lives, and what hard work translating was, and how little dick earned by his broom and crossing--finally how jenks came, and how good-natured he was at first, and how glad they were to have him, and how they wondered what his trade was, and how he had promised to teach them both his trade. then at last, on the day she saw regent street and the queen, and tasted 'ot roast goose for the first time, then too she discovered that jenks was a thief. then she related her interview with jenks, and how he had promised to leave dick alone, and _not_ to teach him his wicked trade, and how on those terms she had allowed him to remain in the cellar; and then at last, when she was feeling so sure and so happy, he had deceived her, and now she was in great trouble, in great and bitter trouble, both the boys in prison, both thieves, and now mother could never rest any more. here flo broke down and sobbed bitterly. "i think if i were you, i would leave all that about your dear mother to god, my child," said little mrs jenks. "his ways are not as our ways. if i were you, i would not fret about your mother--i would just leave her to god." "who is god?" asked flo, stopping her tears and looking up. "who is god?" repeated mrs jenks. "why, he's the king of glory i had to tell you about; and now i remember, at the trial to-day you seemed to know very little about him--nothing, in fact. well, you shall not leave this house without knowing, i promise you that. why, god--god, little darrell, he's your best friend, and your poor mother's best friend, and dick's best friend, and my--that is, jenks' best friend too. he loves you, child, and some day he'll take you to a place where many poor people who have been sad, and hungry, and wanting for everything down here, are having rest, and good times for ever." "and will god give me a good time in that place?" asked flo. "yes. if you love him he will give you a better time than the queen has on her throne--a time so good, that you will never want to change with anybody in all the world." "tell me about god," asked flo in a breathless voice, and she left her stool and knelt at mrs jenks' feet. "god," said little mrs jenks, putting down her work and looking up solemnly, "god--he's the father of the fatherless, and you are fatherless. god's your father, child." "our--father--chart--'eaven," repeated flo. "your father in heaven--yes, that's it." then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. words came to her at last, and flo learned what every child in our england is supposed to know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such children live and die without hearing of. do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling their country with vice and crime? doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over on the other side. in church we thank god that we are not as these men are--murderers--thieves--unclean--unholy. let them go to prison, and to death--fit ends for such as they. true! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at all. the fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in _their_ path. their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned. christ, it is certain, would wash them white enough, and give them a place in his kingdom; but they know nothing of christ, and we who do know, to whom his name is a sound too familiar to excite any attention, his story too often read, too often heard of, to call up any emotion--we are either too lazy, or too selfish, or too ignorant of their ignorance, to tell them of him. now for the first time flo learned about god, and about god's dear son, our saviour. a little too about heaven, and a very little about prayer. if she spoke ever so low, down in her dark cellar, god would hear her, and some day, mrs jenks said, he would come for her, and carry her away to live with him in heaven. only a glimmering of the great truth could be given at one time to the child's dark mind, but there is a vast difference between twilight and thick darkness, and this difference took place in flo's mind that day. she listened with hardly a question--a breathless, astonished look on her face, and when mrs jenks had ceased speaking, she rose slowly and tied on mother's old bonnet. "may i come again?" asked flo, raising her lips to kiss the little woman. "yes, my child, come again to-morrow. i shall look out for you to-morrow." and flo promised to come. chapter eleven. maxey's young 'un. as flo walked down the street, the wonderful news she had heard for the first time completely absorbed her mind, so much so that she forgot that dick was a thief, that dick and jenks were both suffering from the penalty of their crime, that she was returning to her cellar alone, without even scamp to keep her company. the news she had heard was so great, so intensely interesting in its freshness and newness, that she could think of nothing else. she walked down, as her wont was, several by-streets, and took several short cuts, and found herself more than once in parts of the town where no respectable person was ever seen. the gutter children working at their several wretched trades called after her as she passed, one addressing her as "old bonnet," another asking how much she wanted a-piece for the flowers that dangled so ludicrously on her forehead. and being a timid child, and, london bred as she was, sensitive to ridicule, she walked on faster and faster, really anxious to find any quiet place where she could sit down and think. at last, as she was passing a more open piece of ground, where a group of boys were playing pitch-and-toss, they, noticing her quickened movements, and rather frightened face, made a rush at her, and flo, losing all presence of mind, began to run. little chance would she have had against her tormentors, had not just then a tall policeman appeared in sight, whereupon they considered it more prudent to give up their chase, and return to their interrupted amusements. poor flo, however, still believing them to be at her heels, ran faster than ever down a narrow lane to her right, turned sharp round a corner, when suddenly her foot tripped against a cellar grating, the grating, insecurely fastened, gave way, and the child, her fall partly broken by a ladder which stood against the grating, found herself bruised, stunned, almost unconscious, on the ground several feet below the street. for some moments she lay quiet, not in pain, and not quite insensible, but too much frightened and shaken to be capable of movement. then a sound within a foot or two of her caused her heart to leap with fresh fear. she sat up and listened intently. it was a stifled sound, it was the whine of a dog. for scamp's sake flo had learned to love all dogs. she made her way, though not without pain, to this one now, and put her hand on its head. instead of being angry and resenting this freedom, as a strange dog might, a quiver of joy went through the animal, its tail wagged violently, its brown eyes cast melting glances of love at flo, its small rough tongue tried to lick her face and hands, and there, gagged and tied, but well fed, as yet unhurt, and a platter of broken meat by its side, was her own dog, her lost dog, scamp. flo laid her head on the head of the dog, and burst into tears of joy. the pain of her fall was forgotten, she was very glad she had knocked against that broken grating, that by this means she had stumbled into this cellar; her dog could accompany her home--she would not be so lonely now. with her own hands she unfastened the gag, and loosened the chain from scamp's neck, and the dog, delighting in his recovered freedom, danced and scampered madly round her, uttering great, deep bays of joy. alas! for scamp, his foolish and untimely mirth excited undue attention to him. his loud and no longer muffled bark brought two men quickly into the cellar. flo had the prudence of mind to hide behind some old boards, and scamp with equal prudence did not follow her. "down, you brute," said the short thick-set man whom jenks on a former occasion had addressed as maxey. "wot a noise, 'ee's makin'; the perleece'll get scent of the young dawg wid his noise," and the cruel wretch shied a great blow at scamp, which caused the poor animal to quiver and cry out with pain. "'ee'll be quiet enough afore the night is hover," said the man's companion, with a loud laugh. "lor! won't it be fun to see the bull-dawg a tearin' of 'im? i'm comin' to shave and soap 'im presently; but see, maxey, some one 'as been and tumbled inter the cellar, down by the gratin', as i'm alive! see! them two bars is broke right acrost." "run and put them together, then, the best way possible," called out maxey, "and i'll look round the cellar to give it to any one as is in hidin'." how fast flo's heart beat at those words, but maxey, though he imagined he had searched in every available nook, never thought of examining behind the three thin boards almost jammed against the wall, and behind which the child had crushed her slight frame. he believed that whoever had fallen into the cellar had beaten a hasty retreat, and after tying up scamp more firmly than ever, took his departure. now was flo's time. she had only a few moments to effect her escape and the dog's escape. a dreadful meaning had maxey's words for her--her dog's life was in peril. never heeding an acute agony which had set in by this time in her right foot, she made her way to scamp's side, and first putting her arms round his neck, entreated him in the most pathetic voice to be quiet and not to betray them by any more barking. if dogs cannot understand words and their meanings, they are very clever at comprehending tones and _their_ meanings. perfectly did this dog's clear intelligence take in that flo meant them both to escape, that any undue noise on his part would defeat their purpose. he confessed to himself that in his first joy at seeing her he had acted foolishly, he would do so no more. when she unfastened him he bounded up the ladder, and butting with his great strong head against the broken grating, removed it again from its place, then springing to the ground, was a free dog once more. half a moment later flo was by his side. there were plenty of people, and idle people too, in the streets, but, strange to say, no one noticed the child and dog, and they passed on their way in safety. a few moments' walking brought them to duncan street, then to their own cellar, down the ladder of which scamp trotted with a happy, confident air. flo followed him feebly, and tottering across the floor, threw herself on her straw bed. not another step could she go. she was much hurt; she was in severe pain. was her foot broken? hardly that, or she could not have walked at all, but her present agony was so great, that large drops stood on her brow, and two or three sharp cries came from her patient lips. how she longed for dick then, or jenks then, or janey then. yes, she had scamp, and that was something--scamp, who was lying abject by her side, pouring out upon her a whole wealth of love, who, knowing what she had done for him, would evermore do all that dog could do for her sake. she raised her hand to his head and patted him, glad, very glad that she had rescued him from an unknown but dreadful fate. but she wanted something else, something or some one to give her ease in her terrible agony, and god, her loving father, looking down from heaven, saw his little child's sore need, and though as yet he sent her no earthly succour, he gave to her the blessed present relief of unconsciousness. flo fainted away. when she recovered an hour or two later, the scanty light that ever penetrated into the cellar had departed, and at first, when the child opened her eyes in the darkness, pain and memory of all recent events had completely left her. she fancied she was lying again by her mother's side on that very straw mattress, she stretched out her arms to embrace her, and to ask her the question with which she had greeted her for the last three months of her life. "be yer werry tired, mother?" but then the empty place, the straw where the weary form was no longer lying, brought back remembrance; her mother was not there--her mother was gone. she was resting in her quiet grave, and could never help, or succour, or protect her more. but then again her thoughts were broken. there were rude noises outside, a frightened cry from scamp at the foot of the bed, the cellar door was violently opened, two men scrambled down the ladder, and with many oaths and curses began tossing about the wretched furniture, and calling loudly for the missing dog. where was he? not on flo's bed, which they unmercifully raked about, unheeding her moans of pain; not anywhere apparently. vowing vengeance on _whoever_ had stolen the dawg, the men departed at last. then again all was silence, and in a few moments a cowed-looking and decidedly sooty animal might, had any light been there to see, have been observed descending from the chimney where he had lain _perdu_. of the life-preserving qualities scamp possessed a large share, as doubtless before this his story proves. perhaps his cur mother had put him up to a wrinkle or two in his babyhood; at any rate, fully determined was he to meet no violent end, to live out his appointed time, and very clever were the expedients he used to promote this worthy object. now he shook himself as free as he could of the encumbrances he had met with in the smoky, sooty chimney, and again approached flo's side. she laid her hand on his head, praised him a little for the talent he had shown in again escaping from maxey, and the dreadful fate to which maxey meant to consign him; then the two lay quiet and silent. a child and a dog! could any one have looked in on them that night they would have said that in all the great city no two could be more utterly alone and forsaken. that individual, whoever he might have been, would have gone away with a wrong impression--they were not so. any creature that retains hope, any creature that retains faith, which is better, than hope, cannot be really desolate. the dog had all the large, though unconscious faith of his kind in his creator. it had never occurred to him to murmur at his fate, to wish for himself the better and more silken lives that some dogs live. to live at all was a blessed thing, to love at all a more blessed thing--he lived and he loved--he was perfectly happy. and the child--for the first time she knew of and had faith in a divine father, she had heard of some one who loved her, and who would make all things right for her. she thought of this love, she pondered over it, she was neither desolate nor unhappy. god and god's son loved her, and loved dick--they knew all about her and dick; and some day their father would send for them both and give them a home in his house in heaven. flo had at all times a vivid imagination, since her earliest days it had been her dear delight to have day dreams, to build castles in the air. no well-dressed or happy-looking child ever crossed her path that she did not suppose herself that child, that she did not go through in fancy that child's delightful life. what wardrobes had flo in imagination, what gay trinkets adorned her brow, her arms, her neck! what a lovely house she lived in, what heaps of shillings and sovereigns she possessed! now and then, in her moments of most daring flight, she had even a handle to her name, and people addressed her as "lady flo." but all the time, while happy in these dreams, she had always known them to be but dreams. she was only flo, working as a translator of old boots and shoes, down in a dark cellar--she had no fine dresses, no pretty ornaments, no money, she was hungry and cold, and generally miserable, and as far as she could possibly see there was never any chance of her being anything else. she generally came down from her high imaginings to this stern reality, with a great burst of tears, only one sad thought comforting her, to be alive at all she could never be worse than she was, she could never sink any lower. she was mistaken. last night, lying all alone and waiting for dick's trial, lying hour after hour hoping and longing for sleep to visit her, and hoping and longing in vain, she had proved that she was mistaken. lower depths of sorrow and desolation could be reached, and she had reached them. through no fault of hers, the stern hand of the law was stretched out to grasp her one treasure, to take her brother away. dick had broken a promise sealed on dying lips--dick was a thief. henceforth and for ever the brand of the prison would be on him. when, their punishment over, he and jenks were free once again, nothing now, no power, or art, or persuasion, on her part could keep those two apart. together they would plunge into deeper and more daring crime, and come eventually to the bad and miserable end her mother had so often described to her. it was plain that she and dick must separate. when the boys were released from prison, it was plain that she and they could not live together as of old. the honest could not live with the dishonest. her mother had often told her that, had often warned her to be sure, happen what might, to choose honest companions. so flo knew that unless _she_ too broke her word to mother, they must part--dick and she must part. and yet how much she loved him--how much her mother had loved him! he was not grave like her; he had never carried an old head on young shoulders; he was the merriest, brightest, funniest boy in the world-- one of those throw-all-care-to-the-winds little fellows, who invariably give pleasure even in the darkest and most shady homes. his elastic spirits never flagged, his gay heart never despaired, he whistled over his driest crusts, he turned somersaults over his supperless hours--he had for many a day been the light of two pairs of eyes. true, he had often been idle, and lately had left the brunt of the daily labour, if not all of it, to flo. but the mother heart of the little sister, who was in reality younger than himself, accepted all this as a necessity. was he not a boy? and was it not one of the first laws of nature that all girls should work and all boys should play? but now dick must work with the hard labour the law accords to its prisoners. that bright little face must look out behind a prisoner's mask, he must be confined in the dark cell, he must be chained to the whipping-post, he must be half-starved on bread and water. out of prison he was half his time without the former of these necessities of life, and at his age he would not be subjected to hard labour. but flo knew nothing of these distinctions, and all the terrible stories she had ever heard of prisoners she imagined as happening to dick now. so the night before the trial had been one long misery to the sensitive, affectionate child. now the trial was over, now dick was really consigned to prison, or to what seemed to flo like prison. with their eyes they had said good-bye to each other, he from the prisoners' dock, she from her place in the witnesses' box. the parting was over, and she was lying alone in her dark cellar, on her straw pallet, bruised, hurt, faint, but strange to say no longer unhappy, strange to say happier than she had ever been in her life before. she had often heard of bright things--she had often imagined bright things, but now for the first time she heard of a bright thing for her. she was not always to be in pain, she had heard to-day of a place with no pain; she was not always to be hungry, poor, and in rags--she had heard to-day of food enough and to spare, of white dresses, of a home more beautiful than the queen's home, of a good time coming to her who had always, always, all her life had bad times. and dick, though he was a thief, might share in the good time, and so might jenks. our saviour gave of his good times to thieves, and sinners, and poor people, if only they wanted them, and of course they had only to hear of them to want them. "may i come down, flo?" called out janey's voice at this juncture, at the cellar door. "father 'ave beat me hawful; may i come down and set by yer a bit?" the lame girl was sobbing loudly, and without waiting for flo's reply she scrambled down the ladder and threw herself on the bed by the child's side. "there now," she said, panting out her passionate words, "'ee 'ave me hall black and blue, and my lame leg 'urt worse nor hever; and i wish 'ee wor in prison, i do; and i wish i wor dead, i do." "oh! janey," said flo, with a great gasp of longing, "_wouldn't_ it be nice to be dead?" this corroboration of her desire startled janey into quiet, and into a subdued-- "_what_, flo darrell?" "to be dead, janey, and 'avin' a good time?" "well," said janey, recovering herself with a laugh, "wen i'm down haltogether in the dumps, as i wor a minute ago, i wishes fur it, but most times i 'ates the bear thought o' it--ugh!" "that's cause yer doesn't know, janey, no more nor i did till to-day. plenty of wittles, plenty of clothes, plenty of pretty things, plenty of love, all in the good time as we poor folks have arter we are dead." janey gave her companion an angry push. "there now, ef yer ain't more than hagriwating, a comin' on me wid yer old game of s'posin', and me fairly clemmed wid the 'unger. there's no good time fur me, nor never will be, i reckon," and she again lifted up her voice and wept. "there's our--father--chart--'eaven," began flo, but janey stopped her. "i don't want 'im--one father's too much fur me." flo was silent--she would tell no more of her sweet message to unbelieving ears. after a time she spoke in a different tone. "janey?" "well?" "i'd like fur to 'ear the glory song." janey had a good voice, and desired nothing better than to listen to herself. she complied readily. "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.' "why, flo! my 'eart alive! flo, 'ere's scamp." "sing it again," murmured flo. and janey did sing it again, and again, and yet again, until the dark cellar seemed to grow full of it, and to be lit up and brightened by it, and to its music the sick and weary child went to sleep. chapter twelve. i was an hungered and ye gave me meat. all through the night flo had visions of bright, and clean, and lovely things. she dreamt that she had left the cellar for ever, that all the musty, ragged boots and shoes were mended, and paid for, and gone, and that instead of earning her bread in that hard and wretched way, god had come and placed her in a beautiful room, looking out on green fields, such as mother had told her of, and given her pure white dresses to make for the angels. and god looked so kind, and so like what she had imagined her own father to look like, that she had ventured to ask him what had become of dick, and god had told her that he himself was taking care of dick, and he himself had placed him in a good school, and all would be well with him. and she thought she sat by the open window and made the angels dresses, and was, oh! so very, very happy; and scamp lay at her feet, and was also happy; and mrs jenks was in the room, ready whenever she liked to tell her more about god, and she too was happy. yes, they all were happy, with a happiness flo had never conceived possible hitherto, and she felt that it was not the nice room, nor the lovely view, nor the pleasant occupation that made her happy, but just because god was near. at last the morning came, and she awoke to find that it all was only a dream. she was still in the cellar, she must get up as usual, she must work as usual at her old thankless work, the work that barely kept starvation from the door. she felt very faint and hungry, but she remembered that she had two shillings of the money she had earned on the derby day locked away in the box where she usually kept mother's old bonnet. she would get up at once and buy some breakfast for herself and scamp. she called the dog and told him what she was about to do, and, to judge from the way he wagged his tail and rubbed his head against her hands, he understood her, and was pleased with her intention. nay, more, to hurry her movements, he placed himself under the ladder, mounted a few rungs, came down again, and finally darted from the ladder to her, and from her to the ladder, uttering short impatient barks. what ailed flo? she was hungry, very hungry, but how slowly she rose from her bed. she removed her head from the pillow, she steadied herself on her elbow--how strange, and weak, and giddy she felt. she lay down again, it was only a passing weakness; then once more she tried, back came that overpowering sense of sickness and giddiness. well, it _should_ not conquer her this time; happen what might, she _must_ get up. she tried to put her right foot to the ground, but a great, sharp cry of agony brought scamp to her side in consternation, and brought also beads of pain to her brow. no, hungry as she was, she could not walk, by no possible means could she even stand. she lay perfectly still for a moment or two, suffering so intensely that every breath was an agony. at last this passed, and she was able to realise her position a little. in truth it was not a pleasant one. even the night before, she had been in great need, she had longed much for a drink, her pain had brought on intense thirst, she had meant to ask janey to put a cup, and a jug of cold water, by her side before she left, but the sweetness of janey's song had caused her to fall asleep before she had made known her request, and the lame girl had gone away unconscious that anything was the matter with her. it was highly probable that she might not pay flo a visit for days; unless her father gave her another beating, or some quite unexpected event occurred, the chances were that she would not come. and now flo needed meat and drink, and nursing, as she had never needed them in all her life before. though pale and delicate-looking, she had hitherto been possessed of a certain wiry strength, which those little withered city children, with every one of health's necessaries apparently denied them, in some strange way seem to have. she had never gone through severe pain before; and never, with all her privations, had she known the hunger and thirst which now tormented her. scamp, seeing that she had changed her mind about going out, fixed on her one or two reproachful glances, and then in a very discontented manner resigned himself to his fate, and to a few more hours' sleep. and flo lay and wondered what was going to become of her. she was very ill, she knew. she was alternately hot and then cold, she was alternately tortured by pangs of the most acute hunger, and then deadly sickness seemed to make the bare thought of food insupportable. she wondered what was to be her fate. was she to lie there, a little more sick, a little more weak, a little more hungry and thirsty, in a little more pain, until at last she died, as mother had died? well, what then? only last night she had thought dying a good thing, the best thing. it was bidding good-bye to all that now troubled her, it was beginning at once the good time god had put by so carefully for little outcast children like her. if only it would come at once, this kind, beautiful death--if only she had not to walk the dark bit of road between now and then, between now and the blessed moment when god would take her in his arms to heaven. but flo had been too long with the poor, with the very, very poor, had seen too many such die, not to know well that dying was often a very long business, a business so long, and so sad, that, though the dying were suffering just as much as she now suffered, yet many weary hours, sometimes many weary days, had to be passed before relief and succour came to them; before kind death came and took away all their sorrows and gave them rest, and sleep, and a good time. and this long period of waiting, even though the end was such brightness, felt very terrible to the lonely child. then, suddenly, words mrs jenks had said to her yesterday came into her head. "when you want food, or anything else very bad, and you don't know how to get it, then is the time to ask god for it. all you have to do is to say up your want, whatever it be, in as few, and small, and simple words as you like, and though you speaks down in your dark cellar, god will hear you up in heaven, and if 'tis any way possible he'll give you what you want." flo remembered these words of mrs jenks' now with great and sudden gladness. if ever a time of need and sore want had come to any one it had come to her now. what a good thing to have a father like god to tell it all to, what a wonderful thing that he could hear her, without her having to get up to go to him. her ideas of god were misty, very misty, she had not the least conception where heaven was, or what it was, she only knew there _was_ a god, there _was_ a heaven--a god for her, a heaven for her; and with all her ignorance, many of the gifted, and mighty, and learned of the earth do not know as much. now for the first time she would pray. she thought of no difficulty in making her petition known to god. no more hard to tell him of a want than it was, when her mother lived, to tell her of a desire or longing that possessed her. "please, i wants fur janey or somebody to come to the cellar afore long," she said; "i wants a sup of water werry bad, and somethink to eat. and there is two shillings stored away in mother's old bonnet-box. janey'd buy lots of wittles wid it. she'd be glad to come, 'cause i'd pay 'er, and i'm werry faint like. you'd 'ave to fetch 'er, please, god, 'cause she's not at 'ome, but away to the paper factory--but you that is real kind won't mind that." then flo lay still and listened, and waited. she had made her request, and now the answer would come any moment. any instant janey's quick step and the sound of her crutch might be heard outside, and she would look in with her surprised face, to say that notwithstanding her employer's anger she had been fetched away by god himself, and meant to wait on flo all day. and then flo pictured how quickly she would send janey out, and how eagerly and willingly, with a whole bright shilling in her greedy little hand, janey would go; and how she would commission her to buy two large mutton bones for scamp, and a jug of cold, cold water, and a hice--for flo felt more thirsty than hungry now--for herself. for half-an-hour she lay very patient, straining her ears to catch janey's expected footstep; but when that time, and more than that time passed, and every footfall still went by on the other side, she grew first fretful, then anxious, then doubtful. she had never prayed before, but mrs jenks had told her that assuredly when she did pray an answer would come. well, she had prayed, she had spoken to god very distinctly, and told him exactly what she wanted, but no answer came. he was to fetch janey to her, and no janey arrived. she had not made a hard request of him,-- she had only begged that a little child, as poor as herself, should come and give her a cup of cold water,--but the child never appeared, and flo's parched lips were still unmoistened. how strange of mrs jenks to tell her god would hear and answer prayer--not a bit of it. at least he would not hear little prayers like hers. very likely he was too busy listening to the queen's prayers, and to the great people's prayers. the great, rich people always had the best of everything, why should they not have the best of god's time too? or, perhaps--and this was a worse and darker thought--perhaps there was no god; perhaps all mrs jenks' talk of yesterday had been just a pretty fable--perhaps wicked mrs jenks had been deceiving her all the time! the more flo considered, the more did she believe this probable. after all, it was very unlikely that she should have lived so long and never, until yesterday, have heard anything of god and heaven, very unlikely that her mother should have lived her much longer life without knowing of these things! if there was a good time coming, was it likely that her mother should have lived and died without ever hearing of it? slowly and reluctantly flo gave up the hope that had brightened and rendered endurable the last four-and-twenty hours. she had no father in heaven, there was no god! great sobs broke from the poor little thing, a great agony of grief seemed to rend her very life in two. she cried her heart out, then again sank into uneasy slumber. all through the long hours of that burning summer day the child lay, now sleeping fitfully, now starting in feverish fright and expectancy. at last, as evening came on, and the air, cooler elsewhere, seemed to grow hotter and hotter in this wretched spot, she started upright, suffering more intense pangs of hunger than she had hitherto known. be her agony what it might, she must crawl, though on her knees, to the cupboard, where she knew a very old and mouldy crust still was. she rolled herself round off the straw, and then managed to move about two or three feet on the damp floor. but further movement of any description was impossible; the agony of her injured foot was greater than the agony of her hunger; she must stay still--by no possible means could she even get back to her wretched bed. she was past all reasoning or any power of consecutive thought now; she was alive to nothing but her intense bodily suffering. every nerve ached, every limb burned; her lips were black and parched, her tongue withered in her mouth; what words she uttered in her half-unconsciousness, could hardly be distinguished. in a much milder degree, it is true, scamp had also spent an uneasy day--scamp too had tried to sleep off his great hunger. it was at its height now, as he crouched by flo's side on the floor. during the time of his captivity he had been well fed, he had left behind him a large platter of broken meat; since flo had set him free neither bite nor sup had passed his lips. hungry in the morning, without doubt he was ravenously hungry now, and being of the genus designated "knowing," saw clearly that the time had come for him to set his wits to work. as a rule he partook of flo's spirit, and was, in truth, an honest dog; but he had a clause in his code of morals which taught him that when no man gave to him, then it would be right for him to help himself. he had proved the necessity of this rule once or twice in his adventurous life, and had further proved himself a clever and accomplished thief. he had some butchers' shops in his mind's eye now, some tempting butchers' shops, that he had cunningly noticed when returning home with flo yesterday. from those butchers' stalls hung pork chops, and mutton chops, ready cut, all prepared to be received into his capacious jaws. a leisurely walk down the street, a little daring, a sudden spring, and the prize would be his. should he go and satisfy this terrible hunger, and feel comfortable once more? why did he not go? why did he not at once go? why? because he had a heart,--not a human heart, which often, notwithstanding all that is said about it, is cold, and callous, and indifferent enough, but a great faithful dog's heart. with considerable disquietude he had watched flo all day. not for nothing had she lain so still, not for nothing had such piercing moans come from her lips, not for nothing did she look so pale, and drawn, and suffering now. drooping his ears, bending his head, and frowning deeply, he reflected, in dog-fashion, how flo too had tasted no meat and drank no water that day. she too was hungry and in a worse plight than him--it was his bounden duty to provide her with food. what should he bring her? a bone? bones were delicious, but strange to say neither flo, nor dick, nor jenks ever ate them! a nice pork or mutton chop: how good they were--too good for a hungry dog to think about patiently, as he reflected that a chop, if he could get it, would be only supper, and not too large a supper, for one. no, he must give up that butcher's meat in which his spirit delighted and attack the bread shops. a loaf of bread would satisfy them both! rising to his feet, and bestowing on flo one or two looks of intense intelligence, looks which said as plainly as possible, "i have not an idea of deserting you, i am going for our supper," he started off. up the ladder with nimble steps he went, and then, by a succession of cunning dives, along the street, until he came to the butchers' stalls. here his demeanour totally changed, he no longer looked timid and cowed: the currish element very prominent when, with his tail between his legs, he had scuttled up duncan street, now had vanished; he walked along the centre of the road soberly and calmly, a meditative look in his eyes, like a dog that has just partaken of a good dinner, and is out for a constitutional: not one glance did he cast at the tempting morsels, so near and yet so far. a baker's cart turned the corner--this was what scamp wanted, and expected. he joined the cart unknown to the baker's boy, he walked demurely behind, to all appearance guarding the tempting, freshly-baked loaves. his eye was on them and yet not on them. to the passers-by he looked like a very faithful, good kind of dog, who would fasten his teeth into the leg of any one who attempted to appropriate his master's property. more than one little hungry street _gamin_, on thieving intent, wished him anything but well as he passed. the cart stopped at several doors, the bread was delivered, but still no opportunity of securing a supper for himself and flo arose. scamp's lucky star was, however, in the ascendant. at number , q--street, jerry, the baker's boy, had brought mrs simpson's little bill, and evinced to that worthy woman a very righteous desire to have it settled. mrs simpson, whose wishes differed from jerry's, thought mercy, not justice, should be exercised in the matter of bills owing _from_ herself, when owing _to_ herself the case was different. in the dispute that ensued, jerry stepped into the house. here was scamp's golden opportunity. did he lose it? not he. half a moment later he might have been seen at his old game of diving and scuttling, his tail again tucked under his legs, a hangdog look on his face, but victorious for all that, for jerry's brownest and most crusty loaf was between his teeth. woe to any one who attempted to dispossess scamp of that loaf; his blood would have been up then, and serious battle would have ensued. in safety he bore it through the perilous road, down the ladder into the cellar, and panting and delighted, looking like one who had done a good deed, which indeed he had, he laid the bread under flo's nose. the smell of the good food came sweetly to the nostrils of the starving child, it roused her from the stupor into which she had been sinking, she opened her eyes, and stretched out her hot little hand to clutch at it eagerly. the dog crouched at her side, his lips watering, his teeth aching to set themselves once more into its crisp brown crust. just then footsteps stopped in reality at the cellar door, footsteps that had no idea of going away, footsteps that meant to come right in and find out about everything. for a moment flo's heart stood still, then gave a great cry of joy, for little mrs jenks stood by her side. "who sent you?" asked the trembling child. "god sent me, little darrell," said the woman, bending over her with, oh! such a tender, loving face. "then there be a god, after all," said flo, and in her weakness and gladness she fainted away. chapter thirteen. the bed god lent to flo. yes, there was a god for flo--a god and a father. for some wise and loving reason, all of which she should know some day, he had tested her very sorely, but in her hour of extremest and darkest need he sent her great and unexpected succour, and that night flo left the gloomy and wretched cellar in duncan street, never to return to it. she was unconscious of this herself, and consequently gave the miserable place no farewell looks. from that long swoon into which she sank she awoke with reason quite gone, so was unaware of anything that happened to her. she knew nothing of that drive in the cab, her head pillowed on mrs jenks' breast; nothing of that snowy little bed in mrs jenks' room where they laid her; nothing of the kind face of the doctor as he bent over her; nothing of anything but the hard battle with fever and pain, the hard and fierce conflict with death she had got to fight. for a week the doctor and mrs jenks both thought that she must die, and during all that time she had never one gleam of reason, never one instant's interval from severe pain. at the end of that time the crisis came, as it always does, in sleep. she fell asleep one evening moaning with all the exhaustion caused by fever and suffering, but the faithful little woman who sat by her side marked how by degrees her moans grew less, then ceased; her breathing came slower, deeper, calmer. she was sleeping a refreshing, healing sleep. late that night flo awoke. very slowly her eyes, the light of consciousness once more in them, travelled round the apartment. the last thing she remembered was lying very ill and very hungry on the damp cellar floor, the dog's faithful face close to her, and a loaf of bread within reach of her starving lips. where was she now? in a pure, white, delicious bed, in a room that might have been a little room out of heaven, so lovely did it look in her eyes. perhaps she was dead and was in heaven, and god had made her lie down and go to sleep and get rested before she did anything else. well, she had not had enough sleep yet, she was dreadfully, dreadfully tired still. she turned her weary head a very little--a dog was lying on the hearth-rug; a dog with the head, and back, and eyes of scamp, and those eyes were watching her now lazily, but still intently. and seated farther away was mrs jenks, darning a boy's sock, while a boy's jacket lay on her lap. the sight of the little woman's pale face brought back further and older memories to flo, and she knew that this little room was not part of heaven, but was just mrs jenks' beautiful little earthly room. how had she got here? however had she got here from that cellar where she had lain so ill and unable to move? perhaps after eating that bread that scamp had brought her she had got much stronger, and had remembered, as in a kind of dream, her appointment with mrs jenks, and still in a dream, had got up and gone to her, and perhaps when she reached her room she had got very faint again and tired, and mrs jenks had put her into her little bed, to rest for a bit. but how long she must have stayed, and how at home scamp looked! it was night now, quite night, and mrs jenks must want to lie down in her own nice pleasant bed; tired and weak as she was, she must go away. "please, mum," she said faintly, and her voice sounded to herself thin, and weak, and miles off. in an instant the little pale woman was bending over her. "did you speak to me, darling?" "please, mum," said flo, "ef you was to 'old me werry tight fur a bit, i'll get up, mum." "not a bit of you," said mrs jenks, smiling at her, "you'll not get up to-night, nor to-morrow neither. but you're better, ain't you, dearie?" "yes, mum, but we mustn't stay no later, we must be orf, scamp and me. 'tis werry late indeed, mum." "well, so it be," said mrs jenks, "'tis near twelve o'clock, and wot you 'as got to do is not to stir, but to drink this, and then go to sleep." "ain't this yer bed, mum?" asked flo, when she had taken something very refreshing out of a china mug which mrs jenks held to her lips; "ain't this yer bed as i'm a lyin' in, mum?" "it is, and it isn't," replied mrs jenks. "it ain't just that exactly now, fur god wanted the loan of it from me, fur a few nights, fur one of his sick little ones." "and am i keepin' the little 'un out o' it, mum?" "why no, flo darrell, you can hardly be doing that, for you are the very child god wants it fur. he has given me the nursing of you for a bit, and now you have got to speak no more, but to go to sleep." flo did not sleep at once, but she asked no further questions; she lay very still, a delicious languor of body stealing over her, a sense of protection and repose wrapping her soul in an elysium of joy. there was a god after all, and this god had heard her cry. while she was lying in such deep despair, doubting him so sorely, he was busy about her, not fetching janey, who could do so little, but going for mrs jenks, who was capable, and kind, and clever. he had given mrs jenks full directions about her, had desired her to nurse and take care of her. she need have no longer any compunction in lying in that soft bed, in receiving all that tender and novel treatment. god meant her to have it--it was all right. when to-morrow, or the day after, she was quite well and rested again she would try and find out more about god, and thank him in person, if she could, for his great kindness to her, and ever after the memory of that kindness would be something to cheer and help her in her cellar-life. how much she should like to see god! she felt that god must be beautiful. before her confused and dreamy eyes the angels in their white dresses kept moving up and down, and as they moved they sang "glory, glory, glory." and flo knew they were surrounding god, and she tried to catch a glimpse of god himself through their shining wings. she was half asleep when she saw them, she was soon wholly asleep; she lay in a dreamless, unbroken slumber all night. and this was the beginning of her recovery, and of her knowledge of god. when the doctor came the next day he said she was better, but though the fever had left her, she had still very much pain to suffer. in her fall she had given her foot a most severe sprain, and though the swelling and first agony were gone, yet it often ached, without a moment's intermission, all day and all night. then her fever had turned to rheumatic, and those little thin bones would feel for many a day the long lie they had had on the damp cellar floor. but flo's soul was so happy that her body was very brave to bear this severe pain; such a flood of love and gratitude was lighting up her heart, that had the ceaseless aching been worse she would have borne it with patient smiles and unmurmuring lips. for day after day, by little and little, as she was able to bear it, mrs jenks told her what she herself called the story of god. she began with adam and eve, and explained to her what god had done for them; she described that lovely garden of eden until flo with her vivid imagination saw the whole scene; she told how the devil came and tempted eve, and how eve fell, and in her fall, dishonesty, and sin, and misery, all came into the world. and because sin was in the world--and sin could not remain unpunished--adam and eve must die, and their children must die, and all men must die. and then she further explained to the listening child how, though they were sinners, the good god still cared for them, and for their children, and for all the people that should come after them; and because he so loved the world he sent his only begotten son into the world, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. and because little mrs jenks loved god and christ with all the strength of her nature in return, she told the story of the birth of jesus, of his life, of his death, so tenderly and so solemnly, that the child wept, and only the knowledge that his sufferings were now over, that he was happy now, and that he loved her, could stay her tears. what could she give him in return? why, all he asked for, all he needed. lying there on mrs jenks' little white bed which god had lent her, she offered up to the father, to the son, and to the spirit, the love and obedience of her whole heart and life for time and for eternity. chapter fourteen. the best robe. it took flo a long time to get well, but when the autumn came, and the fierce summer heat had passed away, she began to pick up strength, to leave her little white bed, to hobble on her lame foot across the floor, to sit on the crimson hearth-rug and fondle scamp; and after pondering on the fact for many days, and communicating her feelings on the subject to the dog in mrs jenks' absence, she felt that, painful as it would be to them both, they must now once more go out into the world. they must say good-bye to this bright little room and its much-loved inmate, and face once more the old days of poverty and privation. not that they ever would be quite the old days back again. however cold she now was, however hungry she now was, she had a hope which would charm away the hunger and cold, she had a strong friend who in her hour of extreme need would come again, as he had come once, to her succour. but must they both go out into the world again? this question perplexed her very often. that scamp should love quarters where beef and mutton bones were at least _sometimes_ tasted, where his bed was warm, and his life easy, was not to be wondered at. under his present gentle treatment he was growing into quite a handsome dog, a dog that really did credit to his friends. his ribs no longer stuck out in their former ungainly manner, his coat was thick and good, his eyes bright. of course he liked the comfortable feelings which accompanied these outward signs of prosperity: still he was not the dog to desert his mistress in her need; and cheerfully, and without a murmur, would he have followed her through hunger and privation, to the world's end. but the question was not, would he go, but should she take him? had she, who could do so little for him, any right to take him? perhaps when she had him back in her cellar, that dreadful maxey would again find him, and carry him away to fight with his bull-dogs, and his life would be sacrificed to her selfishness. the desolate side of the picture, which represented herself in the cellar without scamp, she resolutely turned away from, and determined that if mrs jenks would be willing to keep her dog, she should have him. and mrs jenks loved him, and had already paid the dog-tax for him, so it was very unlikely that she would refuse his society. flo thought about this for several nights while lying, awake in bed, and for several days when mrs jenks was out, and at last one evening she spoke. "mrs jenks, ma'am, is you fond of scamp?" mrs jenks had just returned after a day's charing, and now, having washed up, and put away the tea-things, and made herself clean and comfortable, she was seated in her little arm-chair, a tiny roll of coloured calico in her lap, and a mysteriously small thimble in her hand. at flo's question she patted the dog's head, and answered gently-- "yes, dear, i loves all dumb creatures." "then, mrs jenks, may be yer'd like fur to keep scamp?" "why, my child, of course you are both on a little visit with me for the present. see, flo, i am going to teach you needlework--it is what all women should be adepts in, dear." at another time flo could not have resisted this appeal, but she was too intensely in earnest now to be put off her subject. "i means, ma'am," she said, rising to her feet and speaking steadily, "i means, ma'am, wen my little wisit is hover, and you 'as back yer bed, ma'am, as god gave me the loan of--i means then, ma'am, seeing as you loves my dawg, and you'll be kind to 'im, and hall 'ee wants is no bed, but to lie on the rug, why, that you might keep my dawg." flo's voice shook so while renouncing scamp, that the animal himself heard her, and got up and thrust his great awkward head between her hands. she had hard work to restrain her tears, but did so, and kept her eyes steadily fixed on mrs jenks. that little woman sat silent for fully a moment, now returning flo's gaze, now softly stroking scamp's back--at last she spoke. "no, flo," she said, "i won't part you and scamp--you love each other, and i think god means you to stay together. he has made you meet, and let you pass through a pretty sharp little bit of life in company, and i have no idea but that he sent you his dumb creature to be a comfort to you, and if that is so, i won't take him away. as long as you stay he shall stay, but when you go back to your cellar he shall go too." scamp, whose eyes expressed that he knew all about it, and fully believed that mrs jenks understood his character, looked satisfied, and licked her hand, but flo had still an anxious frown on her face. "ef you please, ma'am," she said, "'tis better fur me to know how much longer am i to have the loan of your bed, ma'am?" "why, flo, my dear, mrs potter, who lent me the mattress i sleeps on, sent me down word that she must have it to-morrow morning for her niece, who is coming to live with her, so i'll want my bed, flo, and 'tis too little for both of us." mrs jenks paused, but flo was quite silent. "well, dear," she said cheerfully, "we'll all three lie warm and snug to-night, and we needn't meet to-morrow's troubles half way. now come over, child, and i'll give you instruction in needlework, 'tis an hart as all women should cultivate." flo, still silent and speechless, went over and received the needle into her clumsy little fingers, and after a great many efforts, succeeded in threading it, and then she watched mrs jenks work, and went through two or three spasmodic stitches herself, and to all appearance looked a grave, diligent little girl, very much interested in her occupation. and mrs jenks chatted to her, and told her what a good trade needlework was, and for all it met so much abuse, and was thought so poor in a money-making way, yet still good, plain workers, not machinists, could always command their price, and what a tidy penny she had made by needlework in her day. and to all this flo replied in monosyllables, her head hanging, her eyes fixed on her work. at last mrs jenks gave her a needle freshly threaded, and a strip of calico, and bade her seat herself on the hearth-rug and draw her needle in and out of the calico to accustom her to its use, and she herself took up a boy's jacket, and went on unpicking and opening the seams, and letting it out about an inch in all directions. night after night she was engaged over this work, and it always interested flo immensely: for mrs jenks took such pains with it, she unpicked the seams and smoothed them out with such clever fingers, then she stitched them up again with such fine, beautiful stitching, and when that was done, she invariably ironed them over with a nice little iron, which she used for no other purpose, so that no trace of the old stitching could be seen. she had a very short time each day to devote to this work, seldom more than ten minutes, but she did it as though she delighted in it, as though it did her heart and soul good to touch that cloth, to draw those careful, beautiful stitches in and out of it. and every night, while so engaged, she told flo the story of the prodigal son. she began it this night as usual, without the little girl looking up or asking for it. "once there was a man who had two sons--they were all the children he had, and he held them very dear. one--the eldest--was a steady lad, willing to abide by his father, and be guided by him, but the other was a wild, poor fellow, and he thought the home very small and narrow, and the world a big place, and he thought he'd like a bit of fun, and to see foreign parts. "so he asked his father for all the money he could spare, and his father gave him half his living. and then the poor foolish boy set off, turning his back on all the comforts of home, and thinking now he'd see life in earnest; and when he got to the far-off lands, wild companions, thieves, and such, came round him, and between them the good bit of money his father had given him melted away, and he had not a penny to call his own. then he began to be hungry, to want sore, and no man gave to him, and no man pitied him; and then, sitting there in the far country, came back to the poor, desolate, foolish lad the thoughts of home, and the nice little house, and the father's love, and he thought if he was there again, why, he'd never be dying of hunger, for in the father's house even the servants had enough and to spare. "and he thought, why should he not go back again? and he said to himself, `i will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be thy son.' "and he got up and went back to his father. but the loving father was looking out for him, and when he saw him coming over the hill-top, he ran to meet him, and threw his arms about him; and the son said-- "`father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' "but the father said, `bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and let us make a feast and be merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.'" night after night flo had listened to this story, always with a question at the top of her lips, but never until to-night had she courage to put it. "was the best robe, a jacket and trousers and little weskit, ma'am?" "very like," said mrs jenks, bending over a fresh seam she was beginning to unpick. "but you hasn't no lad comin' back fur that 'ere jacket, ma'am?" mrs jenks was silent for fully two minutes, her work had fallen from her hands, her soft, gentle eyes looked afar. "yes, flo dear," she said, "i have such a lad." "wot's 'is name, ma'am?" "willie," said mrs jenks, "willie's 'is name--leastways 'is home name." "and is he a comin' back any day, ma'am? is you a lookin' hout o' the winder fur 'im any day?" "no, flo, he won't come any day, he won't come fur a bit." "wen 'is best robe is ready, ma'am?" "yes; when he comes it shall be ready." "'ow soon is 'ee like to walk in, ma'am?" "i don't know exact," said mrs jenks, "but i'll look out fur him in the spring, when the little crocuses and snowdrops is out--he's very like to turn up then." as mrs jenks spoke she folded the jacket and put it tidily away, and then she unbandaged flo's foot and rubbed some strengthening liniment on it, and undressed the little girl and put her into bed, and when she had tucked her up and kissed her, and flo hail rewarded her with a smile breaking all over her little white, thin face, something in the expression of that, face caused her to bend down again and speak suddenly. "god has given me a message for you, child, and forgetful old woman that i am, i was near going to sleep without yer 'aving it." "wot's the message, mum?" "the message is this, straight from god himself--`certainly i will be with thee.' do you know what that means, my child?" "i can part guess, ma'am." "ay, i dare say you can part guess, but you may as well know the whole sweet meaning of it. 'tis this, flo darrell--_wherever_ you be, god will be with you. back in your cellar, dark as it is, he'll come and keep you company. if you stay with me, why he's here too. when you go to sleep his arm is under your head; when you walk abroad, he's by your side--he's with you now, and he'll be with you for ever. when you come to die he'll be with you. you need never fear for nothing, for god will be always with you. he says `certainly,' and his certainly, is as big, and wide, and strong as eternity, flo darrell." "yes, ma'am," replied flo very softly, and then mrs jenks went and lay down on her mattress, and was presently sleeping the sweet and heavy sleep of the hard worker. but flo could not sleep--she lay awake, feeling the soft white sheets with her fingers, looking with her brown eyes all round the pretty room. how bright, and pure, and fresh it all looked, with the firelight flickering over the furniture, to the beauty-loving child. she was taking farewell of it then--she must go away to-morrow; back again to their cellar the dog and she must go--away from the sunlight of this bright little home, into the homeless darkness of their duncan street life. she had not expected it quite so soon, she had thought that god would give her a little more notice, a little longer time to prepare, before he asked her to return that comfortable bed to mrs jenks. well, the time had come for her to do it, and she must do it with a good grace, she must not show dear mrs jenks even half how sorry she was. that little woman had done so much for her, had changed and brightened her whole existence, had been specially chosen by god himself to do all this for her, to save her life. not for worlds would she look as though she expected more from mrs jenks. she must go away to-morrow, very, very thankful, and not too sad, otherwise the little woman would feel uncomfortable about her. she resolved that in the morning she would wear quite a cheerful face, and talk brightly of all people _had_ made by translating. she would walk away when the time came, as briskly as her lame foot would permit, scamp wagging his tail, and supposing he was only going for an ordinary walk, by her side. then they would reach the cellar, and janey's mother, who kept the key, would open it for them, and, perhaps janey herself would come down and listen to all flo's wonderful stories. well; these were for to-morrow, to-night she must say farewell; to-night, with eyes too sad, and heart too heavy for childish tears, she must look around at this cleanliness, this comfort, this luxury for the last time. flo was a poor child, the child of low people, but she had a refined nature, a true lady's heart beat in that little breast. all the finer instincts, all the cravings of a gentle and high spirit, were hers. pretty things were a delight to her, the sound of sweet music an ecstasy. born in another sphere, she might have been an artist, she might have been a musician, but never, under any circumstances, could she have led a common-place life. the past six weeks, notwithstanding her anxiety and sorrow about dick, had been one bright dream to her. the perfect neatness, the little rough, but no longer tattered, dress mrs jenks had made for her, the sense of repose, the lovely stories, had made the place little short of paradise to the child. and now by to-morrow night it would all be over, and the old dark life of poverty, hunger, and dirt would begin again. as flo was thinking this, and, leaning on her elbow, was looking sadly around, suddenly the verse mrs jenks had said good-night to her with darted like a ray of brightest sunshine into her soul. "certainly, i will be with thee." what a fool she was, to think janey's company necessary, to have any fear of loneliness. god would be with her. though unseen by her (she knew that much about god now), he would still be by her side. was it likely, when he was down with her in the dark cellar, that he would allow her to want, or even have things very hard for her? or suppose he did allow her to go through privations? suppose he asked her to bear a few short, dark days for him down here, he would give her a for-ever and for-ever of bright days, by and by. after a time she grew weary, and her heavy lids closed, and she went to sleep, but her face was no longer sad, it was bright with the thought of god. chapter fifteen. miss mary. the next morning flo watched mrs jenks very narrowly, wondering and hoping much that she would show some sorrow at the thought of the coming parting. a shade, even a shade, of regret on the little woman's face would have been pleasing to flo; it would have given her undoubted satisfaction to know that mrs jenks missed her, or would be likely to miss her, ever so little. but though she watched her anxiously, no trace of what she desired was visible on the bright little woman's features. she was up earlier than usual, and looked to flo rather more brisk and happy than usual. she went actively about her work, singing under her breath for fear of disturbing flo, whom she fancied was still asleep, some of the hymns she delighted in. "christ is my saviour and my friend, my brother and my love, my head, my hope, my counsellor, my advocate above," sang mrs jenks, and while she sang she dusted, and tidied, and scrubbed the little room; and as she polished the grate, and lit the small fire, and put the kettle on for breakfast, she continued-- "christ jesus is the heaven of heaven; my christ, what shall i call? christ is the first, christ is the last, my christ is all in all." no, mrs jenks was not sorry about anything, that was plain; there was a concealed triumph in her low notes which almost brought tears to the eyes of the listening child. perhaps she would have sobbed aloud, and so revealed to mrs jenks what was passing in her mind, had not that little woman done something which took off her attention, and astonished her very much. when she had completed all her usual preparations for breakfast, she took off her old working gown, and put on her best sunday-go-to-meeting dress. this surprised flo so utterly that she forgot she had been pretending to be asleep and sat up on her elbow to gaze at her. over the best dress she pinned a snowy kerchief, and putting on finally a clean widow's cap, drew up the blinds and approached flo's side. "i'll just see about that poor foot now," she said, "and then, while i am frying the herring for breakfast, you can wash and dress yourself, dearie." but poor flo could not help wondering, as mrs jenks in her brisk clever way unbandaged her foot, and applied that pleasant strengthening lotion, who would do it for her to-morrow morning, or would she have any lotion to put. she longed to find courage to ask mrs jenks to allow her to take away what was left in the bottle, perhaps by the time it was finished her foot would be well. and flo knew perfectly, how important it was for her, unless she was utterly to starve, that that lame foot should get well. she remembered only too vividly what hard times janey, even with a father and mother living, had to pull along with her lame foot, but she could not find courage to ask for the lotion, and mrs jenks, after using a sufficient quantity, corked up the remainder and put it carefully away. "there's an improvement here," said the little woman, touching the injured ankle. "there's more nerve, and strength, and firmness. you'll be able to walk to-day." "i'll try, ma'am," said flo. "so you shall, and you can lean on me--i'll bear your weight. now get up, dearie." as flo dressed herself she felt immensely comforted. it was very evident from mrs jenks' words, that she intended going with her to her cellar, she herself would take her back to her wretched home. to do this she must give up her day's charing, so flo knew that her going away was of some importance to the little woman, and the thought, as i have said, comforted her greatly. she dressed herself quickly and neatly, and after kneeling, and repeating "our father" quite through very softly under her breath, the three--the woman, child, and dog--sat down to breakfast. it would be absurd to speak of it in any other way. in that household scamp ate with the others, he drew up as gravely to every meal as mrs jenks did herself. his eyes were on a level with the table, and he looked so at home, so assured of his right to be there, and withal so anxious and expectant, and he had such a funny way of cocking his ears when a piece of nice fried herring was likely to go his way, that he was a constant source of mirth? and pleasure to the human beings with whom he resided. mrs jenks was one of the most frugal little women in the world; never a crumb was wasted in her little home, but she always managed to have something savoury for every meal, and the savoury things she bought were rendered more so by her judicious cooking. her red herrings, for instance, just because she knew where to buy them, and how to dress them, did not taste at all like poor flo's red herrings, cooked against the bars, and eaten with her fingers in the duncan street cellar. so it was with all her food; it was very plain, very inexpensive, but of its kind it was the best, and was so nicely served that appetites far more fastidious than flo's would have enjoyed it. on this morning, however, the three divided their herring and sipped their tea (scamp had evinced quite a liking for tea) in silence, and when it was over, and flo was wondering how soon she could break the ice and ask mrs jenks _when_ she meant to take her to duncan street, she was startled by the little woman saying to her in her briskest and brightest tones-- "i wonder, child, whether i'd best trim up that old bonnet of your mother's for you to wear, or will you go with yer little head exposed to the sun? "the bonnet's very old, that's certain, but then 'tis something of a protection, and the sun's 'ot." "please, ma'am," said flo, "i can walk werry well wid my head bare; but ef you doesn't mind i'd like to carry 'ome the bonnet, fur it was mother's sunday best, it wor." "lor, child, you're not going home yet awhile, you've got to go and pay a visit with me. here, show me the bonnet--i'll put a piece of decent brown upon it, and mend it up." which mrs jenks did, and with her neat, capable fingers transformed it into by no means so grotesque-looking an object. then when it was tied on flo's head they set off. "a lady wishes to see you, flo, and she wishes to see scamp too," explained mrs jenks; and calling the dog, they went slowly out of the court. flo had very little time for wonder, for the lady in question lived but a few doors away, and notwithstanding her slow and painful walking she got to her house in a very few moments. it was a tiny house, quite a scrap of a house to be found in any part of the middle of london--a house back from its neighbours, with little gothic windows, and a great tree sheltering it. how it came to pass that no railway company, or improvement company, or company of something else, had not pounced upon it and pulled it down years ago remained a marvel; however, there it stood, and to its hall door walked mrs jenks, flo, and scamp, now. the door was opened by a neat little parlour-maid, who grinned from ear to ear at sight of mrs jenks. "is your mistress at home, annie?" "that she is, ma'am, and looking out for you. you're all to come right in, she says--the dog and all." so flo found herself in a pretty hall, bright with indian matting, and some fresh ferns towering up high in a great stone jar of water. "we was in the country yesterday, ma'am, miss mary and me, and have brought back flowers, and them 'igh green things enough to fill a house with 'em," explained the little handmaid as she trotted on in front, down one flight of stairs and up another, until she conducted them into a long low room, rendered cool and summery by the shade of the great tree outside. this room to-day was, as annie the servant expressed it, like a flower garden. hydrangeas, roses, carnations, wild flowers, ferns, stood on every pedestal, filled twenty, thirty vases, some of rarest china, some of commonest delf, but cunningly hid now by all kinds of delicate foliage. it was a strange little house for the midst of the city, a strange little bower of a room, cool, sweet-scented, carrying those who knew the country miles away into its shadiest depths--a room furnished with antique old carvings and odd little black-legged spindle chairs. on one of the walls hung a solitary picture, a water-colour framed without margin, in a broad gilt frame. a masterpiece of art it was--of art, i say? something far beyond art-- genius. it made the effect of the charming little room complete, and not only carried one to the country, but straight away at once to the seashore. those who saw it thought of the beech on summer evenings, of the happy days when they were young. it was a picture of waves--waves dancing and in motion, waves with the white froth foaming on them, and the sunlight glancing on their tops. no other life in the picture, neither ship nor bird, but the waves were so replete with their own life that the salt fresh breeze seemed to blow on your face as you gazed. the effect was so marvellous, so great and strong, that flo and mrs jenks both neglected the flowers, only taking them in as accessories, and went and stood under the picture. "ah! there's the sea," said mrs jenks with a great sigh, and a passing cloud, not of pain, but of an old grief, on her face. "the sea shall give up her dead," said a young voice by her side, and turning quickly, flo saw one of the most peculiar, and perhaps one of the most beautiful, women she had ever looked at. was she old? the hair that circled her low forehead was snowy white. was she young? her voice was round, flexible, full of music, rich with all the sympathy of generous youth. she might be thirty--forty--fifty--any age. she had a story--who hasn't? she had met with sorrow--who hasn't? but she had conquered and risen above sorrow, as her pale, calm, unwrinkled face testified. she was a brave woman, a succourer of the oppressed, a friend in the house of trouble, or mourning, as the pathetic, dark grey eyes, which looked out at you from under their straight black brows, declared. long afterwards she told flo in half-a-dozen simple words her history. "god took away from me all, child--father--mother--lover--home. he made me quite empty, and then left me so for a little time, to let me feel what it was like: but when i had tasted the full bitterness, he came and filled me with himself--brim full of himself. then i had my mission from him. go feed my sheep--go feed my lambs. is it not enough?" "you like my picture, mrs jenks," she said now, "and so does the child," touching flo as she spoke with the tips of her white fingers. "come into this room and i will show you another--there." she led the way into a little room rendered dark, not by the great tree, but by venetian blinds. over the mantel-piece was another solitary picture--again a water-colour. some cows, four beautifully sketched, ease-loving creatures, standing with their feet in a pool of clear water: sedgy, marshy ground behind them, a few broken trees, and a ridge of low hills in the background-- over all the evening sky. "that picture," said the lady, "is called `repose,'--to me it is repose with stagnation; i like my waves better." "and yet, miss mary," replied the widow, "how restful and trustful the dumb creatures look! i think they read us a lesson." "so they do, mrs jenks; all his works read us a lesson--but come back to my waves, i want their breezes on my face, the day is stifling." she led the way back into the first room, and seated herself on a low chair. "this is your little girl, and this the dog--scamp, you call him. why did you give him so outlandish a name? he does not deserve it, he is a good faithful dog, there is nothing scampish about him, i see that in his face." "yes, ma'am, he's as decent conducted and faithful a cretur as ever walked. wot scamp he is, is only name deep, not natur deep." "well, that is right--what's in a name? come here, scamp, poor fellow, and you, little flo, you come also; i have a great deal to say to you and your dog." the child and the dog went up and stood close to the kind face. miss mary put her arm round flo, and laid one shapely white hand on scamp's forehead. "so god has taken away your little bed," she said to the child, "and you don't know where to sleep to-night." "oh! yes, mum, i does," said flo in a cheerful voice, for she did not wish mrs jenks to think she missed her bed very much. "scamp and me, we 'as a mattress in hour cellar." miss mary smiled. "now, flo," she said, "i really don't wish to disappoint you, but i greatly fear you are mistaken. you may have a mattress, but you have no mattress in number , duncan street, for that cellar, as well as every other cellar in the street, has been shut up by the police three weeks ago. they are none of them fit places for human beings to live in." if miss mary, sitting there in her summer muslin, surrounded by every comfort, thought that flo would rejoice in the fact that these places, unfit for any of god's creatures, were shut up, she was vastly mistaken. dark and wretched hole of a place as number , duncan street, was, it was there her mother had died, it was there she and dick had played, and struggled, and been honest, and happy. poor miserable shred of a home, it was the only home she had ever possessed the only place she had a right to call her own. now that it was gone, the streets or the adelphi arches stared her in the face. veritable tears came to her eyes, and in her excitement and distress, she forgot her awe of the first lady who had ever spoken to her. "please, mum, ef the cellar is shut up, wot 'ave come of my little bits o' duds, my mattress, and table, and little cobbler's stool?--that little stool wor worth sixpence any day, it stood so steady on its legs. wot 'ave come o' them, mum, and wot's to come o' scamp and me, mum?" "ah!" said the lady more kindly than ever, "that is the important question, what is to become of you and scamp? well, my dear, god has a nice little plan all ready for you both, and what you have to do is to say yes to it." "and i 'ave brought you here to learn all about it, flo," said mrs jenks, nodding and smiling at her. then miss mary made the child seat herself on a low stool by her side, and unfolded to her a wonderful revelation. she, flo, was no stranger to this lady. mrs jenks once a week worked as char-woman in this house, and had long ago told its mistress of her little charge; and miss mary was charmed and interested, and wanted to buy scamp, only mrs jenks declared that that would break flo's heart. so instead she had contributed something every week to the keep of the two. now she wished to do something more. miss mary graham was not rich, and long ago every penny of her spare money had been appropriated in various charitable ways, but about a fortnight ago a singular thing had happened to her. she received through the post a cheque for a small sum with these words inside the envelope-- "_to be spent on the first little homeless london child you care to devote it to_." the gift, sent anonymously, seemed to point directly to flo, and miss graham resolved that she should reap the benefit. her plan for her was this,--she and scamp were to live with mrs jenks for at least a year, and during that time mrs jenks was to instruct flo in reading and writing, in fine sewing, and in all the mysteries of household work and cooking, and when flo was old enough and strong enough, and if she turned out what they earnestly trusted she would turn out, she was to come to miss mary as her little servant, for miss mary expected that in a year or two annie would be married and have a home of her own. "does this plan suit you, flo? are you willing when the time comes to try to be a faithful little servant to any master or mistress you may be with?" whatever flo's feelings may have been, her answer was a softly, a very softly spoken-- "yes, ma'am." "do you know how you are to learn?" "no, ma'am; but mrs jenks, she knows." "mrs jenks knows certainly, and so may you. you must be god's little servant first--you must begin by being god's little servant to-day, and then when the time comes you will be a good and faithful servant to whoever you are with." "yes, ma'am," answered flo, a look of reverence, of love, of wonder at the care god was taking of her, stealing over her downcast face. miss mary saw the look, and rose from her seat well satisfied, she had found the child her heavenly father meant her to serve. "but please, mum," said flo, "does yer know about dick?" "yes, my dear, i know all about your little brother. mrs jenks has told me dick's story as well as yours. and i know this much, which perhaps you may not know; his stealing was a bad thing, but his being taken up and sent, not to prison, but to the good reformatory school where he now is, was the best thing that could happen to him. i have been over that school, flo, and i know that the boys in it are treated well, and are happy. they are taught a trade, and are given a fair start in life. "many a boy such as dick owes his salvation to the school he now is in. "by the way, did you notice annie, my little servant?" "yes, ma'am," and a smile came to flo's face at the remembrance of the bright, pleasant-looking handmaiden. "she has given me leave to tell you something, flo; something of her own history. "once my dear, faithful annie was a little london thief--a notorious little london thief. she knew of no god, she knew of nothing good--she was not even as fortunate as you and dick were, for she had no mother to keep her right. when not quite ten years old she was concerned in a daring city robbery--she was taken up--convicted--and at last sentenced, first for a month to wandsworth house of correction, afterwards for four years to the girls' reformatory school at that place. "she has often told me what happened to her on the day she arrived at this school. she went there hating every one, determined never to change her ways, to remain for ever hardened and wicked. "the matron called her aside and spoke to her thus: "`i know what is said of you, but i do not believe half of it--_i am going to trust you_. "`here is a five-pound note; take this note to such a shop, and bring me back four sovereigns in gold, and one in silver.' "that noble trust saved the girl. at that moment, as she herself said, all inclination for thieving utterly left her. [a fact.] from that day to this she has never touched a farthing that is not strictly her own. you see what she is now in appearance; when you know her better, you will see what she is in character--a true christian--a noble woman. all the nobler for having met and conquered temptation." miss mary paused, then added softly, "what she has become, dick may become." when mrs jenks, and flo, and scamp came home that morning, flo, who after all that had happened felt sure that nothing ever _could_ surprise her again, still could not help, when she entered the neat little room-- her _real_ home now--starting back and folding her hands in mute astonishment. the rough-looking, untidy mattress was gone, and in its place stood a tiny, bright-looking iron bedstead, on which the smallest of snowy beds was made up. over the bedstead, pinned against the wall, was a card with these words printed on it-- "god's gift to flo." chapter sixteen. bright days. and now began a happy time in a hitherto very dark little life. all her cares, her anxieties for dick even, swept away, flo had stept into a state of existence that to her was one of luxury. the effect on many a nature, after the first burst of thankfulness was over, would have been a hardening one. the bright sunshine of prosperity, without any of the rain of affliction, would have dried up the fair soil, withered, and caused to die, the good seed. but on flo the effect was different; she never forgot one thing, and this memory kept all else straight within her. in counting up her mercies, she never forgot that it was god who gave them to her; and in return she gave him, not love as a duty, but love rising free and spontaneous out of a warm, strong heart. and he whom she loved she longed to hear more of, and mrs jenks, whose love for god and faith in god was as great as her own, loved to tell her of him. so these two, in their simple, unlearned way, held converse often together on things that the men of this world so seldom allude to, and doubtless they learned more about god than the men of this world, with all their talents and cultivated tastes, ever attain to. it was mrs jenks' simple plan to take all that the bible said in its literal and exact meaning, and flo and she particularly delighted in its descriptions (not imagery to them) of heaven. and when mrs jenks read to flo out of the st and nd chapters of the revelation, the child would raise her clear brown eyes to the autumn sky, and see with that inner sense, so strong in natures like hers, the gates of pearl and golden streets. god lived there--and many people who once were sad and sorrowful in this world, lived there--and it was the lovely happy home where she hoped she and dick should also live some day. "and you too, mrs jenks, and that poor lad of yours," she would say, laying her head caressingly on the little woman's knee. but mrs jenks rather wondered why flo never mentioned now that other jenks, her namesake, who was wearing out his slow nine months' imprisonment in the wandsworth house of correction. once flo had been very fond of him, and his name was on her lips twenty times a day, now she never spoke of him. why was this? had she forgotten jenks? hardly likely. she was such a tender, affectionate little thing, interested even in that poor prodigal lad, whose best robe would soon be as ready, and as bright, and fresh, and new, as mrs jenks' fingers could make it. no, flo had not forgotten jenks, but she had found out a secret. without any one telling her, she had guessed _who_ the lad was who was expected back in the spring; who that jacket, and trousers, and vest were getting ready for. a certain likeness in the eyes, a certain play of the lips, had connected poor jenks in prison with mrs jenks in this bright, home-like, little room. she knew they were mother and son, but as mrs jenks had not mentioned it herself, she would never pretend that she had discovered her secret. but flo had one little fear--she was not quite sure that jenks _would_ come home. she knew nothing of his previous history, but in her own intercourse with him she had learned enough of his character to feel sure that the love for thieving was far more deeply engrafted into his heart than his gentle, trusting little mother had any idea of. when he was released from prison, bad companions would get round him, and he would join again in their evil ways. he could not now harm dick, who was safe at that good school for two or three years, but in their turn others might harm him, and the jacket and trousers might lie by unused, and the crocuses and snowdrops wither, and still jenks might not come. he might only join in more crime, and go back again to prison, and in the end break his mother's gentle, trusting heart. now flo wondered could _she_ do anything to bring the prodigal home. she thought of this a great deal; she lay in her little white bed, the bed god had given her, and told god about it, and after a time a plan came into her head. three times a week she went to miss mary's pleasant house to be taught knitting by annie, and reading and writing by that lady herself, and on one of these occasions she unfolded her idea to this kind listener, and between them they agreed that it should be carried out. chapter seventeen. two locks of hair. it was sunday morning at wandsworth house of correction--a fair, late autumnal morning. the trees had on their bright, many-coloured tints, the sky above was flecked with soft, greyish-white clouds, and tender with the loveliest blue. the summer heat was over, but the summer fragrance still dwelt in the air; the summer beauty, subdued, but perhaps more lovely than when in its prime, still lingered on the fair landscape of wandsworth common. in the prison the walls were gleaming snowy white, but so they gleamed when the frost and snow sparkled a little whiter outside, when the hot breath of fiercest summer seemed to weigh down the air. the symbols of the four seasons--the leafless trees, the tender, pale green trees, the drooping, heavily-laden, sheltering trees, the trees clothed in purple and gold--were unknown to those within the house of correction. the prisoners saw no trees from the high windows of their cells. when they walked out in that walled-in enclosure, each prisoner treading in those dreary circles five feet apart from his fellow, they saw a little withered grass, and a little sky, blue, grey, or cloudy, but no trees. the trees are only for the free, not for men and women shut in for the punishment of their crimes. so the seasons are felt in the temperature, but unknown to the sense of sight. on this particular sunday morning a warder might have been seen pacing slowly down the dismal corridor which divides the dark and light punishment cells. he was whistling a low tune under his breath, and thinking how by and by he should be off duty, and could enjoy his sunday dinner and go for a walk across the common with his wife and the child. he thought of his sunday treat a great deal, as was but natural, and just a little of the prisoners, whom he apostrophised as "poor brutes." not that he felt unkindly towards them--very far from that; he was, as the world goes, a humane man, but it was incomprehensible to him how men and boys, when they _were_ confined in wandsworth, did not submit to the rules of the place, and make themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, instead of defying everything, and getting themselves shut up in those dreary dark cells. "and this willan 'ave been in fur four days and nights now," he soliloquised, as he stopped at the door of one. "well, i'm real glad 'is punishment is hover, though 'ee's as 'ardened a young chap as hever see daylight." he unlocked the double doors, which, when shut, not only excluded all sound, but every ray of light, and went in. a lad was cowering up in one corner of the wooden bedstead--a lad with a blanched face, and eyes glowing like two coals. the warder went over and laid his hand on his shoulder--he started at the touch, and shivered from head to foot with either rage or fear. "now then, g. . ," in a kindly voice, "your punishment's hover for _this_ time, and i 'opes you'll hact more sensible in future--you may get back to your cell." the lad staggered blindly to his feet, and the warder, catching hold of him, arranged his mask--a piece of dark grey cloth, having eyelet holes, and a tiny bit of alpaca inserted for the mouth--over his face. on the back of his jacket were painted in white letters two inches long, h.c.w.s., which initials stood for house of correction, wandsworth, surrey. staying his staggering steps with his strong arm, the warder conducted him back to his cell, into which he locked him. then the boy, with a great groan, or sigh of relief, threw up his mask, and looked about the little room. he had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and his sunday breakfast, consisting of a pint of oatmeal gruel and six ounces of bread, stood ready for his acceptance, and by the side of the bread was--what? something that made him forget his great bodily hunger, and start forward with a ray of joy breaking all over his sullen face. this was what he saw. a letter was here--a letter ready for him to open. he had heard that once in three months the wandsworth prisoners were allowed to write and receive letters. this rule he had heard with indifference--in all his life he had never had a letter--what matter was it to him whoever else got them. he knew how to read and write. long ago, when a little lad, he had learned these accomplishments--he could also decipher the writing of other people, and spelt his own name now on the little oblong packet which had found its way into his cell. yes, it was a _bona fide_ letter, it had a stamp on it, and the london post-mark. it was a _bona fide_ letter, and his letter also--a letter directed to him. he gazed at it for a moment or two, then took it up and handled it carefully, and turned it round, and examined the back of it, and held it up to the light--then he put it down, and took a turn the length of his cell. unless we are quite dunned by creditors, and mean never to open anything that is sent to us by the post, we have a kind of interest in that sharp double knock, and a kind of pleasure in opening our various epistles. however many we get, our pulses _do_ beat just a quarter of a shade quicker as we unfasten the envelope. there is never any saying what news the contents may announce to us; perhaps a fortune, an advantageous proposal, the birth of a new relation, the death of an old friend, that appointment we never thought to have obtained, that prize we never hoped to have won: or perhaps, the loss of that prize, the filling up by another man of that appointment. a letter may bring us any possible or impossible news, therefore at all times these little missives, with the queen's head on them, are interesting. but what if we are in prison, if we have just been confined for days and nights in the dark cell, fed on bread and water, sentenced to the horrors and silence of the tomb; if bad thoughts, and hardening thoughts, and maddening thoughts, if satan and his evil spirits, have been bearing us company? what, if we are only addressed when spoken to at all as a number, and our human name, our christian name, is never pronounced to us; and what if we have been going through this silent punishment, this unendurable confinement, for months, and we feel that it is right and just we should be so punished, right and just that all men should forsake us, and pass us by, and forget us--and all the time, though we know that justice is dealing with us, and we ought neither to cry out nor to complain, we know and feel also, that seven devils are entering into us, and our last state will be worse, far worse than our first? and then, when we come back from the darkness, and feel again the blessed light of day, and the pure breeze of nature--coming in through the open window of our cell--is fanning our face, and though our spirit is still burning with mad and rebellious passions, our body is grateful for the relief of god's own gifts of light and air, then we, who never before, never in our happiest days, received even a halfpenny wrapper's worth through the post, see a letter--our first letter--pure, and thick, and white, awaiting us--a little dainty parcel bearing our baptismal name, and the name, unspotted by any crime, which our father bequeathed to us, lying ready for our acceptance? jenks had returned to his cell after all this severe punishment as hardened and bad a lad as ever walked--sullen, disobedient, defiant. the kind of boy whom chaplains, however tender-hearted, and however skilful in their modes of dealing with other men and boys, would regard as hopeless, as past any chance of reform. he gazed at the letter, so unexpected, so welcome. at first he was excited, agitated, then he grew calm, a look of satisfaction changed utterly the whole expression of his face. somebody in that great, wide, outer world had not forgotten him. he sat down and ate his breakfast with appetite and relish; he could enjoy things again; he was still william jenks to somebody--the boy felt human once more. but he would not open his letter at once--not he. no irreverent fingers, no hasty fingers, should tear that precious envelope asunder. when a man only gets a letter after three months of absolute silence he is never over-hasty in perusing its contents. the sweets of anticipation are very good, and must not be too quickly got over, and when a letter is once opened its great charm is more or less gone. but the first letter of all, the first letter received in one's entire life, and received in prison, must be made a very long pleasure indeed. jenks had hitherto found sunday at wandsworth the most unendurable day of the seven: the slow hours seemed really leaden-weighted. on other days he had his oakum to pick, his routine of labour to get through--on this day, with the exception of chapel and meals, he had nothing whatever wherewith to wile away the long hours. true, the chaplain supplied him with books, but jenks could not read well enough to take pleasure in reading for its own sake, and never was there a nature less studiously inclined than his. so on sunday he thought his darkest thoughts, and hatched his worst plots for the future, and prepared himself for the week of rebellion and punishment which invariably ensued. but, on this sunday all would be different, his letter would give him employment and satisfaction for many hours. he grudged the time he must spend in chapel, he wanted the whole day to hold his little missive, to gaze at the cover, to put it up to the light, to spell out the beloved direction, after a time to spell out the contents. first of all he must guess who sent it. if it took him two hours, three hours, he must guess from whom it came. who could have written to him? he was popular in his way--he had too bright a manner, too merry a face, not to be that. he had a good many acquaintances, and friends and chums, lads who, with all their thieving propensities and ruffianly ways, would have shared their last crust with him, and one and all voted him a jolly good fellow. but not one of these would write to him; he passed them over in silent contempt, at the bare possibility of their being either able or willing to write to him. jim stokes, or bob allen, or any of those other fine daring young fellows, send him a letter! send him too a letter looking like this, or directed like this! why, _this_ letter had a more genteel appearance than long ago the letters his sailor father had sent to his mother had worn. was it likely that either jim or bob, or any of the companions of jim or bob, those ignorant lads who could hardly sign their names, would send him a letter like this? had they wished it ever so much, the thing was impossible. could it be from dick? well, that was certainly an unlikely guess. dick, who was also in prison, able to write to another boy? he passed this thought by with a little laugh of derision. his next idea was flo. he had been really in his own rough fashion fond of flo, he had liked her pretty little face, and enjoyed in his flush and successful days bringing home dainties for her to cook for all their suppers. in spite of himself he had a respect for flo, and though he might have loved her better if she had been willing to learn his trade, and help him in his thieving, yet the pluck she showed in keeping honest, roused a certain undefined respect within him. but of all the ignorant children he ever met, he often said to himself that flo was the most ignorant. why she knew nothing of the world, nothing whatever. how he had laughed at her ideas of earls and dukes and marquises--at her absurd supposition that she could be the queen. was there ever before in the records of man, a london child so outrageously ignorant as this same little flo? _she_ write him a letter! she had probably never heard of a letter. besides, even if she could write, would she? what were her feelings to jenks now, that she should show him so great a kindness? he had broken his word to her, he had converted her brother, her much-loved, bright little brother, into a thief. by means of him he had tasted prison discipline, and was branded with a dishonest stain for ever. he remembered the reproach in her eyes when she stood in the witnesses' box, and gave those funny little reluctant answers about him and dick. even there too she had shown her ignorance, and proclaimed to the whole police-court that she was the greatest little simpleton that ever walked. no, be she where she might now, poor child, it was his wildest guess of all to suppose that she could write to him. _who_ wrote the letter? there was no one else left for him to guess, unless! but here his breath came quick and fast, the beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, he caught up the letter and gazed at it, a white fear stealing over him. no, thank god! he flung it down again with a gesture of intense relief--that was not _her_ writing. she knew how to write, but not like that. she had not written to him. no, thank god!--he murmured this again fervently,--things were bad with him, but they had not come to such a dreadful pass as that. _she_ thought him dead, drowned, come to a violent end; anyhow, done with this present life--she did _not_ know that he, his honest, brave father's only son, had stood in the prisoner's dock, had slept in the dark cell, had worn the prisoner's dress, with its mask, and distinguishing brand! the chapel-bell rang; he started up, thrust his precious unopened letter into his pocket, adjusted his, mask, and walked with his fellow-prisoners in silent, grim, unbroken order into chapel. had any one looked beneath the mask, they would have seen, for the first time since perhaps his entrance into that prison, that the old sullen expression had left his face, that it wore a look of interest and satisfaction. he hugged his letter very close to his breast, and edged himself into the queer little nook allotted to him, from which he could just see the chaplain, and no one else. as a rule he either went to sleep in chapel, or made faces at the chaplain, or fired pellets of bread, which he kept concealed about him, at the other prisoners. on one occasion the spirit of all evil so far possessed him, that one of these, as hard as any shot, came with a resounding report on the mild nose of the then officiating chaplain, as he was fumbling for a loose sheet of his sermon, and nobody discovered that he was the offender. how often he had chuckled over this trick, over the discomfiture of the rev gentleman, and the red bump which immediately arose on his most prominent feature; how often, how very often, he had longed to do it again. but to-day he had none of this feeling: if he had a thousand bread pellets ready, they might have lain quite harmless in his pocket. he was restless, however, and longed to get back to his cell, not to open his letter, he did not mean to do that until quite the evening, but to hold it in his hand, and turn it round and gaze at it; he was restless, and wished the hour and a quarter usually spent in chapel was over, and he looked around him and longed much to find somebody or something to occupy his attention, for jenks never dreamed of joining in the prayers, or listening to the lessons. the prison chapel is not constructed to enable the prisoners to gaze about them, and as the only individual jenks could see was the chaplain, he fixed his eyes on him. he did this with a little return of his old sullenness, for though he was a good man, and even jenks admitted this, he was so tired of him. he had seen him so very, very often, in his cell and at chapel. after spending his life amid the myriad faces of london, jenks had found the months, during which he had never gazed on any human countenance but that of his warder, the governor, chaplain, and doctor, interminably long. he was sick of those four faces, sick of studying them so attentively, he knew every trick of feature they all possessed, and he was weary of watching them. but of all the four the face of the chaplain annoyed him most, perhaps because he had watched him so often in chapel. but to-day it might be a shade better to look at him than to gaze at the hard dead wood in front of his cell-like pew--so sullenly he raised his eyes to the spot where he expected to find him. he did so, then gave a start, and the sullenness passed away like a cloud; his lucky star was in the ascendant to-day--a stranger was in the chaplain's place, he had a fresh face to study. he had a fresh face to study, and one that even in a london crowd must have occupied his attention. a man bordering on fifty, with grey hair, a massive chin, very dark, very deeply-set eyes, and an iron frame, stood before him. jenks hated effeminate men, so he looked with admiration at this one, and presently, the instincts of his trade being ever uppermost, began to calculate how best he could pick his pockets, and what a dreadful grip the stranger could give his--jenks'--throat with those great muscular hands. suddenly he felt a grip somewhere else, a pang of remorse going right through his hardened heart. the strange chaplain, for half an instant, had fixed his deep-set eyes on him, and immediately it began to occur to jenks what a shameful fellow he must be to allow such a man as that to speak without listening to him. the new face was so pleasing, that for a moment or two he made an effort to rouse himself, and even repeated "our father" beneath his breath, just to feel what the sensation was like. then old habits overcame him--he fell asleep. he was in a sound, sweet sleep, undetected by the warder, when suddenly a movement, a breath of wind, or perhaps the profound silence which reigned for a moment through the little chapel, awoke him--awoke him thoroughly. he started upright, to find that the stranger was about to deliver his text. this was the text: "and he said, who art thou, lord? and the lord said, i am jesus, whom thou persecutest." the stranger's voice was low and fervent; he looked round at his congregation, taking them all in, those old sinners, and young and middle-aged sinners, who, in the common acceptation of the term, were sinners more than other men. he looked round at them, and then he gave it to them. in that low fervent voice of his, his body bent a little forward, he opened out to them a revelation, he poured out on them the vials of god's wrath. not an idea had he of sparing them, he called things by their right names, and spoke of sin, such sin as theirs--drunkenness, uncleanness, thieving--as the bible speaks of these things; and he showed them that every one of them were filthy and gone astray utterly. when he said this--without ever raising his voice, but in such a manner, with such emphasis, that every word told home--he sketched rapidly two or three portraits for them to recognise if they would. they were fancy portraits, but they were sketched from a thousand realities. the murderer's last night in his cell--the drunkard with the legions of devils, conjured up by delirium tremens, clustering round him--the lost woman dying out in the snow. then, when many heads were drooping with shame and terror, he suddenly and completely changed his tone. with infinite pity in his voice he told them that he was sorry for them, that if tears of blood could help them, he would shed them for them. their present lives were miserable, degraded, but no words could tell what awaited them when god arose to execute vengeance. on every man, woman, and child, that vengeance was coming, and was fully due. it was on its road, and when it overtook them, the dark cell, the whipping-post, solitary confinement for ever, would seem as heaven in comparison. then he explained to them why the vengeance was so sure, the future woe so inevitable. "_i am jesus, whom thou persecutest_." did they know that? then let them hear it now. every time the thief stole, every time the drunkard degraded his reason, and sank below the level of the beasts; every time the boy and girl did the thousand and one little acts of deceit which ended so shamefully; then they crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame. _it was jesus of nazareth whom they persecuted_. would god allow such love as his son's love to be trampled on and used slightingly? no, surely. he had borne too long with them; vengeance was his, and he would repay. when the minister had gone so far, he again changed his voice, but this time it changed to one of brightness. he had not brought them to look at so dark a sight as their own sin and ruin without also showing them a remedy. for every one of them there was a remedy, a hiding-place from the wrath of god. jesus, whom they persecuted, still loved them. _still loved them_! why, his heart was yearning over them, his pity, infinite, unfathomable, encompassing them. they were not too bad for jesus--not a bit of it. for such as them he died, for such as them he pleaded with his father. if they came to him--and nothing was easier, for he was always looking out for them--he would forgive them freely, and wash their souls in his blood, and make them ready for heaven. and while on earth he would help them to lead new lives, and walk by their sides himself up the steep paths of virtue. such as they too wicked for heaven? no, thank god. jesus himself led in the first thief into that holy place; and doubtless thousands such as he would yet be found around the throne of god! there was dead silence when the preacher had finished; no eager shuffling and trooping out of chapel. the prisoners drew down their masks, and walked away in an orderly and subdued manner. no human eye could detect whether these men and women were moved by what they had heard or not. they were quieter than usual, that was all. as for jenks, he walked in his place with the others, and when he got to his cell, sat down soberly. his face was no longer dead and sullen, it had plenty of feeling, and excited feeling too. but the look of satisfaction he had worn when gazing at his letter was gone. _that parson_ had gone down straight, with his burning words, to the place where his heart used to be--had gone down, and found that same heart still there--nearly dead, it is true, but still there--and probed it to the quick. he sat with his head buried in his hands, and began to think. old scenes and old memories rose up before the boy--pure scenes and holy memories. once he had lisped texts, once he had bent his baby knees in prayer. how far off then seemed a prison cell and a criminal's life! hitherto, ever since he had taken to his present career, he had avoided thought, he had banished old times. he had, even in the dark cell, kept off from his mental vision certain facts and certain events. they were coming now, and he could not keep them off. o god! how his mother used to look at him, how his father used to speak to him! though he was a great rough boy, a hardened young criminal, tears rolled down his cheeks at the memory of his mother's kiss. he wished that parson had not preached, he was thoroughly uncomfortable, he was afraid. for the last year and more jenks had made up his mind to be a thief in earnest. he called it his profession, and resolved to give up his life to it. the daring, the excitement, the false courage, the uncertainty, the hairbreadth escapes, all suited his disposition. his prison episode had not shaken his resolve in the least. he quite determined, when the weary months of confinement were over, and he was once more free, to return to his old haunts and his old companions. he would seek them out, and expound to them the daring schemes he had concocted while in prison. between them they would plan and execute great robberies, and never be taken--oh no. he, for one, had had his lesson, and did not need a second; happen what might, he would never again be taken. not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, should again lay hands on him, or come between him and his freedom. it was nonsense to say that every thief knew what prison was, and spent the greater part of his time in prison! _he_ would not be down on his luck like that! he would prosper and grow rich, and then, when rich, he might turn honest and enjoy his money. this was his plan--all for the present life. he had never given the other life a thought. but now he did; now, for the first time, he reflected on that terrible thing for any unforgiven soul to contemplate--the wrath of god. some day, however successful he might be in this life, he must die, and his naked soul appear before god; and god would ask him so many things, such a piled-up account of sins he would have to lay to his charge. and his father and mother would look on and reproach him, and god would pass sentence on him--he could not escape. he had crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame! jenks was not ignorant, like flo and dick, he knew of these things. the thought in his mind became intolerable. he paced up and down his cell, and hailed with pleasure the welcome interruption of his sunday dinner. when it was finished, he again drew out his letter, hoping and wishing that the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. but it did not. try as he might, it did not. he endeavoured to guess who sent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. he thought of flo, and he thought of his mother--he fought against the thought of his mother, and endeavoured to push it away from him. but, struggle as he might, it would come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter. it was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reason of a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two or three folds of silver paper. jenks looked at the parcel as it lay on his knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. his fingers trembled, he did not know why. he threw the parcel from him and spread out the letter to read. not very much writing in it, and what there was, was printed in large round type. motes began to dance before his eyes, he put down the letter, and again took up the parcel. this time he opened it, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. two locks of hair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of blue silk. they dropped from jenks' fingers; he did not touch them. he gazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown lock nearly hidden by the silver. a soft breeze came in and stirred them; he turned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with a burning face, began to read his letter. "jenks,-- "i thot 'as yo'd like fur to no--yor mother 'ave furgiven yo, she nos as yo is a thif, and tho she may 'av freted a good bit at fust, she's werry cherful now--she 'av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, hal redy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. she 'av them let hout hal rond, and they'l fit yo fine. she livs in the old place--wery butiful it his, and she 'av me, flo, livin' wid 'er, and scamp to, we 'av livd yer hever sins yo and dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo jenks, wid hal our 'arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin' bak wen the singin' burds com, and the floers, and we'll 'av a diner fur yo, and a welcom, and lov. yer mother don't no as i is sendin' this and i 'av kut orf a bit of 'er 'air, unknonst to 'er, and a bit of mi 'air to, widch shos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and jenks, i wrot this mi own self, miss mary shoed me 'ow, and i 'av a lot mor in mi 'art, but no words, on'y god lovs yo, yor fond litel-- "flo. "miss mary, she put in the stops." "_i am jesus of nazareth, whom thou persecutest--it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks_." this latter part of the text came back also to the boy's memory; he bent his head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. he snatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses. his mother had forgiven him--his mother loved him. she knew he was a thief, and she loved him. how he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped that during these past three years she had supposed him dead! her only son, and she a widow, dead! far better--far, far better, than that she should believe him to be a thief! he recalled now the last time he had seen her--he recalled, as he had never dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. he had been wild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving his parents' hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage, had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him, as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved his god, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising so hateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. and with tears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailor father had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to return again. and for a time jenks was steady and kept his word, and his mother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts, of him to his father at sea. but then the old temptations came back with greater force than before, and the promise to his father was broken and forgotten, and he took really to bad ways. his mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she never knew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before he left her house, that he was a confirmed thief. he was a confirmed thief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils. one evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. he had been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself at the expense of his neighbours. on his way home he saw a policeman dodging him--he followed him down one street and up another. the boy's heart beat faster and faster--he had never been before a magistrate in his life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. he managed to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, and stole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. he reached it, and lay down on his bed. there was only a thin canvas partition between his tiny room and his mother's. in that room he now heard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being read aloud. this letter brought the account of his father's death--he had died of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. his last message, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in the letter. "tell wife, that willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before i went away to keep a faithful and good lad." the boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it--met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two. but when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. his mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. for this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. and his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways. but now she did know, the letter said she did know. what suffering she must have gone through i what agony and shame! he writhed at the thought. then a second thought came to him--she knew, and yet she forgave him-- she knew, and yet she loved him. she was preparing for his return, getting ready for him. now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him--kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner's mask--and tell him she loved him and forgave him! would she do this, and would he go with her? "_i am jesus whom thou persecutest_." back again came the sermon and its text to his memory. "every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute jesus," said the preacher. jenks had known about jesus, but hitherto he had thought of him simply as an historical character, as a very good man--now he thought of him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down his life for him, and yet whom he persecuted. if he went on being a thief he would persecute jesus--_that_ was plain. and little flo had said in her letter that god loved him, god and jesus loved him. why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and god loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, _perhaps_ be unlucky, and end his days in a felon's cell? and when it all was over--the short life--and no life was very long--to feel his guilty soul dragged before god to receive the full vials of the wrath of him whom he had persecuted. he was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell--he could think no longer--but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips. chapter eighteen. god calls his little servant. at last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. they were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen'orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in mrs jenks' box along with her sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet. flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. she was quite as sure now as mrs jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the god who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for jenks also. about this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, _never_ would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, flo would pay him a little visit! when this letter was shown to miss mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only flo, but miss mary herself, and the widow, and scamp, and perhaps the widow's lad, should pay dick a visit. and flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy. her life was very bright just then, and in the peaceful influence of her pleasant home she was growing and improving in body and mind. she could read and write a little, she could work quite neatly, and was very tidy and clever about the various little household works that mrs jenks taught her; and miss mary smiled at her, and was pleased with her; and thought what a nice little servant she would make when annie was married; and flo looked forward to this time with a grave, half-wistful pleasure which was characteristic of her, never in her heart forgetting that to be a good earthly servant she must be god's servant first. yes, her cup of happiness was full, but it was an earthly cup, and doubtless her heavenly father felt he could do better for her--anyhow the end came. it came in this way. since flo arrived and mrs jenks had quite finished making preparations for her lad's return, she had set her sharp wits to work, and discovered quite a famous receipt for getting up fine linen. the secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond glenfield's starch, or anybody else's starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. mrs jenks made this starch herself, and through miss mary's aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for willie when he came home--money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by. but there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in whitechapel road. mrs jenks used to buy it of a little old jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house. no londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis. on one of these days in february, mrs jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. flo sat at one side of her and scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. she had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her. here was a state of affairs! she wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings' worth thrown away. then flo came to the rescue. if mrs jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she--flo--would start off at once to whitechapel road, and be back with the necessary powder before mrs jenks was ready for it. the widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head--the child was delicate, and the day--why, even the 'buses were hardly going--it could not be! but here flo overruled her. she reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. as to the 'buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with scamp. accordingly, leading scamp by his collar and chain, which miss mary had given him, she set off. mrs jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak--another gift of miss mary's--and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow--and how scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart. she did not know--god help her--she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back. the snow fell thickly, the wind blew in great gusts, the day was a worse one than flo had imagined, but she held on bravely, and scamp trotted by her side, his fine spirits considerably sobered down, and a thick coating of snow on his back. once or twice, it is true, he did look behind him piteously, as much as to say, "what fools we both are to leave our comfortable fireside," but he flinched no more than his little mistress, and the two made slow but sure progress to whitechapel road. they had gone a good way, when suddenly flo remembered a famous short cut, which, if taken, would save them nearly a mile of road, and bring them out exactly opposite the jew's shop. it led through one of the most villainous streets in london, and the child forgot that in her respectable clothes she was no longer as safe as in the old rags. she had gone through this street before--she would try it again to-day! she plunged in boldly. how familiar the place looked! not perhaps this place,--she had only been here but once, and that was with her mother,-- but the style of this place. the bird-fanciers' shops, the rags-and-bones' shops, the gutter children, and gutter dogs, all painfully brought back her old wretched life. her little heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her present home and present mercies. she looked round with pity in her eyes at the wretched creatures who shuffled, some of them drunken, some starving, some in rags, past her. she resolved that when she was a woman she would work hard, and earn money, and help them with money, and if not with money, with tender sympathy from herself, and loving messages from her father in heaven. she resolved that she, too, as well as miss mary, would be a sister of the poor. she was walking along as fast as she could, thinking these thoughts, when a little girl came directly in her path, and addressed her in a piteous, drawling voice. "i'm starving, pretty missy; give me a copper, in god's name." flo stopped, and looked at her; the child was pale and thin, and her teeth chattered in her head. a few months ago flo had looked like this child, and none knew better than she what starvation meant. besides the five shillings mrs jenks had given her to buy the necessary powder, she had sixpence of her own in her little purse; out of this sixpence she had meant to buy a bunch of early spring flowers for her dear miss mary's birthday, but doubtless god meant her to give it to the starving child. she pulled her purse out of her pocket, and drawing the sixpence from it, put it into the hands of the surprised and delighted little girl. "god bless yer, missy," she said in her high, shrill tones, and she held up her prize to the view of two or three men, who stood on the steps of a public-house hard by. they had watched the whole transaction, and now three of them, winking to their boon companions, followed the child and dog with stealthy footsteps. flo, perfectly happy, and quite unconscious of any danger, was tripping gaily along, thinking how lucky it was for her that she had remembered this short cut, and how certain she was now to have the powder back in time for mrs jenks, when suddenly a hand was passed roughly round her waist, while a dexterous blow in the back of her neck rendered her unconscious, and caused her to fall heavily to the ground. the place and the hour were suitable for deeds of violence. in that evil spot the child might have been murdered without any one raising a finger in her behalf. the wicked men who had attacked her seemed to know this well, for they proceeded leisurely with their work. one secured the dog, while another divested flo of her boots, warm cloak, and neat little hat. a third party had his hand in her pocket, had discovered the purse, and was about to draw it out, whereupon the three would have been off with their booty, when there came an interruption. an unexpected and unlooked-for friend had appeared for flo's relief. this friend was the dog, scamp. we can never speak with certainty as to the positive feelings of the dumb creatures, but it is plain that ever since flo turned into this bad street scamp--as the vulgar saying has it--smelt a rat. perhaps it called up too vividly before his memory his old days with maxey--be that as it may, from the time they entered the street he was restless and uneasy, looking behind him, and to right and left of him, every moment, and trying by all means in his power to quicken flo's movements. but when the evil he dreaded really came he was for the first instant stunned, and incapable of action: then his perceptions seemed to quicken, he recognised a fact--a bare and dreadful fact--the child he loved with all the love of his large heart, was in danger. as he comprehended this, every scrap of the prudent and life-preserving qualities of his cur father and mother forsook the dog, and the blue blood of some unknown ancestor, some brave, self-sacrificing saint bernard, flowed through all his veins: his angry spirit leaped into his eyes, and giving vent to a great howl of rage and sorrow, he wrenched his chain out of the man's hand who was trying to hold him, and springing on the first of the kneeling figures, fastened his great fangs into his throat. in an instant all would have been over with this ruffian, for scamp had that within him then which would have prevented his ever leaving go, had not the man's companion raised an enormous sledge hammer he held in his hand, and beat out the poor animal's brains on the spot. he sank down without even a sigh at flo's feet, and the three villains, hearing from some one that the police were coming, disappeared with their booty, leaving the unconscious child and dead dog alone. the little crowd which had surrounded them, at tidings of the approach of the police, dispersed, and the drifting hail and snow covered the dog's wounds and lay on the child's upturned face. just then a fire-engine, drawn by horses at full gallop, came round the corner, and the driver, in the fast-failing light, never, until too late, perceived the objects in his path. he tried then to turn aside, but one heavy wheel passed partly over the child's body. the firemen could not stop, their duty was too pressing, but they shouted out to the tardy policemen, who at last appeared in view. these men, after examining flo, fetched a cab, and placing her in it, conveyed her to the london hospital, and one, at parting, gave scamp a kick. "dead! poor brute!" he said, and so they left him. they left him, and the pure snow, falling thickly now, formed a fit covering for him, and so heavily did it lie over him in the drift into which he had fallen, that the next day he was shovelled away, a frozen mass, in its midst, and no mortal eye again saw him, nor rough mortal hand again touched him. thus god himself made a shroud for his poor faithful creature, and the world, did it but know it, was the poorer by the loss of scamp. chapter nineteen. queen victoria and flo. flo was carried into the buxton ward for children. they laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her. here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her--she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries. late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back. consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew 'ee'd give 'is life fur 'er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home. they asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in mrs jenks' room. the next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, mrs jenks, all trembling and crying, and miss mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it. she looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again. "i don't know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures," said little mrs jenks, "but ef i was you, i'd leave it to god, dearie." "yes," answered flo, "i leaves heverythink to god." and when miss mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant. she was going to the place where _his servants shall serve him_. yes, flo was going to god. the doctors knew it--the nurses knew it--she could not recover. what a bright lot for the little tired out london child! no more weary tasks-- no more dark days--no more hunger and cold. her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her--god, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. he loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in his presence. but though flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why mrs jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. she was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that god had lent her--what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. there was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well. in the pleasant buxton ward were at this time a great many little children, and as flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to god about them. there was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot. such a baby as it was! such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin! the child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby's throat? its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person's fingers--and its face! oh! that any of god's human creatures should wear the face of that baby! it was an old man's face, but no man ever looked so old--it was a monkey's face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. all the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin. it was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. [the writer saw exactly such a baby at the evelina hospital a short time ago.] the nurses and doctors said it might recover, but flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to god. "doesn't you think that it 'ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the gold streets?" she said to god, every time she looked at it. and then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever--and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby. perhaps she does take care of the baby, up there! one day great news came to the london hospital--great news, and great excitement. it was going to be highly honoured. her gracious majesty the queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called the grocers company's wing. she was coming in a few days, coming to visit her east-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great hospital. flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement--they had only a short time to prepare--should they ever be ready to receive the queen?--what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance. flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word queen--queen--struck on her half dull ear. what were they saying about the queen? who was the queen? had she ever seen the queen? then like a flash it all came back to her--that hot afternoon last summer--her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, jenks, and dick had taken to buckingham palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the life guards! then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture--the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. the remembrance of the glance the queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl's memory. she had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things god had given her. long ago, before she knew of god, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living. a thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. how _much_ she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well. trembling and eager, she started up in bed. "please is the queen coming?" the sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. she was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face. "yes, dear," she said, "the queen is coming to see the hospital." "and shall i see the queen?" "we are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her." "oh!" said flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, "ef i sees the queen i shall get well." the sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. she knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified. the next day, as mrs jenks was going away, flo whispered to her-- "ef you please, ma'am, i'd like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you 'ave in yer box at 'ome." "what do you want it for, dearie?" "oh! to tie hup my 'air with. i wants fur to look nice fur the queen. the queen is comin' to pay me a wisit, and then i'll get well." "but, my child, the queen cannot make you well." "oh! no, but she can pray to god. the queen's werry 'igh up, you knows, and maybe god 'ud 'ear 'er a bit sooner than me." "no, indeed, flo, you wrong him there. your heavenly father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the queen might offer up to him." "well, then, we'll both pray," said flo, a smile breaking over her white face. "the queen and me, we'll both pray, the two of us, to god--he'll 'ave 'er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you'll fetch me the ribbon, ma'am dear." mrs jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the queen, more and more sure that when they both--the poor little london child and the greatest woman in the world--sent up their joint petitions to heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear mrs jenks. at last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the east end. how gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets! at the eastern boundary of the city was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word "welcome." and as the royal procession passed into whitechapel high-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them. but better to the heart of the queen of england than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. these thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers' shops, and stood out upon the roofs. yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the east end, and of course most of all by those in the great hospital which the queen was to visit. but here, there was also disappointment. it was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for her majesty to see, the buxton ward in the alexandra wing was not mentioned. more than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her. but the day before, flo had said to mr rowsell, the deputy chairman-- "i shall see the queen, and then i shall get well." and that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted. accordingly, when the queen had visited the "grocers company's wing," and had named the new wards after herself and the princess beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the gloucester ward, then flo's little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child's desire. contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the buxton ward a visit. flo, quite sure that it was god's wish that the great queen of england should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright. it was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth--for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of god's own peace. "my darling," said the queen to the little girl, "i hope you will be a little better now." but queen victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little flo darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again. they knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet--though she herself knew not of it--were in the waters of jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the city. chapter twenty. sing glory. "i 'ave seen the queen," said flo that night to miss mary. "i shall get well now." she was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes. "do you want to get well very much, flo?" asked the lady. "yes--fur some things." "what things?" "i wants fur to help dick wen 'ee gets hout of that prison school, and i wants fur to tidy up fur mrs jenks the day 'er lad comes 'ome, and i wants to do something fur you, miss mary." "to be my little servant?" "yes." "do you remember what i said to you when first i asked you to be my servant?" "i must be god's servant." "just so, dear child, and i believe fully you have tried to be his servant--he knows that, and he has sent you a message; but before i give it to you, i want to ask you a question--why do you suppose that having seen the queen will make you well?" "oh! not _seein'_ 'er--but she looked real kind-'earted, and though i didn't ax 'er, i knows she be prayin' to god fur me." "yes, flo, it is very likely the queen did send up a little prayer to god for you. there are many praying for you, my child. you pray for yourself, and i pray for you, and so does mrs jenks, and better than all, the lord christ is ever interceding for you." "then i'll soon be well," said flo. "yes, you shall soon be well--but, flo, there are two ways of getting well." "two, miss mary?" "yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by--to suffer pain again, and sickness again--that is the earthly way." flo was silent. "but," continued the lady, "there is a better way. there is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever--that is the heavenly way." "yes," whispered flo. "which should you like best?" "to be well for ever-'n-ever." "flo, shall i give you god's message?" "please." "he says that his little servant shall get quite well--quite well in the best way--you are to go up to serve him in heaven. god is coming to fetch you, flo." "to live up in the gold streets wid himself?" asked flo in a bright, excited manner. "yes, he is coming to fetch you--perhaps he may come for you to-night." "i shall see god to-night," said flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still. so white and motionless was the little face that miss graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. she was trying to realise this wonderful news. she should see god to-night. it was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her--she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before--she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death--this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop! a sudden and great joy stole over her--she was going to god--he was coming himself to fetch her--she should lie in his arms and look in his face, and be always with him. "are you glad, flo?" asked miss mary, who saw her smile. "yes." "i have another message for you. when dick comes out of the prison school, i am to take care of him--god wishes that." "you will tell him about god." "certainly, i shall do that--and, flo, i feel it will be all right about the widow's son." "yes, god'll make it right,"--then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, "i'd _like_ to 'ear the glory song." "what is that, darling?" "oh! you knows--`i'm glad--i hever--'" "`saw the day'?" finished miss mary. "yes, that's it. poor janey didn't know wot it meant--'tis 'bout god." "shall i sing it for you?" "yes--please." miss mary did so; but when she came to the words, "i'll sing while mounting through the air to glory, glory, glory," flo stopped her. "that's wot i'll do--sing--wile mountin'--'tis hall glory." and then again she lay still with closed eyes. during that night mrs jenks and miss mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away. surely there was no pain in her death--neither pain nor sorrow. a quiet passing into a better land. an anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the blood of the lamb, on a rock that could never be moved. just before she died she murmured something about the queen. "tell 'er--ef she 'ears o' me--not to fret--i'm well--the best way--and 'tis hall glory." so it was. chapter twenty one. the prodigal's return. in the evening after flo's funeral mrs jenks was seated by her bright little fire. nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. this might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of flo. mrs jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps not overmuch. those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. god had come and fetched her--that was what they said. and the child was so manifestly fit to go--so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain. no, mrs jenks was not mourning for flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet. "'tis only me, mrs jenks," said miss mary graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on flo's little stool at one side of the fire. "i thought you'd feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you." "thank you, ma'am--yes--i'm missing the child and her dog, maybe. anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, i'm very low like. if i 'ad scamp, poor fellow, he'd keep me up. it was 'ard he should come by such a bad end." "oh! mrs jenks, it was not a bad end. it was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he loved best. and, do you know, i could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now." "no, ma'am--that is true. he always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. and they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him." "yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at flo's feet." miss mary paused--then, bending forward, she touched the widow's arm. "you are going to wandsworth in the morning--may i come with you?" at the word wandsworth, mrs jenks' face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head. "oh! miss mary, don't mind me, ma'am--i'm a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. suppose the lad should refuse to come back?" "suppose the lord hath forgotten to be gracious?" replied miss mary, softly. "oh! no, ma'am, it ain't that. he's gracious any way, anyhow. no, miss mary dear, i feels your kindness, but i'll go alone. it will daunt the poor boy less if i 'ave no one beside me. down on my bended knees, if need be, i'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps the lord will hear me." "yes, mrs jenks, the lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lost son." miss mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire. "yes," she said after a pause. "i were a fool to misdoubt god. don't his heavenly father and his blessed saviour care more fur the lad than i do? "'twill be all right for 'im, and if flo was here to-night, she'd say, sweet lamb,-- "`mrs jenks, ma'am, ain't you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair 'em, ma'am?' "well! i just will get 'em hout, same as if she bid me." the widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire. there they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor. mrs jenks contemplated them with pride. how well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! they would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eye that sad day when he was taken to prison! she examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride; when they were aired she took a clothes' brush, and brushed them over again--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them. as she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind. holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out. she had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. a lad was lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips. for the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures. she stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones. "come in, poor fellow, come in. don't lie there perishing--come in, and i'll give you a cup of tea. i've just brewed some, and a good strong cup will warm you." as she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy's arm. "i'm a thief," he said without stirring; "you won't let in a thief?" something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart. "of all people on earth, those i 'ave most feeling for are poor repentant thieves," she said. "if you're one of them, you 'ave a sure welcome. why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and sobbed, "i've a lad of my own, who was a thief, and 'as repented. he's in prison, but i feel he 'ave repented." "would you let in your own lad?" asked the figure in the snow, in still that strange muffled voice. "let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! what do you take me for? i'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with all the love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have." then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round the widow's neck. "mother," he said, "i'm that repentant lad." jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had calculated upon. he had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: ready to sit at the feet of that jesus whom once he persecuted. all the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple, childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and rejoicing mother. and of her it might be said, "o woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest." these things happened a few months ago. how do the characters in this little story fare now? truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them. jenks, partly through miss mary's aid, and partly through his mother's savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother. pick is still at the reformatory school, but he promises to do well, and miss mary promises never to cease to look after him. even little janey, through this brave woman's influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the glory song. as for miss mary herself, she is still a sister--a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her master left her an example, doing good--and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed. and the widow--when her boy came home, when her boy became a christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. she is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her. thus all are doing well. but surely--the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her father's house--there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as scamp and i. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end.